Beautiful Confusion (New Adult Romance) Room 105

by Whitefeather, Sheri

  Not real. Not real. Not real.

  “Vanessa?”

  He spoke my name, his voice now giving me a chill. Was I imagining him? Was this my introduction into schizophrenia? Was my biggest fear coming true? Was I like Abby now?

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I didn’t reply. I just kept staring. Unblinking. Unmoving.

  He appeared to be searching my frozen expression, concern evident in the depth of his eyes. “I already got us a booth. Do you need to sit down? I can wait for your order.”

  I struggled to take in my surroundings. Did anyone else see him? Or was I standing there like a loon, interacting with a hallucination?

  I couldn’t very well ask the employees or other patrons if they saw him. I would look like the nutcase I very well might be.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Go where?”

  “Out to my car. I left my phone in the front seat.” It was the only lie I could think of, and I needed an excuse to get away from him.

  I dashed outside. This wasn’t how my meeting with him was supposed to unfold. He was supposed to be an ally, not the guy who sent me over the edge.

  I unlocked my car and climbed inside, breathing as deeply as I could. What in God’s name was I supposed to do?

  Somehow, someway, I needed to figure this out.

  I racked my brain for an answer. Maybe I should call Linda and ask her about Duncan. Really? And what good would that do? What if I had created Linda and the entire online support group? What if none of this was real? I knew how powerful Abby’s hallucinations were. If I was doing the same thing, then there was no way to prove or disprove a thing.

  I glanced at the building I’d just exited. Even if I’d manufactured the support group, The Coffee Shell was an actual place. I wasn’t sitting at home, imagining all of this.

  Was I?

  I couldn’t be. I refused to believe I was that crazy. So I considered my options. I had one of two choices. Cower in fear or go back inside and talk to Duncan.

  I picked the latter, but before I got out of my car, I checked my appearance in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, I looked just fine. Healthy and sane. No one would be able to tell what was going on inside my head.

  Upon my return, I found Duncan waiting off to the side of the front counter. In his hand he had a cup of coffee that I assumed was mine. And now that I had a less chaotic moment to study him, I noticed details that didn’t match my creation of him: his ears were pierced with small black gauges, and both wrists were inked with tribal-looking tattoos. How could he be the warrior if I hadn’t given him those things?

  “Did you get your phone?” he asked.

  “Yes, and I’m sorry I panicked like that.”

  “It’s okay. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my phone, either.” He extended the coffee. “I picked it up for you when they called your name.”

  “Thank you.” I tried not to be overwhelmed by his beauty. Or with the memory of Abby telling me that I was supposed to kiss the warrior someday. Even if Duncan wasn’t him, even with the inclusion of the piercings and tattoos, he still unnerved me. “You should have warned me about how handsome you are.”

  He broke into an instant laugh. “Who says things like that? You’re a funny one, Vanessa.”

  If he only knew how funny. “I just wasn’t expecting someone like you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m flattered.” He shot me a boyish smile. “And as long as we’re on the subject, I think you’re hot, too.” His smile turned devilish. “If we got together, we’d make cute babies.”

  I knew he was kidding, but I couldn’t find it within myself to appreciate his humor. “I’m sorry, but I’m having an off day. And I wasn’t trying to start a flirtation between us.” That was the last thing I could cope with.

  “I wasn’t trying to start anything, either.” He went serious. “I know this isn’t an online date, certainly not with what we came here to discuss. Are you still up for that talk?”

  “Yes.” I definitely wanted to find out more about him and who he was.

  He guided me to the booth, where he’d left his coffee. We sat across from each other, and I did my best to relax.

  I even started the conversion. “Where are you from?”

  “I have a loft downtown.”

  I relaxed a bit more. If he would have said that he was from Room 105 I would’ve covered my face and cried.

  He reached for his cup. “What about you?”

  “I live in Riverside.”

  “That’s off the 91, right?”

  “Yes, in the Inland Empire.”

  “I read in one of your posts that your sister is ill.”

  “Her name is Abby. She’s the schizophrenic in my family. Our parents died in a car crash when she was seven and I was eight. Our aunt Carol raised us after that. Losing our parents was traumatic for both of us, but it was worse for Abby. She was already a troubled child. For now, she’s living at a therapy center that’s designed to treat people with mental illnesses and help mainstream them. But her progress has been slow.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Extremely. As kids, we were inseparable. We were homeschooled together because my sister wasn’t able to handle regular school.”

  “Did you want to go to regular school?”

  “Sometimes. But it was easier for Carol to have me there. Abby has always been paranoid of my aunt.”

  “But she never gets paranoid of you?”

  “No. I’m like her other half, I guess.” Which made my fear of becoming like Abby worse. “She always wanted to wear the same outfits as me when we were little. She tried to mimic everything I did.”

  “That sounds sweet.”

  Disturbingly sweet, I thought. “There used to be tons of pictures of us as kids, looking like twins, until Abby went ballistic and destroyed every single photograph that she was in. I don’t even have a recent picture of her. She refuses to let anyone get near her with a camera. It freaks her out.”

