Dream Girl Read online

  “You look stupid,” he says, breaking the haze of bliss that I’m in.

  I frown, chewing on the crunchy bread while narrowing my eyes at him. “I don’t!”

  “It’s just bread. Why are you so happy?” Milo doesn’t understand the blissfulness of domesticity, but I do.

  “You braved your soul against a fire-breathing dragon to get this bread safely into my mouth, so of course I’m going to be happy eating it.”

  I know I’m being dramatic and the look on his face says it too, but I can’t help it when the restlessness in his eyes leaves to be replaced with fondness.

  “It’s just bread,” he reiterates.

  “It’s the fruit of your sacrifice.”

  I can hear his eyes rolling.

  Chapter Two

  Milo

  I don’t know if it works or not, but this mandatory therapy the court had assigned me has been a pain in the ass.

  The woman in front of me has her legs crossed, glasses perched on her nose with keen eyes, and a clipboard on her lap to take notes on this session.

  I don’t remember how many times I have seen her, but I know that I won’t get this indefinite therapy taken off without showing progress.

  In the beginning, I was uncooperative, and I hated having my mind being pried open by words. It had taken weeks for me to be able to speak of one thing that had happened in my day, but it had nothing to do with this woman’s effort to get me talking.

  It was the day that I met Amelia.

  I had talked about her, practically worshipping her with my voice before I knew what I had been doing for the past hour when the session ended. I didn’t understand why I spilled my guts to the therapist, but I couldn’t stop my mouth from running when I thought of Amelia and her sunshine smile.

  She is the prettiest thing I have seen but granted, I have only seen hideous things in my life.

  Ever since then, I have made slow progress. I have learned from that day that I was a jealous and possessive man, a terrible trait that I never knew I had in me. I didn’t want anyone to know about Amelia, not even that therapist woman who had encouraged me to talk more about Amelia.

  I replaced Amelia’s topic with the things that have happened on a daily basis no matter how much the anger in me demanded that I stop telling a stranger what my routine was. It was not safe for me to dive into my day without risking myself in the process, and a part of me believed for a long time that the therapist was a spy given to me by the government to see if I would spill classified information after my retirement.

  I was forced out of the Navy SEALs because I was unstable. I never retired; they had stamped on my files that I was retired but still a threat to the United States if I were to be in the hands of enemies.

  I had actually scoffed at the idea. I had been tortured and interrogated by the hands of my enemies, and I know what I can take in terms of pain. My voice was locked securely, and there was no way anyone was going to pry any classified data from my dead, cold lips.

  “Milo?” Doctor Pamela Fulton’s voice drags me out of my thoughts.

  I lean back further into the chair, creating the maximum distance between us. I don’t care why we have been having this therapy session for almost four years, and I don’t care that it’s the government paying for it, but I would rather be home with Amelia than in this place.

  It’s confining and restrictive. Sometimes I feel that I’m locked in a cage and the need to pace hits me in the guts.

  “Would you like to tell me about your nightmares?”

  It’s a fact that she knows as I have told her that I have trouble sleeping. It takes a toll on my body, and she is a professional that caught onto the lies that I would spill out to get her attention away from the locked door that I keep on my past.

  “No.” That continues to be the only answer I give her as my face remains cool and uncaring.

  She nods, jotting down notes as the surface of her glasses reflects on the white paper on her lap. I narrow my eyes in instinct to try and read what she is writing, but it’s a futile effort since she’s too far, and the words are too small to make out.

  All I see is just scribbles on the white paper reflecting from her glasses.

  Doctor Fulton is paid to help me, but I don’t trust her at all despite these sessions running for four years.

  “Do you still have them?” she asks.

  I assumed that it’s the patients that do most of the talking, but it seemed that after weeks of uncooperativeness from me, she switched tactics to ask me questions.

  “Sometimes,” I reply, tone dull and posture taut.

  Nightmares aren’t a rare thing in my life; they are a constant reminder of what I have done, and it will continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  If I want to get better for myself and for the sake of Amelia, I have to learn to push past that boundary that I have set up myself to fail against.

  “It’s better now.” I clench my fists in my lap. “They are less violent—”

  My throat closes at the next confession that I want to make. It feels natural to come out, and I don’t want to because it scares me; it utterly terrifies me to know that I’m capable of being more of a monster than I already am.

  It’s more vivid.

  Doctor Fulton picks up on my hesitation and nods understandingly. “Tell me about your meeting with your girlfriend.”

  This has to be another tactic to get me to spill my guts but talking about Amelia comes as a natural thing. I like talking about her and thinking of her in a light that lifts up the burden I have been carrying as if it had never been there.

  It will be the most refreshing when I think about her, almost better than holding her in our bed. Nothing beats the satisfaction of knowing that she’s safely tucked into my arms, away from the evils in this rotten world.

  She sees everything good in the world and in me, but I don’t share the same views as her. As long as she is happy putting up with me, I will be someone she wants to spend the rest of her life with.

  Even if I have to continue this fabrication of the kind, gentle, and loving boyfriend façade.

