How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Chapter One

first time I saw him, I thought he was a stalker. It was

the  eyes  that  did  it.  They  glinted  eerily  as  he  watched  me
from behind his matted hair, his vantage point way too close
for  comfort.  He‟d  slouched  up  a  few  feet  away  from  me  at
first,  waiting  at  the  same  crosswalk  with  me,  but  then  he‟d
slowly shuffled his way a bit closer as the seconds ticked by.

Past experience had given me unusually sharp

perception  when  it  came  to  shady  characters,  and  this  guy
definitely fit the bill. Yeah, maybe I‟d gotten a little paranoid
in  the  last  few  months,  but  he  was  demonstrating  some
classic stalker behavior. My apartment building was only two
blocks  away,  so  I  told  myself  I  would  be  okay  as  long  as  I
stuck with the crowd and didn‟t make eye contact until I got
home.

Of course, being an idiot, I immediately made eye

contact.

I glanced behind me while I waited for the flashing red

hand to disappear, thinking he was still to my left. Instead,
he was directly behind me, with crazy Charles Manson hair
and  a  thin  black  cardigan.  His  eyes  pierced  mine,  and  the
back  of  my  neck  prickled.  I  quickly  looked  the  other  way;
even  though  the  weather  was  hot  and  muggy,  I  hugged  my
arms around myself to fight off a sudden chill.

The red hand gave way to the walk sign and I hurried

forward. The can of soup in my plastic bag of groceries

Maureen Willmann

banged  against  my  knee  with  every  step  but  I  studiously
ignored  it.  Against  my  better  judgment,  I  looked  behind  me
again.  With  a  sinking  heart,  I  noticed  Charles  Manson  was
still following me.

He‟d put on sunglasses—to shield his eyes from the

early  May  sun,  I  guessed.  It  made  me  think  of  the
Unabomber more than Charles Manson, which in turn made
me reconsider my initial stalker conclusion. The way things
were  going,  he  definitely  seemed  like  more  of  a  serial  killer.
And  for  Christ‟s  sake,  he  had  long  legs,  a  thin  torso,  and  a
well-fitted sweater, so perhaps he had some Norman Bates in
him as well. None of these were great things.

I kept my cool and didn‟t panic. My feet carried me up

the  concrete  steps  to  my  apartment  building,  up  to  the
reflective  double  glass  doors  that  led  into  the  lobby.  I  was
even  congratulating  myself  on  not  living  the  stereotype  and
sprinting  down  the  street  to  get  away  until  I  saw  the
reflection of Charles Unabomber Bates putting his foot down
on the first step of my building. It was at that point I decided
panic sounded like an excellent idea.

I was pretty sure I was going to die.
I was even more certain of my imminent death when I

boarded the rickety, smoke-smelling elevator and began
mashing the “close doors” button with my thumb like my life
depended on it—literally. My heart thudded against my
ribcage in frightful lurches as I watched him sweep into the
lobby. He flipped up his sunglasses, surveyed the room, and
looked straight into my eyes.

“Um, excuse me! Could you hold that for me, please?”

he called out in an accent I didn‟t recognize.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

It didn‟t really sound like the voice of a serial killer, but I

was too freaked out to care. I most certainly did not hold the
elevator.  I  pounded  the  button  with  renewed  vigor  and  the
sharp  adrenaline  rush  of  self-preservation.  Thankfully,
through  some  act  of  God  (or  science),  the  metal  doors  slid
closed.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Charles  Unabomber  Bates
giving  me  a  dirty  look  as  he  pushed  through  a  side  door  to
the sketchy stairwell.

For a moment I was completely seized by panic. I

wondered  if  he  somehow  knew  where  I  lived,  but  real-life
experience  with  stalkers  told  me  that  if  he‟d  truly  been
staking  me  out  I  would  have  received  some  form  of  contact
before  now.  Momentarily  comforted,  I  hit  the  button  for  the
third floor and waited for the doors to ding open.

When they did, I realized I was, indeed, an idiot. Across

the hall, Charles Unabomber Bates had beaten me by taking
the stairs. He was struggling with the door across from
mine—with a key—and he unlocked it within moments of my
departure from the elevator. It was with an emotion akin to
horror that I realized he wasn‟t a stalker or a serial killer: he
was my neighbor, and I hadn‟t held the stupid elevator.

“Oh my God,” I said aloud before I could stop. I found

myself instantly at his side without any sort of consent from
the logical half of my brain. I was sure I looked as terrified as
I  felt.  At  least  this  time  it  was  out  of  embarrassment,  not
fear. My face felt so hot that I knew I had to be blushing. “I‟m
so  sorry.  I  didn‟t  know  you  lived  here.  I  thought  you  were
stalking  me  or  something.”  I  winced  as  soon  as  I  said  it,
because  it  wasn‟t  a  very  flattering  thing  to  accuse  someone
of. But there it was, hanging between us, too stupid and too
late to take back.

Maureen Willmann

“I‟ve lived here since September,” my neighbor—God, my

neighbor,  I  was  such  an  idiot—said  with  a  sour  expression.
He opened his door and gave me a look that clearly meant he
wanted me to leave. But I didn‟t want to leave. I wanted my
neighbor  to  like  me,  or  at  least  not  to  hate  me.  Hateful
neighbors tended to lead to keyed cars and stolen mail and
noise-violation  reports  on  weeknights  when  I  talked  to  my
aquarium  too  loudly  at  three  in  the  morning  because  I
couldn‟t sleep. Not that I did that. Often.

“I don‟t get out much,” I explained, a touch desperately.

I  refrained  from  adding  that  I  stayed  inside  because  I  was
technically  unemployed,  unless  you  counted  selling  melted
wine  bottle  paraphernalia  on  Etsy.com.  Most  of  my  nights
were spent drinking the wine to make the cheese boards and
wind  chimes  I  sold,  while  watching  ridiculous  shows  like
Toddlers & Tiaras.

My neighbor looked spectacularly unimpressed. “Forget

it,” he said, stepping inside. He raised his eyebrows,
evidently expecting me to back off.

“I‟ll make it up to you,” I blurted before I could think

about it too much. “I‟ll buy you coffee.”

“I‟m in a hurry,” he said with a glare. His sunglasses

were perched on top of his head now and I could finally see
his eyes were dark brown.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. I would have

assured him that I normally wasn‟t such a neurotic freak
show, but it would have been a lie.

I bit my lip and said, “Okay. Some other time, I guess?”
He closed the door without commenting.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

ATER

, while trying to steal free Internet, I saw a wireless

network  called  “David‟s  Apartment”  pop  up.  I  knew  with  a
twisting,  embarrassing  certainty  that  Charles  Unabomber
Bates‟s  real  name  was  actually  David.  At  that  point,  I  had
resigned  myself  to  the  idea  of  him  hating  me  for  the  rest  of
our  time  living  next  to  each  other.  I  was  determined  not  to
dwell  on  it,  despite  the  fact  that  “not  dwelling”  never  went
well for me.

In an attempt to distract myself, I was using my oven as

a kiln with mixed results: the Sculpey beads I‟d made were
perfect, but the green wine bottle I planned on turning into a
decorative cheese board sat unchanged on the cookie tray,
round and peaceful, taunting me. I was stealing free Internet
to track down a real kiln to use so I didn‟t end up with more
too-hot-to-pick-up-but-not-hot-enough-to-melt bottles.

I got sidetracked when my cell phone rang.
I flipped it open without checking the name and said,

“Hello?”

“Randy!” I cringed as an overly excited and high-pitched

voice greeted me. I couldn‟t have regretted my decision more.

“Hi, Lilah,” I said, suddenly feeling tired. Lilah could be

a bit much at times, but she was my closest and only friend
since moving here. I was mostly accustomed to her
supersonic squealing, but it was still painful to listen to.

“You sound chipper,” she mused.
“Bad day,” I hedged, giving up on my search for a kiln

and  climbing  to  my  feet  instead.  I  walked  over  to  my  fish
tank  and  leaned  forward,  watching  the  neon  tetras  flash
around  between  the  fake  plants.  Smiling,  I  tapped  on  the

Maureen Willmann

glass and waved to them. They vanished behind the pink-
and-yellow castle.

“Then I‟ve got just the thing for you,” Lilah said,

oblivious to my fish snubbing me. “There‟s a party tonight.
Can I count you in?”

“Partying is for college students and high schoolers,” I

recited like a long-learned lesson, even though I knew I‟d end
up going. I was already shaking food flakes into the top of
the tank. I didn‟t want to forget to feed the fish later when I
inevitably staggered home drunk.

Lilah made a pleased noise and said, “Great, I‟ll see you

there. It‟s by your place, so I‟ll just meet up with you and
we‟ll go together. I‟ll see you at like nine, okay?”

I nodded despite the fact that Lilah couldn‟t see it and

said, “Yeah, sure. How should I dress?”

“Hot,” she replied without missing a beat. “It‟s a

drinking party.”

I rolled my eyes. “Like there‟s any other kind.” I couldn‟t

wait  to  be  an  old  man  and  have  bridge  parties  with
cucumber  sandwiches  and  tea,  because  part  of  me  thought
that  sounded  totally  badass.  A  drinking  party  wasn‟t  bad
either,  though,  because  it  at  least  gave  me  an  excuse  to
empty another bottle of wine to melt. If I ever found a kiln.