  “I don’t have a picture of Jack, either. He was the schizophrenic man who raised me, but he’s dead now. It’s a complicated story. That’s why I didn’t post it online.”

  “Will you tell me about it?” I was desperate to know what made him tick, to learn what separated him from the warrior, to keep reassuring myself that they weren’t one and the same.

  “It might make me sound strange.”

  Nothing could be as strange as what I’d been going through. “I’m not going to judge you, Duncan.”

  “Most of my childhood is a complete blank. Jack was a homeless man who found me wandering around by myself when I was thirteen.”

  A shiver ran through my blood. I was thirteen when I’d created the warrior, and he was supposed to be the same age as I was, maturing as I matured. “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty.”

  I forced myself to breathe. “So am I.”

  “But you know who you are. My identity is made-up. Jack gave me the name Duncan.”

  God help me. I was sitting across from a man who had a fabricated identity. What were the chances of that? “Why did he pick that name?”

  “It was in honor of Duncan MacLeod.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “He’s a fictional character from the old Highlander TV show and spin-off movies. One of the movies was a theatrical release that Jack scrounged up enough money to see. He was obsessed with alternate universes, and Duncan was an immortal from a meta-universe.”

  Should I tell him that Abby was obsessed with other realms, too? No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say it.

  He continued, “When Jack found me, all I knew about myself was my age and that I was of Native descent. I still don’t remember anything else. Where I’m originally from, who my parents are, what tribe I belong to, when my birthday is.”

  “What date do you use for it?”

  “June thirtieth. That’s the day Jack found me.”

  Was th
at the day I’d created the warrior? I couldn’t remember the exact date, but it had been the week after my birthday, which fit the troubling timeline.

  I studied him from across the table, thinking about how the warrior was supposed to die. “Your birthday just passed. So did mine. We both just turned twenty.”

  He raised his coffee in a mock toast. “Here’s to us. We have almost a whole year to go before we can officially buy a beer.”

  Or before he died? I couldn’t bear to think about that, not now, not while I was sitting here, trying to figure him out. “Tell me more about you and Jack.”

  He lowered his cup. “I was scared and confused when he first found me. He was all I had. He protected me, treating me as if I was his own. We lived on the streets together until I was fifteen, then I was taken away from him and put into foster care.”

  “Why didn’t Jack turn you over to the authorities himself? Why did he keep you with him for so long?”

  “He thought I was sent to him from another dimension to be his adoptive son.”

  “The Highlander dimension?”

  “No. He knew that one was created for the movies.”

  Dare I ask? “Then what dimension did he think it was?”

  “He didn’t know. But he said that I would find out someday. Of course I knew that he was delusional, but I played along with him anyway. I preferred to think of myself the way he thought of me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I figured that I must have run away from a bad situation. That’s what they assumed in foster care, too, especially since they searched for missing kids fitting my description and didn’t uncover anything. If I wasn’t reported missing by my family, then it seems obvious that no one cared.”

  “What about now that you’re older? Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  “Not if it’s something that’s going to trigger disturbing memories. I’d rather just leave well enough alone.”

  I struggled to comprehend his mysterious past. How could there be so many parallels between him and the warrior? How was that possible? “What last name do you use?”

  “Lock. That was Jack’s last name.”

  “So you’re Duncan Lock.”

  “Yep. That’s me.” He glanced toward the window. “I used to have blackouts during the time I was with Jack, and he said it was because I would disappear and go to the other dimension, then would return with no knowledge of where I’d been. He even said that he saw me disappear. But I knew the blackouts were just part of my amnesia. It stopped happening after I went into foster care.”

  “Why did that make a difference?”

  “I don’t know. But Jack had his theory, of course. He said that I couldn’t slip off to the other dimension with the foster care system watching me so closely, so I had to stay grounded to this world.”

  This world. That world. As fearful as I was that I was losing my mind, that he was too damned close to my creation, I couldn’t get up and walk away. I kept questioning him, anxious to hear his answers. “How did you feel about being in foster care?”

  “I hated it, and I wanted to go back to Jack.”

  “Weren’t you afraid of living with a delusional man? Of him regarding you as his adoptive son?”

  “As delusional as he was, he wasn’t dangerous or violent. He treated me with love and kindness. He gave me a sense of belonging that foster care never did. And he encouraged my artwork. I used to graffiti when we were on the streets.”

  The parallels continued, right along with my crazy fear. “Are you an artist now? Is that how you make your living?”

  He shook his head, surprising me with his answer.

  I double-checked his response. “You’re not an artist?”

  “Yes, I am. But that isn’t how I make my living. I’m a freelance locksmith. I know, and with the name Lock.” He shrugged, laughed a little. “I get ribbed about that a lot.”

  A locksmith named Lock. If this was a hallucination, why had I created that identity for him?

  “I actually have my first art show coming up,” he said.

  I blinked, grappling to break free of the locks. “You do?”

  “It’s in a few weeks, if you’d like to go. It’s at a gallery a friend of mine owns.”

