numbers last night, and looking at their names now, I'm not sure if I regret that or not. Everything felt like either a beautiful dream, or the beginning of my worst nightmare.
I'd lost them all once, and I could readily admit that I'd become a dark, crueler, colder person in their absence. Losing them again…especially Valentina, might get rid of the last vestiges of humanity left inside me.
I’m already the guy who took pictures of the dead soldier so I could win awards. I’m scared to see what a more broken version of myself would be like.
Shaking my head to try and ward off my depressing thoughts, I open the text, a strong wave of déjà vu hitting me when I do so. His and Quaid's text messages are very reminiscent of our youth. The messages both being strongly-worded commands for me not to fuck up the day or hurt Valentina.
It’s hard to understand how they could just jump right back in as if nothing had happened. Like she hadn't left us. They’re both good-looking guys. As an artist, I'd always been aware of the beauty in others, even if the male form does nothing for me. I'm sure there hadn't been a shortage of women in their lives in the time we'd been apart. Quaid especially. Football stardom and pussy go hand in hand, after all.
Yet here the two of them are, desperately jumping right back in to Valentina's orbit, as if she is the sun and what they need to survive.
It’s pathetic really. We aren't teenage boys anymore, desperate to find acceptance wherever we could. She’s a stranger now. She’s nothing now.
Or at least, that's what I try to tell myself.
But still, that kiss floats through my mind, or maybe beats on my brain was a more apt description. The memory is determined to be acknowledged, even if I’m doing my best to cast it aside.
Another text comes in from Logan.
The Louvre at 10. Breakfast first at Les Doux Magots.
I sigh and flop back into my pillows, unsure if I want to taint my favorite city in the world with memories of them.
I was supposed to see Paris with Valentina. We'd talked about it when it was just the two of us, opened travel books, and planned out imaginary itineraries. Instead, I'd gone by myself, two years after she'd left on an early assignment at one of the first newspapers that I'd worked at. I'd wandered the city, falling in love with everything about it, and trying to heal my heart once and for all.
My heart hadn't healed, but Paris had become a part of me. A place where I'd finally been happy after two long miserable years.
And now Valentina was going to fuck it all up.
I'm tempted to send back a text that I was going to pass. But once again, that kiss, her eyes, the feel of her skin barrel their way into my mind.
I'd thought that I'd recovered from my addiction to Valentina, but it’s obvious that it’s as strong as it had ever been.
Fuck.
I drag myself out of bed, taking a shower. A cold shower actually, because I at least tell myself that I'm not going to jack off to Valentina's pouty lips or her caramel taste. By the time I leave my shower, it's like I've gone nine rounds in a boxing ring for as much will power as it took for me not to succumb to my aching cock.
I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in my heartless eyes and wondering for the millionth time what the hell I’m doing to myself.
I could have sworn I’m not into masochism.
I pretend not to notice the extra time I take getting ready. Or the fact that I feel amped up with energy, despite the non-existent sleep I had last night. I also pretend not to notice the anticipation churning in my gut at the thought of seeing Valentina again.
When I'm ready, I check my phone, surprised for some reason to see a text from the temptress in question.
I can't wait to see you.
The simple expression wounds me. It burrows inside my skin, threatening to dismantle the cold exterior I've worked so hard to maintain.
I hate her.
And I love her.
And I wish I'd never answered the siren's call of her letter.
Reminding myself to be strong and telling myself that I'll say goodbye after this little field trip that I'm just doing for old time's sake, I head out of my hotel room, knowing that