“Great. See you then,” Lilah chirped and hung up.
“Great,” I echoed without feeling and shut my phone.

Sighing, I tossed it at the couch, where it bounced off a
cushion and landed on the floor. Nobody else was going to
call me, so I left it there and went to shower.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

ILAH

showed up at around eight thirty and predictably tore

my  outfit  apart.  Pants  too  loose,  flip-flops  too  casual,  hair
not  styled.  I  suffered  through  the  critique  and  made  the
appropriate  changes,  including  putting  on  a  belt  she  “just
happened”  to  have  in  her  purse.  It  even  matched  the  shoes
she made me wear.

It was pointless to argue with her. At least she had a

good eye for fashion—as always, she looked her absolute
best. Her long hair was swept up into a messy bun, her
bangs falling in a strategic swoop over her eyes. The sequins
on her tank top were going to give me a headache by the end
of the night, but she looked hot regardless. Well, as hot as a
gay man could honestly designate her.

She grinned at me as though she knew what I was

thinking and said, “Ready to go?”

I nodded. “Ready.”
After checking on the fish and taking my failed wine

bottle  out  of  the  oven  (because  I  didn‟t  want  to  burn  the
apartment  down),  we  went  outside  and  I  locked  my  door.  I
hooked my key ring onto my belt loop and tried not to look
nervous,  the  way  I  knew  I  always  did  whenever  I  ventured
out of my hermit cave.

“So where are we going?” I asked.
“Right there.” She pointed to David‟s apartment and I

paled.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, and backed up against

my door, shoes planted stubbornly on the crummy gray
hallway carpet. “I can‟t. You don‟t get it. I thought he was a
serial killer this morning and now he hates me.”

Maureen Willmann

She tilted her head sideways. “I don‟t quite follow that

logic.”

“I‟m an idiot,” I said mournfully.
“Clearly.” Rolling her eyes, Lilah grabbed my elbow and

frog-marched me to David‟s door. She knocked before I had
the chance to escape.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Fixing your mistakes.” Her judgmental expression

transformed  into  something  welcoming  and  affectionate  as
the door swung inward. It was David, blinking owlishly into
the  light  of  the  hallway.  He  was  wearing  another  cardigan,
navy  this  time,  and  he  smiled  widely  at  us  despite  the  fact
that he‟d just been giving me death glares a few hours ago.
His hair was still vaguely Charles Manson-esque, although it
had clearly been brushed for the party.

“Hullo, come on in,” he said with that hard-to-place

accent, stepping aside so we could walk in. He kissed Lilah‟s
cheek and waved at me with the beer in his hand.

“You‟re David, right?” I asked just to ensure I wouldn‟t

make even more of an ass out of myself tonight.

“Yeah, and you‟re Randy.” It seemed he was so toasted

already that he couldn‟t be bothered to remember or care
about my infractions earlier.

I blinked rapidly, the old fear that he was a creep

returning full force.

“Yeah, um, how did you know my name?”
David gestured vaguely with his beer. “Read it off the

buzzer downstairs.”

“Oh right,” I said, blushing. “That was smart. I guessed

off your wireless.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

I flushed darker when he didn‟t reply. My turn to be

creepy,  apparently.  I  cleared  my  throat,  looking  around  for
something to distract myself with, and started picking tortilla
chips  out  of  a  plastic  bowl  on  the  counter.  Standing  in  his
apartment  felt  bizarre.  It  was  a  mirror  image  of  mine,  so  it
felt  familiar,  but  with  a  saggy  blue  couch  and  a  chipped
coffee table and no wine bottles in sight, melted or otherwise.
Well, except for the bottle of velvet red I‟d brought with me,
which I set on the counter. It was eerie.

David eventually ambled off to greet other guests, and

Lilah turned to me with an amused expression.

“That could have gone worse,” she said, stealing one of

my chips and crunching it noisily between her teeth. I
ignored her.

I ended up doing two shots of something putrid within a

few minutes of being at the drink table, which was enough to
make me nice and tingly. It was also enough to convince me
that it was a really, really good idea to try to make full
amends and possibly become besties with David.

It really, really wasn‟t.
“It‟s your fault if I never get laid,” David reported as I

approached.

I was appropriately confused. “What?”
Scowling, he motioned at the back of a retreating

woman in a skanky tank top and short shorts.

“I don‟t get it,” I said, blinking.
“We were having a nice conversation that could have

possibly led to sex, but then you walked up and she left.”

I frowned. “How is that my fault?”

Maureen Willmann

“Oh, you know,” he said, pointing at me.
Still perplexed, I followed his gaze and looked down at

myself. My shoes were maybe a little too “fabulous,” as was
my shirt… and my pants.

Amused, I looked back up and said, “Do they think I‟m

staking a claim?”

“I don‟t know,” said David, looking very much like he did

know, and yes, he thought that was exactly it.

“Sorry,” I said without the slightest trace of remorse.
David shrugged, wandering over to the kitchen counter,

which  was  strewn  with  various  bottles  of  alcohol:  a  case  of
beer,  some  vodka  in  plastic  bottles,  my  lone  bottle  of  red
wine,  and  other,  fancier  stuff,  one  bottle  of  which  David
hefted up and gazed at appreciatively.

“I don‟t know who brought this, but I think it‟s mine

now,” he said. He turned toward a doorway and then
hesitated, looking back at me. His eyes swept up and down
my frame, contemplating, and added, “You coming, then?”

Thinking over the two shots I‟d had and the pleasant

fizzle in my belly, I decided that I was slightly tipsy but not
drunk. I cracked a smile.

“Sure, why not?” I said.
The “why not” became swiftly apparent as he led me to

his  bedroom  and  I  was  momentarily  seized  by  the  fear  that
this  was  going  to  end  tragically.  Maybe  he  was  going  to  get
me drunk and take advantage of me.  And then kill me, if he
really was a serial killer.

Then reality kicked in and I remembered that he‟d lived

here for eight months. If he‟d wanted to do something
sinister he‟d already had plenty of opportunity.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

It wasn‟t a lot in the way of reassurances, but it got me

in his room. He left the door cracked and that was enough to
let  me  breathe  again.  I  rolled  my  shoulders  and  looked
around  his  room,  noting  with  surprise  that  it  was  fairly
clean: a futon to sleep on, a pressboard desk, and a dresser
with only one drawer pulled out. The desk was cluttered with
books  and  papers,  but  the  floor  was  clean  and  all  his
laundry was put away. I might have been a little impressed.
Maybe.

David flopped on his mattress with whatever blue-ish

alcohol he‟d swiped and twisted the cap off. He took a
generous swig and wiped his mouth.

“Tastes tropical,” he announced, holding out the bottle.

“Try it, yeah?”

“Uh, okay,” I said. I sat uneasily on the edge of his bed

and  took  the  bottle.  Our  fingers  brushed,  but  David  either
didn‟t  notice  or  didn‟t  care,  which  I  thought  was  odd  for  a
guy who‟d just been trying to score with some woman in the
living  room.  Then  again,  he‟d  also  invited  me  alone  into  his
bedroom with a bottle of booze, so maybe it wasn‟t that weird
after  all.  I  had  to  remind  myself  that  there  were  still
bisexuals in the world.

So I drank. I didn‟t know what David‟s definition of

“tropical”  was,  but  it  was  nowhere  near  mine.  It  tasted  like
unmixed  alcohol  that  could  be  really  delicious  if  it  was
combined  with  something  less  alcoholic.  There  must  have
been some serious face-making on my part, because I heard
David laughing at me. I took three or four small, wimpy sips
before I remembered this was David‟s party and it would be
rude to hog the bottle. I coughed after an unfortunately large
gulp and passed it back.

Maureen Willmann

David immediately started drinking again, his head

tilted  back  and  the  bottle  raised  up  like  in  a  television
commercial.  I  could  see  his  Adam‟s  apple  bobbing  up  and
down, and I watched it long enough that I turned pink and
looked  away  to  study  the  bedspread.  It  was  reversible:  blue
on one side, red on the other.

God. I could still hear him slurping. Subject change

time.

“We need drinking food,” I declared.
“Cake!” David said immediately.
Mmm. Cake. Not necessarily drinking food, but tasty

nonetheless.

“Cake would be good,” I conceded dreamily.
“No, no, I made a nice cake for the party. Wait a tic,

hold this.” He pushed the bottle into my hands and
clambered off the futon. “It‟s a delicious cake. I‟ll be right
back.”

He took off out the door and then poked his head back

in a few seconds later.

“Don‟t go through any of my stuff,” he warned before he

disappeared again. That, of course, only made me want to go
through his stuff really badly.

It took all of my self-control and sitting on my hands to

keep me from rifling through his desk drawers. My attention
waned the longer he took, and I ended up lying down across
the sheets, the bottle of booze on the floor and my head on
David‟s pillow. In retrospect, that was probably weird, a little
too prematurely intimate. The shots and blue tropical stuff
must have been stronger than I realized, because I wasn‟t at
all bothered by it. I was even half-dozing by the time David

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

burst back into the room, toting a giant slice of chocolate
cake on a white plate.

“Oh my God, cake!” I sat up dizzyingly fast and held out

my hands to accept the plate. My face-splitting grin was one
hundred percent about the chocolate frosting, which I began
devouring by hand since David had forgotten to bring a fork.

It was just as well, because from the moment I got my

first mouthful, I was reduced to a kindergartener. It was
probably an alarming sight for David, but I was too cozy and
fabulously tipsy to care.