  A showing. At a gallery. By an owner-friend. How could he be a product of my imagination if he had a life outside my mind? “I’d very much like to go.” To see his work. To talk to his peers. “Can I bring my aunt with me?” If Carol met him, then I would know, without a doubt, that my sanity was intact.

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  It was beyond great. He had to be real. He absolutely had to be. “Then we’ll both come.”

  “Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll write down the information for you.”

  I dug through my purse and found a pen, but no paper. He got up and grabbed a napkin to write on.

  He gave it to me afterward, and I noticed how striking his penmanship was. Most guys scribbled, but not this one. His script looked like a natural form of calligraphy.

  “What’s your artwork like?” I asked. “Can I see any of it online?”

  “Not yet. Not until after the show. But it has a street vibe, like the graffiti art I did when I was a kid. I’m a fantasy artist, too. Mostly I just paint whatever feels right. I did a self-portrait that depicts my unknown identity. It’s a nude. To me, that’s the purest form of self-expression.”

  I merely nodded, wondering, shamefully, what he looked like without his clothes. Then I caved in to curiosity and asked, “Is it going to be at the show?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Do you think I should include it?”

  Feeling like the virgin I was, I fussed with my coffee, peeling bits of plastic off the rim of the lid. “That’s up to you.”

  Silence drifted between us, intensifying the moment. I waited it out, hoping he changed the subject.

  He said, “I did a portrait of Jack that I’m definitely going to include. I painted him from memory, the way I remember him most, with his chipped smile and a frayed beanie pulled down low on his head.”

  “How did he become homeless?”

  “He didn’t have any family left and he was too mixed up to hold down a job or make it in mainstream society. The only place that made any sense to him was being on the streets.”

  “How long ago did he die?”

  “It’s been three years.”

  I did the math. “When you were seventeen.”

  He nodded, his voice brimming with emotion. “I was still in foster care and missing the life I had with him. I used to get on a bus and go downtown and see him whenever I could. Then on one of those visits, I couldn’t find him anywhere. Finally, I went into the shelter where he sometimes stayed and learned that he’d had a heart attack and was gone. It happened the night before I got there. I was one day late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It helps to talk about it. That’s why I joined the support group. I wanted to connect with people who understand what it’s like to love someone like Jack.”

  Someone like Jack. Someone like Abby. “I understand.”

  His gaze sought mine. “I can tell that you do, and I appreciate you listening to my story.”

  What would he say if I told him about the warrior? Would he think it was a twisted coincidence? Or would he think it was some sort of beautiful fate? I was still trying to get a handle on it myself.

  “Thanks for being here, Vanessa.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tenderness swirled between us, soft and slow, pooling low in my stomach. Suddenly I wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to feel his body pressed close to mine.

  He was looking at me as if he wanted to do the same thing. The attraction we’d dismissed earlier was clear and present now. But it was awkward, too.

  Not knowing how to handle it, I said, “I should probably get going so I don’t hit traffic.” It wasn’t anywhere near rush hour, but it was the best I could do.
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br />   He frowned, and I assumed that he didn’t want me to leave. But he said, “I’ll walk you out.”

  We disposed of our cups and went outside. I noticed that his tattoos shined in the sun, the abstract lines appearing darker. Everything about him seemed more pronounced.

  I gestured to my hybrid, letting him know which car was mine. Then we both fell silent. I just stood there, and he shifted his stance. Should I lean forward and try to initiate a hug? As much as I wanted to, I didn’t have the guts to be that bold. He seemed to debating if he should break the barrier and go for it, but he kept a proper distance instead.

  Staring at each other in boy-girl torture, we said goodbye and promised to meet up at the gallery. I got in my car, and he stayed on the sidewalk, watching me pull away from the curb.

  Already I couldn’t wait to see him again, to hear his voice, to look into those deep brown eyes.

  While absorbed in vivid thoughts, I merged onto the freeway. An hour later, I pulled into my driveway and entered the house, still thinking about Duncan.

  I fixed a sandwich and picked dreamily at my food. I added ice to my apple juice and sipped slowly, letting the cool, sweet beverage slide down my throat.

  Then, finally, I gave up the fight and got into bed under the guise of taking a nap. Reaching for my pillow, I fantasized about Duncan, wishing that he was next to me, steeped in his purest form of self-expression.

  Strong and gorgeous and naked.

  Chapter Two

  I spent the next two days consumed with romantic thoughts of Duncan, touching myself in secret places and whispering his name. But I couldn’t indulge in those sweet, hungry feelings today. I was on my way to see Abby.

  Should I tell my sister about him?

  No, I shouldn’t. Because if I did, she would insist that he was the warrior, and I would have to debate otherwise.

  Convincing my delusional sibling that he was just some random guy I’d met online would be next to impossible, especially with his similarities to the warrior. I couldn’t explain it. Heck, I couldn’t understand it myself. But it didn’t matter. I was just grateful that he was a real person with a real life. I’d already asked Carol if she wanted to attend his art show, and my aunt seemed thrilled at the invitation.