edith > Books: favorites‎ (42)

I almost chuckle– almost– before I realize he’s doing it again. Using his smile, his charm, to disarm me. And it’s working. He doesn’t look like a killer when he’s standing across the room, trading quips with me. But he is, I tell myself.

“This feels different than I thought it would,” he says. “What feels different?” “Opening up to someone,” he explains, “I’ve only ever seen vulnerability as a tool. A weakness I can wield against someone when I need to. I didn’t realize it could feel…” He pauses like he can’t find the word– or maybe just doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Nice.”

“You know, this thing we’re doing right now?” I say. “Pretty sure it’s called human connection.” A breathy laugh escapes him. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m not sure I’m capable of human connection.” I pointedly ignore the endearment as I raise an eyebrow. “Well, you’re connecting with me right now.” When he looks at me again, I don’t find any amusement or playfulness in his stare– but something entirely new. Interest. Not curiosity but interest. Pure, unadulterated interest that makes my breath catch. “Yes, I suppose I am connecting with you,” he murmurs, and I find myself unable to look away from him. Something is happening here. Something big. Something new. I feel it all the way down to my gut.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teases. “You were very adamant about his amazing performance. Said you couldn’t take your eyes off him.” The truth comes bubbling out of me. “I wasn’t watching Cam. I have no idea how he raced or if he was amazing. I just said those things to mess with you.” The moisture of my hand has my fingers slipping through his, so I dig my nails into his palm. “Please– just pull me out!” “You sound desperate,” he muses, but makes no effort to.

So what was it about her that had that effect on me? There was no logical explanation for this obsession, but I’d found a word for it online. Limerence: a state of involuntary obsession for another person. Symptoms included obsessive thoughts about that person, a strong desire for reciprocation, and an idealized image of the object of one’s obsession—I had them all.

"All I had to do was say ‘I love you’ and she killed my piece of shit husband for me.”