“What‟s in this?” I asked between bites, wiping frosting

from my lips. “Crack?”

“Cinnamon,” he boasted proudly, unfazed by my

disturbing eating habits. He climbed onto the futon and
settled down next to me on his back.

“That‟s it?” I probed, disbelieving. “That‟s the secret?” It

sounded so simple, and yet the best answers usually were.

“There are lots of secrets.” David‟s grin was kind of goofy

as he turned onto his side, cheek smashed against the
pillow. I wondered if he‟d sneaked another drink while he
was out getting cake.

“What are the other secrets?” I had to know.
“Can‟t tell you,” he said, shaking his head. “Mum would

kill me.”

“Mum,” I echoed, brow furrowing. There was that accent

again. It wasn‟t British, but it wasn‟t Australian, either.
What the hell was it? “Where are you from?”

“New Zealand.”

Maureen Willmann

“That‟s incredibly hot,” I said, and then flushed as soon

as I realized what I‟d said.

“Only in the summer,” David mumbled into his pillow. I

couldn‟t tell if he was joking.

Despite my reddening cheeks, I decided to clarify. I

could always blame it on the alcohol. “No, I meant that your
accent is attractive.”

“Oh.” David raised his head, blinking, and suddenly

looked pinker than he had before. “Thank you.”

“You‟re welcome,” I said. I murmured my thanks as

David drunkenly took my now-empty plate and set it on the
dresser.  Since  I  was  done  eating,  I  decided  to  join  him  in
flopping on the futon, and I lay on my side to study him. He
looked exceptionally mellow, relaxing into a pile of pillows in
mismatched  cases.  He  was  actually  fairly  attractive  if  I
overlooked his hair. “How come you don‟t have a girlfriend?”

“Why don‟t you tell me?” he asked, oddly serious.
That was like an invitation to stare at him some more,

right? I took the opportunity to squint at him, taking in his
wide, feminine mouth, straight nose, and eyes so brown they
were almost black. It had probably only been his uncombed
hair and my own neuroses that had made me mistake him
for Charles Unabomber Bates upon our first meeting.

“You could use a haircut,” I decided after a long silence.
“I‟ll keep that in mind.” He yawned suddenly, rolling

onto his side away from me, and burrowed his face against
his pillow.

His actions struck me like a lightning bolt.
“Uh,” I said, stiffening. “Was that my sign to leave?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

David shrugged, waving an uncoordinated hand in the

air.

“I think I‟ll have a nap,” he said. “You can do whatever.”
“Oh.” Frowning, I noticed that his bed was set up in the

corner  of  the  room  with  the  foot  bumping  up  against  his
desk.  Since  I  was  on  the  inside  toward  the  wall,  I  would
either  have  to  climb  over  David  or  crawl  on  his  desk  to  get
out.  I  decided  to  settle  down  on  top  of  the  covers,  my  arm
pressed against the coldness of the wall, and closed my eyes.
“I‟m tired too,” I said. “I guess I‟ll just stay here.”

David grunted in response. I bit my lip.
“Um, if you get weird or anything,” because I’m clearly

gay and you’re sending mixed signals, “you can just push me
on the floor or something. I won‟t be offended.”

“You‟re fine,” David mumbled sleepily. “The drinks hit

me a bit all at once and I need to have a quick nap. That‟s
all.”

“Okay.” Even though David couldn‟t see me, or perhaps

because  of  it,  I  smiled  and  folded  my  arms  on  top  of  my
chest  with  a  deep,  contented  sigh.  Sharing  a  bed  with  him
wasn‟t as uncomfortable as I would have expected, especially
considering  I‟d  thought  he  was  a  serial  killer  only  a  few
hours ago. It was a double mattress and I was pretty thin, so
we  weren‟t  touching  but  we  weren‟t  curled  up  in  little  balls
on opposite sides of the bed, either. It was a nice state of no
contact  without  extreme  effort,  and  I  easily  fell  asleep  with
my  head  lolling  to  the  side  and  my  bangs  tickling  my
forehead.

Hours later, I woke up feeling like someone had taken

an entire roll of paper towels and stuffed it in my head

Maureen Willmann

through  my  nose.  The  pressure  behind  my  eyes  was
overwhelming,  and  I  rolled  over,  rubbing  my  temples.
According  to  the  clock  on  David‟s  desk,  it  was  only  one
o‟clock. At some point someone had shut his bedroom door,
so the sounds of people talking and drinking and listening to
music in the living room were muted. Next to me, David was
still  asleep,  dead  to  the  world.  I  poked  his  shoulder
experimentally and wasn‟t surprised when he didn‟t stir.

“David?” I asked. My voice was surprisingly loud in his

empty room, and I cringed. David, however, didn‟t even bat
an eye.

There was still a pile of books and papers on David‟s

desk. It was either knock over all his stuff or climb over him.

Oh, what the hell, I thought, and inelegantly swung my

leg over him. I had a moment of sheer terror where I thought
David was waking up and he  was going to open his eyes to
find  me  half  on  top  of  him,  but  luckily  he  just  snorted  and
scratched  his  cheek.  I  stayed  there  for  a  moment,  frozen  in
place, before I finally coaxed my muscles into gear and rolled
onto the floor with a thud. Gauging by my clumsy dismount,
I was still tipsy, but nothing terribly debilitating.

I waddled outside and shut the door softly behind me. I

was ready to slink back across the hall to my apartment and
pass out when Lilah ambushed me. She looked like she‟d
been camped out there waiting for me the entire time. And
heck, for all I knew, she could have been.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, latching onto my arm with

wide eyes. She searched my face, taking in my disheveled
hair and sleepy, sated expression, and dug in her red-
lacquered nails. “You guys totally did it, didn‟t you?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“What? No. God, no. What?” I stuttered, looking behind

me at David‟s closed door, and blushed straight to the tips of
my ears, which didn‟t really help the situation. I hustled
Lilah somewhere David couldn‟t hear, or at least where we
wouldn‟t wake him up.

We ended up in the miraculously empty kitchen. I

guided her to a chair, one hand on her elbow, and sat next to
her with a very serious expression.

“I can‟t even tell you how important it is for you to

understand I did not just have sex with my neighbor,” I said.

“You did, you totally did,” Lilah said, her mouth curving

in  a  way  that  was  mildly  disarming.  “Oh  my  God,  I  can‟t
believe  it.  I  was  wondering  where  you  went,  and  I  asked
someone  and  they  said  you  were  in  Dave‟s  bedroom,  and  I
thought,  „No  way  did  Randy  agree  to  that,‟  but  you  did.
Alone.  And  now  you  look  all  flustered  and  rumpled.  What
else am I supposed to think?”

My face was hot. I let go of Lilah‟s elbow and ran both

hands through my hair, rearranging the fluffy blond tufts
into something that hopefully resembled style. There wasn‟t
a mirror around, so I couldn‟t be sure, but it felt okay when I
smoothed my hand through my bangs.

“We didn‟t do anything, okay? We hid in there because

we stole someone‟s booze. We were just drinking, and we
were alone because—well, I don‟t know, because he was
paranoid someone would see he stole it, I guess.” And then I
creeped on him while he drank and got all hot and bothered, I
thought. But no way in hell was I telling Lilah that. “Then I
had some cake and we fell asleep. For God‟s sake, the door
was open, what kind of a slut do you think I am?”

Maureen Willmann

“You were drinking?” she pressed, clinging to the worst

possible detail. Judging by the mischievous twinkle in her
eye, she seemed inordinately pleased by this turn of events. I
groaned and rubbed my forehead.

My brain was way too muddy for this. Actually, I was

surprised I was even attempting this conversation while I
still had to blink more than once to focus on anything. It was
a story best saved for another day, so I pushed my chair
back and stood.

“Forget it,” I told her. “It‟s not important. I‟m going home

now.”

“No way, you have to tell me all the juicy details,” Lilah

demanded. She leapt to her feet with a wobble and clutched
my forearm, looking petulant. I decided right then and there
that she was drunker than I was and therefore probably
wouldn‟t remember this in the morning. It was undoubtedly
for the best.

I shook her off as well as I could. “I will, I promise, but

later. Right now I‟ve gotta go pass out. At home.”

She pouted and pointed drunkenly at me with two

fingers as I grabbed my wine from the counter and edged
toward the door.

“I‟m holding you to that. Don‟t think I won‟t remember.

If I don‟t get it out of you, I‟ll get it out of Dave.”

I rolled my eyes and waved her off. It took some swaying

and a few too many tries with the lock, but I eventually got
my  door  open.  When  I  made  it  inside,  my  neon  tetras  were
swimming  in  energetic  blue  laps  around  the  aquarium,
illuminated  by  the  lamp  I‟d  left  on  for  them.  They  were
impossible to tell apart, so I had a single name for the entire

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

school of them: Gus. I opened the tank, dipped my fingers in
to say goodnight, and switched off the light.

Things were good. Life was normal. I liked it that way, I

decided, and put my wine in the fridge and stumbled off to
bed.

Maureen Willmann

Chapter Two

IFE

got a whole lot less normal when I saw David in the

hallway  outside  our  apartments  the  next  day.  He  was
wearing  a  red  sweater  vest,  but  more  importantly,  he  had
gotten  a  miraculous  haircut.  It  had  bangs  and  layers  and
made  him  look  hot  as  hell.  I  was  so  busy  looking  that  I
walked straight into the wall.