  “She’s…” I don’t know how to start. There are so many things good about Amelia that my thoughts are fighting with my voice to give the first compliment about the love of my life.

  “She’s Amelia.” I flatten my hands on my knees.

  Amelia is Amelia. She’s brighter than the sun, kinder than a saint, and the sweetest touch to the bitterness in my heart. One look at her and I know that I would do anything for her; treason, espionage, and murder aren’t limits to the things I would be willing to commit with my bloodied hands.

  Doctor Fulton smiles, disarming and supportive. “How do you feel about her?”

  It’s a stupid question. My heart knows the answer, but Doctor Fulton is a professional at reading people even though I have put up many walls against her. She is well aware of the answer I have, but she still wants me to admit it with my own voice.

  “Wouldn’t trade millions for her,” I answer truthfully.

  Millions of dollars, millions of acres of land, millions of people—they can burn in Hell. I only care about keeping Amelia safe and out of harm’s away, and my body can be shredded to pieces if it means that she can smile at me with so much love.

  Doctor Fulton smiles. “We have made great progress, Milo.”

  In my humble opinion, but not really, I believe we’re still at square one as if it’s my first year seeing this therapist. I haven’t seen any progress being made, and any nonsense she writes down on her notes is for her professional opinion to the government.

  My release from these court-ordered therapy sessions depends on her expert judgment.

  “Alright.” Doctor Fulton stands up and finds her calendar on her desk before scanning over the dates.

  “We will schedule you in for your next appointment a month from today. January fourteenth, it’s a Wednesday. Does ten o’clock in the morning work for you?”
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  I nod wordlessly. I have no plans for that far, and I can always postpone it to another date if something comes up.

  At first, my appointments were a weekly thing, and then they turned into two weeks at a time until she deemed it suitable enough for me to only return to the sessions at a monthly rate.

  She smiles again. A motherly presence drapes around her as she nods at me. “I will see you next month.”

  The reinforcement is unnecessary, but I don’t point out that fact as it’s more of an opinion. She always does that as if it’s to establish a routine for me to remember and have a familiarity with these sessions.

  I move out of her office as she’s organizing her notes. Space isn’t the biggest, but it leaves a sense of comfort and tranquility for anxious patients. The receptionist waves as I walk out and out of the building where the security guard only looks up at me.

  I pull my coat closer to me as the winter breeze assaults my face. The iciness travels down my hands and onto my arms while I keep my focus on the street. It’s still early in the afternoon on a Saturday. People are wandering around while a group of runner jogs on the opposite side of the street near the park.

  Stopping at a coffee shop, I almost regret going inside because of the people crowding there. I square my shoulders and force my legs to act. My mind is reeling in the image of Amelia welcoming me home with open arms and a smile that blinds me.

  I want to spoil her a little on a sunny afternoon. My awareness of my surrounding heightens as I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, digging my nails into my palms and setting an impressive glare on my face while simultaneously deterring bystanders with a stoic expression.

  As people are ordering and stepping to the side, more drinks are being given to those who ordered first, and they need to leave by pushing past the line of people at the cashier. A few have tried to come up to me, but my imposing presence made them think otherwise.

  “What can I get you?” the man asks, lips twitching in a nervous smile.

  I scan the menu on top, but I already know what I’m going to order while the man suggests a list of things.

  “We have traditional black coffee, strong and bitterly delicious. You can’t go wrong with espresso or a latte with a sprinkle of sugar—”

  The nervous babbling seizes when he watches my unchanging face, and his Adam’s apple bobs hesitantly. He sucks in a breath when the barista unintentionally bumps into him, and I hear a sharp inhale of breath from beside me.

  “A mint caramel hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun.”

  The cashier stammers and punches in my total before I take out the cash in my pocket. A burst of choked laughter beside me sounds familiar when the tune of the voice coughs out an ‘excuse me’ before a throat being cleared can be heard.

  I hand the money to the cashier and watch the man who had contained his laugh in the back of his hand regain his composure.

  He’s recognizable. He has a head full of blond hair and blue eyes, a grin stretching his cheeks and a yellow scarf around his neck.

  “Here’s your change, sir.”

  I jerk my attention to the shaking man in front of me. “Keep it.”

  I move to the side, and despite how much I didn’t want to be near that blond-haired man, I had to since the pick-up station is by him. He waits with me, watching me with unabashed eyes, and his face is expectant for me to turn to look at him.

  He reminds me of a puppy. An annoying, attention-seeking golden retriever.

  The man tries to get my attention by pushing out a hiss through his lips, but I skillfully ignore him, focusing on hearing the order I have given.

  “Never thought someone looking like the Scrooge would get something so sugary!” he exclaims with a laugh.

  I read the menu to get my mind away from the man. Going through the list of prices and names of the drinks, I have then memorized at the end of my second read.

  A name was called. “Eddie!”

  “Yo!” The man’s hand shoots up with a happy grin, and he has a skip in his steps.

  So his name is Eddie. As soon as that thought comes to mind, it leaves even quicker when my order is being called up with a brown plastic bag next to the drink.

