Dorian.Now.
Morning breaks. I am depleted.
I wake up to Behemoth making biscuits on my chest, her needle claws leaving pinpricks on my skin. My head is pounding. At thirty-six, I am too fucking old for tequila shots, this hangover is going to level me for the next two days, how the hell did I let Ophelia talk me into that, I should’ve been in bed by 9 pm, and?—
I am so fucking happy.
Dove kissed me. Me. My lips. On her mouth. In her hallway.
My body? Broken. My head? Decimated. My heart? Full. So full.
I give Behemoth her Christmas present (a catnip toy that makes her lose her mind), and go through my notifications. Maggie sent pictures of Christmas morning. There’s one of my nieces—four and six—pretending to be secrets agents with their new nerf guns, standing back to back in their PJs.
I can’t help but chuckle.
My nieces are hilarious curated in their matching pajama outfits, but they have untamed eyes and wild smiles that give me hope for the next generation. I keep scrolling and come to a full family photo—my sister, our parents, and Mark and Quinn.
Her image used to be a punch in the chest. But now?
She looks like a stranger. Like a character from someone else’s story.
This is a good, healthy feeling. Healthier than I’ve felt in a long time.
But I should know better. Happiness is always brief and fleeting.
Because as soon as I get comfortable (a cup of coffee, a book, and an exhausted and high cat in my lap), chaos erupts. A loud, pitchy alarm from downstairs. It’s the bookstore. Someone is breaking into my bookstore.
Motherfucker…
Who robs a bookstore on Christmas day? I leap out of my sitting nook and Behemoth tumbles out of my lap and onto her paws with an irritated yowl. I go into my closet, where a baseball bat sits behind my winter jackets solely for this purpose. I grab it by the neck and exit my apartment. I skip the elevator, flying down the stairs instead. If this is Santa, I’m going to break his nose.
My phone buzzes at my hip when I reach the bottom. I answer it.
“Ironlock Security,” says a voice on the other end. “Is this Dorian Lennon? We’ve received a notification that your location has been broken into.”
“Yeah. I know.” I exit the apartment complex. It’s a disarmingly bright day.
The glass on the windows and door is un-shattered. I touch my doorknob. It’s unlocked. What the hell?
“Would you like us to send the police?”
“Not yet. I’m going to check it out.”
“John Cena?”
“What?”
“Are you the legendary wrestler John Cena? Because otherwise, I would advise against it.”
“Fuck you,” I tell him. Which is—admittedly—perhaps a little strong for Christmas. “Just stay on the line. I’ll let you know what I run into.”
“Sir, I would really advise against it.”
I put my hand on the door and—for a second—I pause.
Hold on.
I’m running into the bookstore. With a bat. Am I really ready to beat someone to death for absconding with a copy ofPride and Prejudice?