Oh God, I thought, clutching my forehead in pain, but

not pained enough to stop staring unabashedly. Why didn’t
he look like that yesterday? I thought to myself sorrowfully. I
so totally would have held that stupid elevator.

The sound of me bonking my head on the wall must

have been enough to catch David‟s attention. He looked over
at me, eyes crinkled with what I assumed was amusement as
he locked his door. He even waved.

“Hey, Randy.”
“Oh, hi, David,” I said, lowering my hand from my

throbbing forehead and feeling stupid. “How are you today?”

He grimaced. “Egh, David is what my mum calls me.

Call me Dave.”

Something warm sparked in my chest before I could tell

it not to. I nodded and felt myself smiling involuntarily.

“Okay, Dave. So how are you feeling? Are you hung over

at all?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“Nah.” Dave tugged at his bangs like he wasn‟t used to

them, pushing them slowly back and forth across his
forehead. It was mesmerizing. I couldn‟t look away.

“That‟s good,” I said belatedly, too distracted to give a

timely  response.  Something  had  lodged  itself  in  the  back  of
my brain. Something about his haircut. Hadn‟t I told him to
get  one?  And  now  here  he  had  one,  and  a  hot  one  at  that.
Either  he  respected  my  opinion  as  someone  with  fabulous
hair or he specifically wanted to impress me. Surprisingly, I
found myself hoping for the latter. I tried to reign myself in,
failed, and added, “Your hair looks really good, by the way.”

“Ah, thanks,” Dave mumbled. His hand dropped away

and tucked itself self-consciously into one of his pockets. He
was swiftly turning red. He scuffed his shoe on the ugly gray
carpet and looked to the side. “I should go. I have a bus to
catch.”

I felt strangely disappointed. My forehead still ached, so

I rubbed at the developing lump near my temple.

“Okay. I‟ll see you later?” I said.
Dave just nodded, stepping neatly around me and down

the hallway without a backward glance. I hoped Lilah hadn‟t
spoken to him about our supposed romp in his bedroom.  It
would  explain  Dave‟s  awkwardness,  but  I  was  abruptly,
intensely  aware  that  I  wanted  to  preserve  any  chance  for
something between us, no matter how small it was. So I just
crossed  my  fingers  and  hoped  he  was  only  uneasy  because
we‟d gotten drunk and taken a nap together.

Which might not have been that much better, now that I

thought about it.

Damn.

Maureen Willmann

ENTERTAINED

myself much later that night by drinking an

entire  bottle  of  peach  wine  for  my  next  project.  When  I
flipped on the TV, I found  Psycho on AMC and settled in to
watch  it.  For  the  first  time,  I  noticed  Norman  Bates  was
strangely attractive in a mentally unstable murderer kind of
way.  That  wasn‟t  really  a  very  healthy  line  of  thought,
because  Norman  Bates  got  me  thinking  about  Dave.
Thinking about Dave got me thinking about chocolate cake,
and the next thing I knew I was getting up to buy a chocolate
bar from the vending machine in the lobby.

Except then I got dizzy. I slid down the wall, holding my

head, and lay down right there in the middle of the hallway. I
wasn‟t sure which door I was lying in front of until the door
opened and hit me in the side. I groaned and scooted away,
looking up with surprise into Dave‟s face.

“You‟re pissed,” Dave said flatly, squatting down next to

me with cricking knees.

“What? No, I‟m not mad!” I tried to sit up and failed.

“Why would you think I was mad at you?”

He grimaced. “Sorry, ah, I meant drunk. You‟re drunk.”
“Oh, that.” I beamed at him, unrepentant. “Yes, I am.

Quite.” I felt much more comfortable with him now that we‟d
slept in the same bed. Normally that would have had the
opposite effect, but not with Dave it seemed. I waved to him
and added, “Hi!”

Dave ignored my enthusiastic greeting and stared at me,

obviously trying to determine my level of drunkenness.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

I wasn‟t even sure of my level of drunkenness at that

point, but I was pretty sure I was okay.

“Yes,” I said, distracted by the carpeted hallway, which,

dirty  and  unappealing  as  it  was,  actually  felt  quite
comfortable  at  the  moment.  I  stretched  out  on  it  and  tilted
my  head,  trying  to  get  Dave  to  look  me  in  the  eye.  I
attempted to pinpoint the light flecks in his irises that kept
them from being entirely black.

He remained unaffected. “What are you doing out here,

then?”

Oh, now that was a good question. I squinted a little,

craning my neck back to look at the ceiling, and attempted
to extract the reason from my wheeling mind. It was simple, I
knew. Something obvious. Oh, that‟s right, it was—

“I‟m going downstairs to get some chocolate.”
Dave laughed quietly, almost under his breath. His

eyebrows rose like he thought this was a very suspect motive
for rolling around the hallway in the middle of the night, but
he withheld comment. Instead, he just rocked back on his
heels, his expression turning thoughtful.

“Do you want some bread with jam and cheese?” he

asked.

I wrinkled my nose. “That involves significantly less

chocolate, but you‟re nice, so okay.”

“Great,” Dave said. He didn‟t look like he thought it was

great, though. In fact, he looked a little annoyed, like my
rolling and chattering in the hallway had disturbed his peace
and quiet. Which was probably true. Still, he grasped my
hand with both of his and heaved me up, leading me inside
his apartment with his hand on my back. I knew it was just

Maureen Willmann

to make sure I didn‟t topple sideways into a wall, but it still
felt natural, sort of gratifyingly private. I sighed happily and
leaned back into it.

He took me into the kitchen, which looked spectacularly

clean for a place that‟d had a party in full swing only about
twenty-four hours ago. There weren‟t even any dishes in the
sink; they had all been piled into brown cardboard boxes
placed side-by-side on the counter. With his help, I got
settled into one of his fold-out chairs. I couldn‟t help giggling
at the ridiculousness of being led around.

“You‟ve only seen me at my worst moments,” I noted,

sounding a lot more amused by this than I actually felt. “You
must think I‟m an idiot.”

“It happens,” Dave said. Always vague and non-

committal. He left me to my own devices at the table and
busied himself at the counter by putting two slices of bread
in the toaster.

I felt heavy and fuzzy, so I slumped in my chair and put

my  head  down  on  the  table.  My  bangs  kept  falling  in  my
eyes.  I  brushed  them  away  twice  before  I  gave  up  and  let
them  stay  there,  getting  stuck  in  my  eyelashes  when  I
blinked.    My  fingers  traced  the  green  patterned  tablecloth
without  my  mental  consent,  and  then  I  frowned,  eyebrows
drawing together. I realized I didn‟t know much about Dave
beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  from  New  Zealand  and  put
cinnamon  in  his  chocolate  cakes.  And  where  he  lived,
obviously.

“So, um.” I sat up and tucked my hair behind my ears

as I grappled for balance. “What do you do? I mean, what‟s
your job?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“I‟m an international student,” he said, opening the

fridge. He stooped to pull out the jam and cream cheese. I
choked.

“You‟re a student?” I said. It came out rather louder and

more frantic than I‟d intended.

“Shh, yes,” he said. He straightened and frowned at me

as he arranged the ingredients on the counter and set about
looking through the utensil drawer.

“Oh wow.” My stomach flipped. I felt incredibly

perverted  and  a  little  guilty  for  checking  him  out  earlier.
Blatantly, even. Since Dave was renting an apartment, I was
decently  sure  he  meant  “college  student”  and  not  “high
school student,” but still. I was twenty-four and Dave could
have been as young as eighteen, and that would have been a
considerable  six-year  difference.  My  hopes  withered  and
died, leaving a sour taste in my mouth as I bemoaned, “I‟m
ancient compared to you.”

Dave finally found a knife and snorted.
“You don‟t look ancient,” he said, opening a cabinet to

pull down two plates.

“Um, thanks.” Unbidden, I felt my face growing warm.

Despite the new knowledge that he might be barely legal, I
hoped that meant he thought I was hot. I studied him closely
as he took the toast out of the toaster, put one piece on each
plate, and then slathered them with cream cheese and jam.
He stood with some confidence, but not much. Shoulders
hunched but legs spread. If I‟d had to guess, I‟d have said he
looked twenty-ish. There had been booze at the party, but it
was a toss-up as to whether he actually bought it.

Maureen Willmann

Against my better judgment, I sincerely hoped he‟d been

the one to buy it, because that would have put him around
at least twenty-one. Twenty-one and twenty-four wouldn‟t
have been so bad. That was totally doable, I thought—and oh
God, was I seriously considering this?

“Clearly, I am insane,” I told myself.
“I noticed,” Dave said, setting the toast down in front of

me.  He  sat  down  at  the  table  in  a  folding  chair  identical  to
mine,  black  and  cheaply  made,  and  nudged  a  glass  toward
me.  I  was  so  out  of  it  that  I  hadn‟t  even  noticed  when  he‟d
gotten it for me. “Have some water, then.”

I stopped with my toast halfway to my mouth and

narrowed my eyes at the spread in front of me. Toast. Water.
These were familiar for some reason. I raised my eyes to
Dave and frowned.

“This isn‟t hangover food, is it?” I asked.
Dave merely looked sheepish and didn‟t reply.
“Huh.” I looked down at my toast, contemplating the

injustice of being force-fed hangover food against the weight
of delicious toast. The toast won. “Whatever,” I said,
shrugging, and popped half the piece in my mouth.

