Love Me In The Dark

There I was, sitting at my computer, in my little home office that I'd styled to look like a cozy, chaotic den. I’d surrounded myself with coffee mugs, messy stacks of editing notes, and, naturally, a looming sense of doom. Three deadlines glared at me from the corner of my desk calendar, each demanding my immediate attention. If I didn’t start chipping away at these projects, there’d be no paycheck, and let’s face it—I had bills and a taste for the good life that wouldn’t quit. No paycheck meant no wardrobe upgrades, no cocktails, and certainly no funds to fix up this house I’d sunk all my savings into. I’d taken on a mortgage as heavy as a truckload of bricks, and now every cent I made had a place to go.

When I say I’d been “fixing up” the house, I mean I’d been pouring my heart—and a few choice curses—into it. But I wasn’t exactly taking on the whole job by myself. My dad and my buddy Troy had been a godsend, both chipping in here and there. So, maybe it was more accurate to say this house was the result of my sweet-talking, my begging, and occasionally my low-level bribery to get them to help out.

It was becoming my little haven, though. With each coat of paint and every crooked cabinet handle, it felt more like mine. But still, those cabinets I daydreamed about, that fancy kitchen backsplash I'd saved in my Pinterest boards…they weren’t going to magically install themselves. So, until I could afford more upgrades, I’d have to keep putting in the hours.

My mind wandered as I sat with one foot up on my seat, chin propped on my knee, staring out the window. I was drifting back to thoughts of the Mysterious Stranger. Or, as I liked to call him, “The Great MS.” I kept replaying our first meeting in my mind, only this time, I gave myself a little extra polish. In this daydream, I was charming, mysterious, effortlessly funny. I had him hooked on my quick wit, deep opinions about global affairs, my tales of random good deeds. Oh, and let’s not forget, in this version, I looked incredible—just the kind of woman who could make someone fall head over heels at first sight.

But let’s be real—that version of me didn’t exist outside my daydreams. In reality, I’d just been tipsy, nervous, and a far cry from any captivating heroine. Instead of dazzling conversation, I’d slurred out some nonsense, and rather than coming off intriguing, I’d probably just seemed...confused.

A sudden buzz from the doorbell cut through my thoughts, snapping me back to reality. I straightened up, pushing back from my desk and reminding myself I needed to call Troy. The doorbell was on the fritz again, and I had this grand plan to bribe him with a six-pack and homemade pizza if he’d come fix it for me. The only downside was Troy’s new girlfriend—she’d be sure to tag along, which meant hours of whining and fidgeting. The thought alone made me reconsider and decide maybe I’d call my dad instead.

As I padded downstairs through the mess of paint cans, scattered tools, and dust-covered drop cloths, I tried my best to ignore the chaos around me. The living room looked like a DIY war zone. Yet somehow, the mess made me feel a strange kind of pride. Each discarded brush, each paint splatter, was a small badge of progress.

At the door, I passed two narrow walls with stained glass windows that caught the light just right, scattering colors across the floor. That stained glass had been the start of all this. Two years ago, about six months before I ever met the Great MS, I’d walked into this house, and as soon as I saw those windows, I’d turned to the realtor and said, “I’ll take it.” I hadn’t even seen the rest of the house.

The realtor’s face had lit up, thrilled to be rid of the place, while my dad—who hadn’t even come inside yet—looked to the sky and started a prayer that probably lasted longer than usual. And the lecture afterward? That had lasted even longer. But despite his sensible advice, I went ahead with the purchase. In hindsight...maybe I should’ve listened.

Peering through the side window by the door, my heart sank as I spotted Roxy standing on my porch, her expression a mix of annoyance and something darker. Just my luck. I couldn’t stand Roxy, and I had no illusions—she felt the same about me. I scanned the bushes, half-expecting my sister to pop out and ambush me. With Payton and Roxy, nothing was off-limits; I wouldn’t put it past them to sneak in, raid my house, and rifle through my stuff. Part of me actually believed they made a habit of it.

Roxy spotted me through the glass, her mouth twisting into something like a snarl. “I see you!” she hollered, her voice echoing across the yard. I sighed.

Reluctantly, I opened the door a sliver, just enough to poke my head out. “Hey, Roxy,” I said, mustering the friendliest tone I could manage. Friendly for me, anyway.

She was having none of it. “Forget ‘hey.’ Is Payton here?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

I tried to keep my face neutral, though every nerve wanted to roll my eyes. “Nope. She’s not here.”

Unfazed, Roxy took a step forward. “If she’s in there, you better tell me now!”

She shoved her head around me, yelling, “Payton! If you’re in there, you better come out here, now!”

“Roxy!” I snapped, trying to hold my patience together with both hands. “Lower your voice!”

Roxy ignored me, bouncing up and down as she yelled, “Payton! Payton, you crazy bitch! Get out here!”

I squeezed out through the door, nudging her back and pulling it closed behind me. “Roxy, she isn’t here. You know that, so stop yelling and go home.”

Roxy shot me a dirty look, her lips curling into something close to a sneer. “You’re lying. Don’t get clever with me.” She lifted her hand, formed a little finger gun, and let out a sharp, little “pow.” It would’ve been funny if the dead-serious look in her eyes hadn’t sent a chill up my spine.

I whispered, “What?”

She leaned in close, standing on her tiptoes to look me right in the eye. “D-e-a-d. Dead. You and her...don’t get clever.”

Against my better judgment, I asked the question anyone in my situation would have asked, “Is Payton in trouble?”

The look she gave me was cold, assessing, like she was deciding if I was worth answering. Then, without a word, she raised her finger gun again, pointed it squarely at me, and made that sound again. With a final glare, she turned and stalked down the steps, disappearing down the street.

I watched her go, a chill lingering on the porch even as she disappeared from view. She wore a tank top and fishnets, her boots pounding against the pavement in the brisk forty-degree morning air. No scarf, no jacket—just pure attitude.

And that “pow” sound still echoed in my mind.

Damn it, Payton. Just...damn.

The morning sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains of my home office, casting warm golden patches across the room. I’d been at my desk for the better part of an hour, doing everything but working. Three looming deadlines blinked accusingly at me from my screen. As a freelance editor, I was paid hourly, and if I didn’t put in those hours, no paycheck would come. And without a paycheck, well, forget about everything that made my little world go round.

I bit my lip, feeling the tug of my “necessities.” A wardrobe that bordered on an obsession with every new trend, a costly love for cosmopolitans that drained my bank account one cocktail at a time, and this house—a “fixer-upper” that demanded endless supplies, repairs, and patience. My dad had contributed a lot, and Troy, my handyman friend, helped whenever he could. Between pleading and sometimes not-so-subtle guilt-tripping, they’d saved me plenty of times. But this house was still a project that stretched beyond what