  I secure both of them and quickly exit the crowded coffee shop. Crowds aren’t my thing. It’s annoying, loud, and too many bodies near me. I wouldn’t know where to start about the unsanitary things in the air when people talk.

  The man—Eddie, my mind supplies—calls after me as the bell on the door obnoxiously rings.

  “Hey! Is the hot chocolate good? Heard it’s the best here, but I never tried it before!”

  I glare at him, but he’s unaffected as he rambles on about how he loves hot chocolate. He can’t have it because the sugar content is too high for his body, and his doctor would bury him alive if his tests prove he had too much sugar—just like how he talks too much.

  “I’m Eddie!” He thrusts his hand out, expecting a handshake that never comes.

  I glower at the persistent man when he shakes his hand in emphasis. “What do you want?”

  He grins wider, disturbingly big when his eyes practically glow under the sun as the blue in his eyes matches the cloudless sky.

  “I want to be friends!”

  “No.”

  I walk away from him, and I don’t hear his footsteps to indicate he’s following me. I wouldn’t be held responsible for what I do in self-defense if he follows me, and he’s smart to detect a trace of murderous intent radiating off of me to ward off stupid pedestrians.

  “See you later!”

  That statement doesn’t sit right with me, but I will myself to forget about that man and get home as soon as possible. I want to bury my nose into the collar of my Amelia. She’ll help me forget that there is a world outside of our apartment, and she’ll help me forget about that man who reminds me of a dog.

  A sharp throb pierces my right side. Wincing at the pain that I have been accustomed to, I simply hold my hand over the scar and press down on my coat with the crinkle of the brown plastic bag drowning out the bustling street.

  It’s fine; I tell myself as I walk quicker.

  I’m almost home. I encourage my legs to pick up the pace.

  I pause in the middle of the street. People behind me almost run into my back as they side-step me with a curse and disgruntled murmurs. I narrow my eyes to my surroundings, feeling everything on my skin and searching for any eyes that are more threatening than others.

  I sense nothing, and I curse myself for being reckless. If it wasn’t for that man—Eddie, I venomously think—I wouldn’t have been distracted. I never return home without securing my ability to trace any amount of danger that might potentially follow me home.

  I know to look for the customary signs of being followed and I have felt many in the past, and this time I’m lucky that no one has followed me this long and this close to my home.

  My apartment comes to view, and I quicken my steps to basically barge into the door with my keys hanging limply at the keyhole.

  Soft footsteps can be heard coming down the hall, and I slam the door behind me, locking it without looking as my eyes take in my Amelia’s disheveled appearance. Her wild blonde hair is bouncing over shoulders, and her big brown eyes blink in surprise as she gradually makes her way to me.

  A grin spreads and pulls on her pink cheeks. “If I had known you’d be so excited to see me, I would have pulled out the red carpet to welcome you home!”

  I scowl at her foolishness, but I welcome her lips on mine when she tips her head back. It’s a signal that I can’t ignore, and I forget the sharp throbbing in my right side. Her lips are made of magic because everything perishes around me; only Amelia matters, and I’m relaxed when she curls her hands into the back of my coat.

  “How did it go?” she asks, excitement flashing in her brown eyes.

  She knows better than to ask me about that. I can share what I said in therapy, but I can’t find it in my voice to tell her. I do
n’t know why it’s just about my day and her that I speak mostly of or else it’s just silence for the whole forty-five minutes.

  “Fine.”

  She pouts, tilting her head back as she skips towards the living room where she has a lump of a blanket laying. She had been lying there until I came home and by the warmth of her body, it’s been a while since she had moved.

  Her eyes land on the things in my hands, and she squeals. “Is that for me?”

  I really want to crack my knuckles on her skull. “I don’t like sweets.”

  Her excitement and joy are contagious as she shakes in happiness as she snatches the bag out of my hand. She almost rips the bag open, and her mouth opens, just a second away from drooling when she wiggles her fingers.

  “Wash your hands.”

  That dulls her joy, and she watches me as if I just had stepped on her metaphorical tail. I wouldn’t do such an unethical thing, but I would pick her up by the nape of her neck if she was a pet.

  The expression of absolute offensiveness stays, determined and mercilessly digging into my conscience to make me guilty. I am proud to admit that I have honed my skills and harden my resolve when Amelia looks at me with those big, begging brown eyes that take away all the air in my lungs.

  “Go.” That command is matched with a whine before her tiny feet smack on the ground.

  Amelia may sound childish, but she listens to me when I tell her to do something. She obeys, and I don’t know if it’s in her character or if she has become accustomed to my authoritative nature that has been polished during my Navy days.

  I follow her soon after she skids across the kitchen floor, falling on her ass and scrambling up as if nothing had happened. Amelia can overlook anything if she has food in her tunnel vision, and it’s evident when she fell on the ground.

  She’s always so happy—too happy for a grumpy old man like myself, but I feel no remorse when she turns around to beam at me.

  I think I understand why the blond-haired man, Eddie, impacts me more than the average Jane and John Doe around the streets.