“I just don‟t want you to vomit on my floor, mate,” Dave

explained.  He  took  his  plate  to  the  sink  and  then
disappeared  down  the  hallway.  I  picked  at  my  toast,
spreading  crumbs  on  my  plate  while  I  listened  to  him
fumbling around.

“I‟m not going to puke,” I said to my toast before I

finished the last bite, licking jam and cream cheese from my
fingers. It wasn‟t chocolate, but it somehow hit the spot.

“Sure, sure,” Dave said, even though I once again wasn‟t

talking to him. When I looked over, he was standing by the

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

couch, which had miraculously turned into a bed in the time
I‟d become enamored with my toast. “Come here.”

Mumbling unintelligibly, I eased myself out of the chair

and swayed directly into the table. I reached out to steady
myself on the back of a chair and laughed.

“Wow, I think I stood up too fast.”
“You‟re hopeless,” Dave said. He walked over, took me

by the elbow, and cautiously guided me to the couch. With
gentle hands, he pushed me onto the sheets and pillows he‟d
set out. Once he‟d helped me under the comforter, he stood
back and scratched his nose. “I‟ll just, uh, get the bin, then.”

I pouted and snuggled into the couch. The blanket

draped over me was soft and well-used, surprisingly
comfortable, and smelled a bit like Dave‟s bedroom. It was so
soothing that I couldn‟t resist burrowing my face in it.

“I‟m not going to puke,” I insisted, closing my eyes.
“I‟m sure,” Dave snorted, sounding very unconvinced,

and left to get the “bin” anyway.

I was asleep before he got back.

next day, after an embarrassing display of bed-head, I

made  a  promise  to  Dave  that  I  owed  him  one.  Two,
technically,  if  I  counted  the  elevator  incident.  Afterward,  I
slipped  back  into  my  apartment  with  my  figurative  tail
between my legs and made the executive decision to actually
be productive for once. It probably had something to do with
the vain hope that Dave would someday see the inside of my
apartment  and  be  impressed  by  its  tidiness,  but  I  ignored

Maureen Willmann

that. I focused on putting away dishes, vacuuming the floors,
and taking a break to say hi to my fishies. Half of Gus
floated in the plastic pink castle while the rest of him swam
lazily through the fake plants. One in particular swam up to
the glass and opened its mouth, over and over again, so I
graciously added feeding time to my break.

At around noon, it was laundry time. I put all my

clothes  and  unmentionables  in  a  basket  and  dug  some
quarters  out  of  the  couch.  I  made  a  grudging  note  that  I
definitely  needed  to  clean  between  the  cushions  later  and
then  set  off  for  the  deep,  creepy  depths  of  the  basement
laundry room. It was dirty and coin-operated, but it beat the
hell  out  of  hauling  all  my  belongings  to  the  closest
Laundromat.

As I passed by the mail boxes in the next room over

from the laundry room, I heard an unknown voice say,
“Dude, who is that slammin‟ chick and why haven‟t you
banged her yet?”

I stopped and looked around, noting that there was no

one  else  in  sight.  I  tried  to  feel  put  out  but  quickly  caught
myself smirking.  Even though I had just been mistaken for
a  girl,  I  had  been  mistaken  for  a  hot  one.  I  was  going  to
count that as a compliment.

To my surprise, a vaguely familiar voice replied, “Oh,

that‟s just Randy.”

My breath snagged in my throat. With mixed feelings, I

held very still, the basket propped against my hip, and
strained my ears to hear more. If Dave was talking about me,
I

wanted

know

everything.

Eavesdropping,

schmeavesdropping—I was gathering information.

“Yeah, and?” his companion pressed.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“And he‟s the bloke who lives across the hall from me,”

Dave said.

Laughter. “Aw, man, he‟s a dude? Dammit, I always

make that mistake.”

“I know.” A mailbox opening and closing. The key

turning. Probably getting ready to leave.

That was my cue to get out of sight. Reluctantly, I

moved into the laundry room and claimed a washer. I fed it
quarters as quietly as possible, still trying to glean any
patches of conversation I could. With my head bowed, I
silently sorted my laundry and listened.

“…had an excuse,” the friend was saying. “That one was

a tranny. Definitely would have been cool, post-op.”

Ugh. The friend was getting nicknamed “Douchebag.”
“Yeah, almost the real thing,” Dave said drily. I was

relieved to hear he wasn‟t much impressed by Douchebag‟s,
well, douchebaggery. The pair of them drifted down the hall
toward the elevator, and I could hear Douchebag talking
about signs and how I was totally into him—which, bless his
politically incorrect little heart, I was—and Dave politely
telling him to shut the hell up.

With no small amount of effort, I semi-successfully

forced the conversation from my mind and arranged my
clothes into piles. Normally I just dumped the whole basket
in on cold-cold with non-bleach detergent, but I was feeling
especially responsible today. I was sorting through my third
load when I belatedly heard someone else enter the room.

“Hello,” Dave said as he seated himself on an unused

machine, his palms curved against his knees. I dropped a
pair of underwear on the floor in surprise. We both stared at

Maureen Willmann

it for a moment until I retrieved it, blushing, and stuffed it
down to the bottom of a pile.

“Hi,” I said stupidly. Dave smiled in return, wide and

full, and I noticed for maybe the first time that he had very
nice teeth. They looked good against his dark lips.

“I was thinking,” he said, fiddling with his bangs again

in that self-conscious way he was developing. “Do you want
to come up and hang out or something?”

It was a close call, but I managed not to drop anything

again. My mind was still in the gutter—or more specifically,
thinking very intently about his mouth. I might have been
reading into “hang out” more than I should have.

“Excuse me?” I said, thinking I‟d misheard.
“Do you want to—” he started, and then hesitated,

staring at me with suddenly wide eyes. He shook his head
and looked away. “Um, sorry, never mind. We should
probably pretend I didn‟t just say that. You look busy. Dylan
must have been wrong.”

“Dylan?” I prompted.
“My friend,” he said stiltedly.
Ah, Douchebag. I felt my mouth curving as the puzzle

pieces slid into place.

“He wasn‟t wrong,” I said.
Dave choked. “What?”
Taking in his bright eyes, dark, messy bangs, and

flushed cheeks, I made a snap decision and said, “I overhead
you. He wasn‟t wrong.”

“Oh.” He sounded detached but everything else about

him looked lit up from the inside. He licked his lips and

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

twitched as though he was trying to suppress the excitement
but couldn‟t.

“So, in other words, yes. I‟d like to hang out.” I

unceremoniously swiped all my unsorted laundry back into
the basket. “Just let me finish up here and I‟ll meet you
upstairs, okay?”

Looking somewhat disbelieving, Dave flashed me an

adorably hesitant smile and said, “Okay.”

Once he‟d cleared the corner, I heard him exchange a

high-five with someone I presumed to be Dylan. I would have
judged him if I hadn‟t felt like high-fiving someone too.

FTER

I finished my laundry, I dragged it all upstairs and

hastily dumped it on my bed. I‟d sort it later. I fed Gus,
fluffed up my hair, and went straight across the hall to
knock on the door. Moments later, it swung open to reveal a
very smiley but jumpy Dave.

“Hi,” he said. Any doubt I‟d had that this was anything

other  than  what  I‟d  hoped  it  would  be  slipped  away  as  I
raked  my  eyes  up  and  down  his  frame.  He‟d  changed  into
tighter pants and a less wrinkly shirt and he smelled faintly
of  cologne.  All  signs  of  a  date,  or  at  least  trying  to  get  laid.
My nervousness faded and then tripled—I was glad I wasn‟t
misreading  him,  but  now  the  gravity  of  the  situation  was
spread at my feet and I was suddenly self-conscious. So help
me God. If I chickened out, I would kick my own ass.

“Hey,” I replied, pushing my hair behind my ears, and

stepped inside. His apartment was still super-humanly
clean, which, if I was following stereotypes, probably should

Maureen Willmann

have been my first clue that he liked men. That, and the V-
necks and cardigans.

And the way he was looking at me.
Okay, so I was an idiot. Flushing, I ducked my head and

went into the kitchen, hoping for a reprieve.

“Where do you keep your glasses?” I asked around my

suddenly dry throat.

“In this box, here,” he said, stopping behind my back

and pointing. I couldn‟t see him, but I could feel his body
heat radiating against my shoulder blades.

“I need a drink. You want one?”
“Probably a good idea,” he said.
I nodded. “I thought so.”
Two glasses. An inch of liquid in a bottle of something

over forty proof in his fridge. We sat at his kitchen table and
knocked it back, leaving my eyes watering and a fierce burn
traveling from my throat to my gut. Not too much, because I
didn‟t want to do anything embarrassing like throw up on
him while we were doing it, assuming we were going to do it.
Just enough to take the edge off.

“So,” Dave said with the refined air of a man who felt so

awkward he wanted to die.

“Hmm?” I dragged my gaze away from the remnants of

booze  still  on  the  bottom  of  my  glass  and  looked  at  him.  It
seemed  like  the  alcohol  was  hitting  him  hard  and  fast;  his
pupils  were  dilated  and  his  cheeks  were  red.  It  was  a  good
look on him. He licked his lips, and that looked even better.

“You‟re really attractive,” he said rather abruptly.
I laughed before I could help myself. I might have even

spit a little, it was so sudden.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Dragging the back of my wrist over my chin, I bit my lip

belatedly to hide my amusement and said out of the corner
of my mouth, “You‟re really blunt.”

He looked gloomy now. “Sorry.”
My fingers pressed into his knee.
“It‟s not a bad thing,” I said. “If you weren‟t blunt I don‟t

think you would have asked me to come up here.”

He smiled, but it quickly faded. Forced. He twiddled his

thumbs in his lap.

“You look a lot more relaxed than I feel,” he said. “Do

you do this a lot?”

His question knocked me flat. Figuratively, of course. I

thought maybe it was the alcohol making my heart pound
and my stomach drop, but I knew better.

“No,” I said, unable to sound anything other than

insulted.  I  knew  some  men  did  this  a  lot.  Despite  the  fact
that  I  was  hopefully  about  to  bone  my  neighbor,  I  was  not
one of them.

“Sorry,” Dave blurted, looking at me with anxious eyes.

They were brighter, lit from the inside with bundles of excess
energy. Nerves. “That sounded terrible, didn‟t it. I didn‟t
mean it like that. You just look experienced and you‟re
making me feel like an idiot.”

“Oh.” I picked up my glass, held it up to the kitchen

light and tilted it, trying to get the last dredges out. I
wondered how pathetic it would look if I licked the glass.
Desperate, or sexy? Probably desperate.

“Say something.”

Maureen Willmann

“I like you,” I said decisively, putting my glass down. He

looked surprised. If I was honest, I was a little surprised too.
Either I was feeling particularly bold or the alcohol was
taking effect, because I went on. “I don‟t know why, but I do.
I‟m sorry I didn‟t hold the elevator for you. This would be a
lot easier if I had.”

“Um,” said Dave, his face bright and flushed and happy,

which I interpreted as “I like you too.”

I took his glass, slid it next to mine, and scooted my

chair  over  until  we  were  so  close  that  I  could  feel  his
shuddery  breaths  as  he  exhaled.  I  traced  his  collarbone,
savoring the sensation of his skin against my fingertips. We
stayed like that for a moment, faces impossibly close but our
lips  not  touching.  My  heart  was  a  heavy  bass  beat  in  my
chest, too fast and yet not fast enough.

Finally, Dave was the one who took the plunge. He

hesitantly pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, testing,
and that was all I needed. I took his face between my hands
and kissed him full on, running my tongue along the inside
of his cheek and tasting alcohol and Dave, and I was glad I
was sitting down because it made my knees weak.

I slid my eyes shut and broke away, resting my head on

his shoulder.

“God,” I said, dropping my hands to his back, and

leaned  against  him  so  hard  and  so  suddenly  that  I  almost
knocked  our  chairs  over.  He  held  onto  me,  though—warm
hands  on  my  slim  arms,  holding  me  against  him  like  I
mattered—and then he kissed my neck.

My neck was my weak spot. I moaned softly, shivering,

and he added teeth. I subtly adjusted my pants.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“Do you want to, um…” I trailed off in a gasp as he

nipped the fluttering pulse by my throat. I swallowed and
tried again. “Do you want to, you know.” I meant to say “go
to your bedroom” or something to that effect, but he was
being awfully distracting and I couldn‟t figure out how to say
it without sounding stupid.

Dave wasn‟t stupid, though. He pulled away, his mouth

wet  and  swollen  and  gorgeous,  and  nodded.  He  took  my
hand  and  led  me  into  his  room,  shutting  the  door  soundly
behind  us.  I  felt  shy  but  reverent,  and  okay,  maybe  not
actually that shy, because I pinned him against the red-and-
blue double-sided comforter the moment he sat on the futon
mattress and started kissing him again. I needed this before
I died of embarrassment.

I had to get him naked before I could (further) consider

dying of embarrassment, though. I let  him flip me over and
cover  me  with  his  weight,  feeling  growing  heat  between  my
legs spread all the way to my toes and the tips of my fingers.
I  mumbled  incoherently  against  his  mouth  as  my  pants
seemed to get smaller and smaller.

“What?” he asked breathlessly.
“Off,” I said. He looked confused and started to crawl off

me, and I tugged at him desperately. “No, not you! Shirts.”

Having sex apparently reduced my mental capacity to

that of a three-year-old. I had limited vocabulary, incomplete
thoughts, and spoke only fragmented sentences. Mercifully,
Dave knew what I meant, and our shirts came off. Dave
gently lay down on me again and kissed my neck.

“Wait,” I panted, pushing at his chest. It was hot and

heaving and lightly muscled beneath my hands and it made

Maureen Willmann

me almost unbearably hard. I couldn‟t remember how to say
“take off your pants,” so I whined pitifully and thrust my
hips against him, tugging at our waistbands to emphasize
my point.

Dave must have been having some cognitive issues too,

because he just turned to kiss my face and said, “What?”
like it wasn‟t totally obvious what I wanted.

“Pants,” I managed to say in what I was reasonably sure

was English.

He stopped for a moment, leaving me wriggling in a

state  that  he  either  found  terribly  sexy  or  unspeakably
repugnant. His eyes were wide and dilated, his mouth slack-
jawed.  I  stared  back  at  him,  knowing  I  was  sweaty  and
tousled  and  hoping  like  hell  he  wasn‟t  having  second
thoughts.

He wasn‟t. In a moment like ecstasy he had both of us

out of our pants and boxers. I thought it was going to be the
best moment of my life until we were done fumbling with the
lube  and  condoms  and  then  he  was  actually  inside  of  me,
and  that  was  the  best  moment  of  my  life.  When  I  came,  I
knew exactly why the French called an orgasm le petit mort,
because  it  felt  like  dying  and  all  those  crazy  religious
fanatics were right: there was a heaven, and it was peaking
with Dave on top of me.

In the solace of the afterglow, my verbal abilities finally

seemed to return. I was spooned up behind him, my nose
nestled near his ear with one leg thrown over him. But now
that I could form coherent sentences again I had no idea
what to say.

I cleared my throat and went for the obvious. “That was

nice.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Dave rolled over with a look of incredulity. “What?”
Had that been the wrong thing to say? I swallowed

nervously and wrapped my leg back around him. “I said that
was nice.”

His look of disbelief softened. He traced my cheek with

his fingertips and looked awed instead. “Yeah?”

“Um, yeah,” I said in my best “you are an idiot” voice.
“Good.” He kissed the shell of my ear and sighed. “It‟s

been a while so I was worried it would be awful.”

“I can say with complete confidence that it was the exact

opposite of awful,” I told him, pressing my cheek against his
and feeling safe and sated. The moment stretched, slowly,
enjoyable while it lasted but ultimately finite. I stayed there
until I started feeling sweaty and uncomfortably hot, and
then I had to roll away.

“You okay?” he asked.
“Extremely.” I reached up to turn on the ceiling fan and

flopped back down, pulling only the sheet up to cover myself.
“We should definitely do that again.”

I couldn‟t see him, but I knew he was smiling.
“Deal,” he said.

Maureen Willmann

Chapter Three

WOKE

up feeling considerably more naked than usual. I

had  a  tendency  to  get  cold  in  my  sleep,  so  I  usually  wore
pants and a shirt. But today I was definitely bare to the skin
and  pressed  up  against  something  solid.  It  took  me  a  few
moments of groggy blinking before the memories hit me like
a  tangible  wave,  and  I  nearly  laughed  to  myself.  Life  had
never been so awesome.

Quietly propping myself up on one elbow, I glanced

down at Dave, who was still asleep next to me. His lips were
parted  and  his  small  puffs  of  air  raised  goose  bumps  as  he
breathed  across  my  arm.  I  carded  my  fingers  through  his
soft,  dark  hair  and  smiled  at  him.  The  sheet  was  wrapped
around his long legs and the comforter was pushed down to
his feet; he was hogging all the blankets without even using
them.  It  was  a  revelation  of  sorts  to  discover  that  I  wasn‟t
even the slightest bit cold.

Maybe his A/C unit was broken, I thought. I wouldn‟t be

surprised,  what  with  the  shoddy  maintenance  in  the
building.  But  some  part  of  me—a  large  part,  if  I  was
completely  honest—wanted  to  believe  that  I  was  warm
simply  because  I  had  a  tall  body  in  bed  next  to  me.  It  had
been  long  enough  since  the  last  time  I‟d  woken  up  next  to
someone that I couldn‟t remember if it was always like this.

Despite all my logic and better judgment, I hoped not. I

wanted Dave to be different.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

After lying in bed for a while longer, I eventually forced

myself  off  the  futon.  I  dressed  in  yesterday‟s  clothes  and
padded past more of Dave‟s mysterious cardboard boxes on
my  way  to  the  kitchen,  wondering  if  his  lease  was  expiring
this  month.  Some  students  only  signed  leases  for  nine
months while they were here for the school year.

I mulled this over as I poked around in his cabinets.

They were a bit musty and the contact paper was peeling. He
was probably moving to find an apartment building that was
less crappy than our current one. I would have moved too if
this place hadn‟t been such a hard to find hole-in-the-wall.
Living here made hiding easy.

As I pulled open more cabinet drawers, I admitted to

myself that I‟d been half-expecting to find his pantry stocked
full of Vegemite or the New Zealand equivalent thereof. I was
strangely  disappointed  that  it  wasn‟t.  It  was  just  full  of
normal American fare: soup cans, noodles, oatmeal packets.
Everything  was  instant,  healthy,  and  in  meager  supply.  My
apartment was full of toaster pastries and chocolate-flavored
cereal, which sounded a lot more appetizing at the moment.
Not to mention my toothbrush was there and I didn‟t want to
breathe  gross  morning  breath  all  over  my  new  whatever-
Dave-was.

Decision made. Quick pit stop at the apartment to eat

and  brush  my  teeth,  and  then  hopefully  to  return  non-
creepily  for  cuddles.  And,  I  thought,  glancing  at  the  clock,
maybe  some  late  evening  sex.  I‟d  been asleep  for  a  while,  it
seemed.  At  least  I  hadn‟t  slept  clear  through  to  the  next
morning.

Maureen Willmann

As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I knew something

was wrong. The air felt tense and heavy, like a storm
brewing. My door was ajar.

If I‟d been smart, I would have gone back into Dave‟s

apartment  and  called  the  police.  Or  apartment  security.  Or
at least woken Dave up and asked him to come with me. But
I  went  in  alone,  reassuring  myself  that it  was  probably  just
some  college  student  being  an  asshole,  testing  every  door
until they found an unlocked one and pushed it open. That
still wasn‟t good, but it was better than the alternative I was
starting to fear.

It was even weirder inside. The uneven staccato of my

heart was the only sound, but there was some unidentifiable
aroma in the air, strong and tempting. Something with
chicken. It was too strong to be coming from anywhere other
than my kitchen, which was both strange and terrifying.

Probably a drunken college student, I amended my

original  hypothesis,  even  as  my  figurative  hackles  rose  and
the  hair  on  the  back  of  my  neck  stood  on  end.  A  drunken
college  student  who  thought  he  was  in  his  own  apartment
making himself a nice dinner. But as much as I hoped I was
mistaken, I had already resigned myself to the reality of who
was  probably  in  my  apartment.  Hoping  to  prove  myself
wrong,  I  crept  around  the  corner  and  peered  into  the
kitchen.

I saw a pair of stylish designer boots and gasped.
The boots stirred. “Randy?” a voice asked.
I recognized that voice. Oh God, did I recognize that

voice.

“Everly,” I said. The anger hit me like a physical blow,

fierce and explosive, and I balled my hands into fists. I

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

stomped into the kitchen where Everly, my ex-boyfriend and
sometimes psycho stalker, had apparently taken it upon
himself to break into my apartment and cook dinner. A very
nice dinner, it seemed, but that didn‟t excuse the fact that
he‟d broken in.

Everly had settled himself rather comfortably in a chair,

one  of  my  chairs,  and  reclined  with  his  arms  hanging  over
the  back  and  his  legs  crossed  at  the  ankles.  He  looked  as
luxurious as always, his shiny, gold-red hair falling down to
his shoulders in a sleek wave. His amber eyes stared at me,
a  smirk  on  his  bow-shaped  lips.  His  clothes  looked  just  as
expensive  as  his  boots,  supple  and  dark:  a  crisp  button-up
shirt  and  a  black  leather  jacket,  the  shirt  tucked  into  slim-
fitting slacks.

Okay, so he looked good. Really good. But I still wanted

to kill him. How dare he track me down just when I was
starting to feel at home.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. I folded

my arms and planted myself directly in front of him, the
anger vibrating off me like an electric charge.

“Making you dinner, of course,” Everly replied with a

gracious tilt of his head.

This was just too bizarre. I shook my head and closed

my eyes, hoping he would be gone when I opened them
again. He wasn‟t.

“How the hell did you even get in here?”
“I picked the lock,” he said smugly.
My heart skipped an unpleasant beat. “What?”
Wordlessly, Everly reached into his jacket and pulled

out a long, black pouch. He tossed it onto the kitchen table

Maureen Willmann

where it rolled open to reveal a lock picking kit. My jaw
dropped.

“You‟re insane,” I said. “I‟m calling the police.”
Everly was on his feet before I could even blink, let alone

get  to  the  phone.  He  blocked  the  way,  one  hand  planted
against  the  wall.  He  crowded  into  my  personal  space,  his
broad chest and shoulders hiding everything else from view.
I  swallowed  the  grapefruit-sized  lump  in  my  throat  and
looked up into his eyes.

“Everly,” I said warningly.
“Don‟t,” Everly said, placing his index finger over my

lips. Lips that had been kissing Dave not a few hours ago. I
turned  away,  but  he  pushed  at  me  until  my  back  hit  the
edge  of  the  Formica  counter.  He  tilted  my  chin  up,  forcing
me to look at him—his amber gaze was wide and honest, his
mouth  soft  and  open.  He  was  always  so  good  at  presenting
the perfect front. It was too much.

I squeezed my eyes shut to block it out, to keep from

remembering a time when I wanted him. He had me backed
up against the counter and I was almost shaking with fear,
my heart in my throat. Everly had never laid a hand on me.
No, he was subtler than that. But a B&E still wasn‟t an
acceptable way to talk to me.

Putting a steadying grip on the counter, I took a deep

breath and said with as much force as I could muster, “Get
out.”

“Don‟t be rude, Randy. Let me stay,” Everly pleaded in a

voice that was somehow not pleading at all. More like
commanding. His thumb caressed my lower lip, pulling it
down and brushing his skin against my teeth.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

I knew where this was going. I bit him before he could

get any farther.

“Christ!” Everly hissed, jerking his hand away and

shaking it out at his side. His eyes narrowed, searing into
mine, refusing to back down.

“Get out,” I repeated. “I have a restraining order against

you.”

“You forgot to renew it,” he said. “I like to stay informed

about these things. If you‟d only listen, you‟d know that I‟m
sorry about the last time—”

“The last two times,” I corrected bravely, despite the fact

that I felt like puking or fainting or pissing myself. I‟d fallen
for this ploy once before, the first time Everly had visited my
apartment after we broke up, in a different city, in a different
state. God, and I‟d just been thinking to myself about how
hard to find this piece-of-crap apartment was. “How did you
find me?”

“I hired someone.”
I felt so sick. I shoved him hard enough to give me the

space to squeeze past him, toward the phone. This was going
downhill fast. I needed to get Everly out of here.

“I don‟t want you back,” I said, proud that my voice

sounded far steadier than the rest of me felt.

“But you will,” he purred.
My arm was already pulled back to punch him when I

heard the front door open. I froze, and we stood there just
looking at each other for a split second before I lowered my
fist.

Maureen Willmann

“This isn‟t over,” I said and then went to see who else

was breaking into my apartment today.

It was Dave, standing uncertainly by my door and not

wearing a shirt. Just the jeans he‟d had on earlier. I stopped
so suddenly that Everly ran into my back, nearly pitching me
to the floor, but I steadied myself with a hand on Everly‟s
arm. I felt Dave looking at me and immediately snatched my
hand back.

“Um,” Dave said, leaning past us to look at the meal in

the kitchen and then looking back at me with raised
eyebrows. “I didn‟t know you had hired help.”

I was hit by a shot of relief. I was impressed that Dave

was making an effort to view the situation in a way that
didn‟t involve some very blatant and half-true assumptions
about me and Everly.

I almost wanted to lie, to go along with it, but I forced

myself to say, “I don‟t.” I shoved Everly toward the door,
hard, and added, “He was just leaving.”

“Actually,” Everly said smoothly, walking over to Dave

and extending his hand with a dazzling smile. “I just got
here. My name‟s Everly.” He winked. “I‟m Randy‟s ex.”

“Oh.” Something in Dave‟s expression cleared. His smirk

was sharp as he shook Everly‟s hand. “His ex, huh. Too bad
for you, then.”

“I‟m working on it,” Everly said, like I wasn‟t standing

right behind him trying to glare a hole into his head.

“Well, good luck, mate.” Dave looked past him and

smiled affectionately at me. “You coming back over for some
frozen waffles, Randy?”

Oh, frozen waffles. A+ choice. I hadn‟t seen those, but I

also hadn‟t checked the freezer.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

My lips twitched in an answering smile, and I nodded.
“Yeah, sure. Just came over to change and brush my

teeth,” I said.

“Excuse me?” Everly said.
“You heard me,” I snapped, and then turned to Dave.

“Give me a minute, okay?”

“Okay,” Dave said, shoving his hands into his pockets. It

looked like he was going to wait for me.

“Great.” I glared at Everly as I passed him to go into my

room, where I threw on the closest available clean clothes: a
plain, solid-colored crewneck tee and tight jeans. My flip-
flops were still in Dave‟s apartment, so I stayed barefoot. I
went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth as quickly as
possible, wiped my face with a towel, and came back out.

Everly was standing in my doorway.
“You,” I said, pointing at him. “You‟d better get the hell

out.”

He pursed his lips. “I‟m not letting you go anywhere with

him.”

Knowing Dave was in the next room gave me the extra

push I needed. I stalked forward, poked him in the chest,
and said, “I don‟t give a crap what you think. It‟s none of
your business anymore.”

“Randy,” he said softly, curving a placating palm

against my shoulder.

“Just don‟t,” I growled and threw him off. “I‟m serious. I

don‟t want to look at you right now.”

“Fine, we can talk about this later.” Everly said. His jaw

set stubbornly, like he knew he‟d lost this battle but hadn‟t

Maureen Willmann

admitted to losing the war. And then his eyes changed and
he leaned forward, way too close to my personal bubble, and
grinned. “I‟ll see you tonight,” he murmured and then kissed
my cheek.

My first reflex was to punch him, so I did. It hurt me

more  than  it  hurt  him,  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  I  was
cussing  and  shaking  my  fist  out  while  he  was  blinking  and
holding  one  hand  over  the  rapidly  reddening  spot  on  his
cheek. It seemed like he‟d been stunned into silence.

“No way am I letting you get anywhere near me,” I

warned him in a low hiss, shoving him into the living room
with my uninjured hand. Dave, catching my eye, opened the
door and held it for me to wrestle Everly toward.

Somehow, Everly still managed to look suave and deadly

even as I got him into the hallway. The harsh fluorescent
lighting had no effect on his already flawless skin. He tossed
his hair and looked me dead in the eye.

“We are going to talk about this,” he insisted.
The threatening glint in his expression petrified me,

striking me speechless. But luckily, I didn‟t have to say
anything.

“I don‟t think he wants to,” Dave said, and then

slammed the door in his face and locked him out.

How embarrassing, having someone else fight my battles

for me. But even unmanly mortification couldn‟t keep me
from being grateful.

“You didn‟t have to do that,” I said, tucking my non-sore

hand into the crook of his elbow. I was still a little shaky, but
mostly relieved. I could hear Everly stalking angrily down the
hallway.

“Yeah, I did. Your ex seems like a total arse,” Dave said.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

I laughed, loud and unexpected. When Everly‟d had me

cornered in my kitchen, I‟d felt like I‟d never laugh again. I
squeezed his arm and smiled. If the bubble of liberation I
was feeling was from hysteria, I didn‟t care.

“He totally is,” I said, even though that didn‟t even begin

to cover all the things Everly was. “That‟s why he‟s my ex.”

“S

THE

way I figure it, I owe you about three dates,” Dave

said when I came over the next day. We were going to a
nearby coffee shop to meet Lilah for brunch, so we‟d met up
in front of his place and decided to walk there together. We
had just cleared the ground floor and were headed toward
the double glass doors in the lobby.

“Three, huh?” I asked with a smirk as we left the

building and started walking. “Why three?”

“Well, you know.” He scratched at the stubble he hadn‟t

bothered to shave that morning and shrugged. “That‟s
usually an acceptable number of dates before you, ah, you
know. Have sex. And since we did it before we even had one,
I figured I ought to make it up to you.”

When he said things like that, it made me feel kind of

weightless inside. Like I had no stomach.

“Not that you have anything to make up for, but I

usually don‟t put out until the fourth date.”

He bumped my shoulder with his. “Three more after

this, then.”

“Coffee with Lilah totally doesn‟t count,” I said.

Maureen Willmann

“You drive a hard bargain, Randy, um… I‟m sorry,

what‟s your last name?”

“Gallagher,” I said, looping my arm through his and

resting my head on his shoulder. It should have bothered me
that we‟d had sex before I‟d even told him my last name, but
it didn‟t. Sometimes you just couldn‟t help how or when you
clicked with people.

“Right, right, I knew that. I‟ve seen it on your mailbox.

Mine‟s Barr.”

I hadn‟t known that, but I wasn‟t going to say anything.

I just leaned up, kissed him on the cheek, and kept my arm
wound through his the whole way to the coffee shop. I broke
away when he opened the door for me, though. We hadn‟t
told Lilah yet and I didn‟t really want the gossip queen of the
West Coast to know before she absolutely had to.

Not that it made any difference. Lilah had a nose for

new romance like a freaking bloodhound. Plus there was
that little incident of Dave‟s party and our nap in his
bedroom.

As soon as we sat down at the table, she gave a

delighted gasp and said, “I knew it!” and clasped her hands
together.  I  had  no  idea  what  she  was  talking  about  until  I
realized  I‟d  automatically  slid  in  next  to  Dave  in  the  booth,
couple-style.

“Shut up,” I said as I put my hand on Dave‟s knee under

the table. He responded by sliding his fingers up my thigh. I
kept a carefully blank face and held his hand.

“Whatever, I knew the moment it happened. I caught

you after you two boned at the party, remember?”

I felt rather than saw Dave‟s heated stare on the side of

my face. Thank you, Lilah.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“I told you, that never happened,” I said.
She waved away my truth and logic like she had so

many times before.

“I‟m sure it didn‟t,” she drawled. “Except for the part

where you‟re a couple now.”

Next to me, Dave stiffened. I frowned.
“It‟s a long story,” I said.
“Of course it is,” Lilah said and sipped her water. “I

must say, I‟m surprised. I didn‟t think Dave would want to
get involved this late in the game.”

Dave went from stiff to downright stony. “I‟d rather not

talk about that.”

Oh, but I would. I looked between the two of them,

staring so hard that the little worry lines I pretended I didn‟t
have popped up between my eyebrows.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Dave said with a glare in Lilah‟s direction.

“Come on, Randy, you want a latte or a muffin or
something?”

That man sure knew the way to my heart.
“Chocolate muffin,” I said, releasing his hand and

scooting out of the booth so he could get up.

The moment Dave was out of earshot, Lilah leaned over

the table, her eyes glimmering with the prospect of gossip.

“He hasn‟t told you yet?” she asked.
“Told me what?”
“Ooooh,” she said, leaning back in her seat, and covered

her mouth. Her long hair slipped over her shoulder, but for

Maureen Willmann

once she didn‟t immediately primp and reposition it. She was
too busy staring at me, her expression clearly conflicted. “I
don‟t know if I should tell you or not.”

So vague. How unhelpful.
“Is it important?” I asked.
Lilah laughed unexpectedly and then immediately

looked guilty about it.

“Um, yeah, I‟d say so.”
God help me, she was appealing to my inner gossip. I

wanted to know so badly, especially if it was important, but I
knew deep down that it would be better to let Dave tell me
himself. With a great deal of restraint, I folded my hands in
my lap and looked away from her gossip-bright eyes.

“If it‟s that important, I trust him to tell me.”
Lilah appeared almost pitying.
“That‟s very mature of you,” she said, a bit sadly.
That only made me want to know even more, but I

firmly clamped my mouth shut and glared at the table until
Dave  returned.  When  he  finally  did  after  what  seemed  like
ages,  I  was  glad  I  hadn‟t  pried,  because  he‟d  not  only
brought  me  two  muffins  but  some  hot  chocolate  as  well.
Sometimes it was almost startling how sweet and thoughtful
he  was,  especially  after  dating  a  wretch  like  Everly,  but  it
was a pleasant sort of surprise. I accepted everything with a
blush and a pleased little beam.

“You‟re welcome,” he said before I could even thank him,

and put his arm around me.

Content, I leaned into him and felt secure in my

decision. Dave was a great guy. He‟d definitely tell me when
the time came.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Chapter Four

T WAS

about midnight when I heard knocking on my door,

loud enough to rip me straight out of my dreams. The sound
was desperate and constant, the kind made from a fist and
not knuckles. I pushed aside my blankets and stumbled to
the front door in a delirium, standing on my tiptoes to look
through the peephole.

The face on the other side made me groan out loud. Too

loud, because the knocking stopped and suddenly there was
an amber eye looking through the peephole right back at me.
Everly.

“Randy?” he said.
“Go away.” With the door between us, I was more angry

than scared. His timing sucked. It was like every time I had a
nice day with Dave, Everly had to retaliate by making some
grand obnoxious gesture in return. I turned away, fully
intending to call security.

“Can I please talk to you?” he asked, making me pause.

There was something in his voice, something low and sad
that had me grabbing my phone but not dialing it.

I leaned against the door and held my phone to my

chest. I told myself the moment something went wrong I
would call 911. The door was shut and locked, so it wasn‟t
like I was in any immediate danger.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Maureen Willmann

“Just to talk, I promise.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, right. I know you. You came here to

confuse me and ruin my relationship.”

To my surprise, Everly actually laughed. “What

relationship?”

I banged on the door with the hand that wasn‟t holding

my phone. Screw him. Acting like he didn‟t know.

“Dave,” I growled. The phone creaked in my grip. “You

met him, remember? That time when you broke into my
house.”

“You mean your friend with benefits,” Everly said. I

could hear the smirk in his voice. “You‟re fooling yourself.
That‟s not a real relationship.”

It is, I thought, but I couldn‟t bring myself to say it

because I didn‟t know if it was true. I had no idea what I was
doing  with  Dave  and  I  was  almost  sick  with  the  realization
that  I  really  wanted  to  be  in  a  relationship  with  him,
exclusive and official and all that crap. Sure, we‟d been on a
date  and  had  sex,  but  that  didn‟t  mean  anything  in  the
grand  and  terrifying  scheme  of  commitment.  As  much  as  it
pained me to admit it—

“You‟re right,” I said. I pressed my hand to my forehead

and closed my eyes, feeling abruptly ill.

“I‟m glad you see it my way,” Everly murmured. “Now

open the door.”

I froze with terror, my insecurities momentarily

forgotten. “No.”

“Just let me in,” Everly said. The doorknob jiggled. I

gasped aloud, springing away, and my heart rate spiked.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“No,” I said, voice wavering. I cleared my throat and

tried for a more commanding tone. “Get out.”

“But I love you,” he said, oddly sincere.
For a second, I actually believed it. Then I forced myself

to  remember  how  this  would  play  out:  for  a  month,  Everly
would be a saint, being thoughtful and bringing me presents.
Then  he‟d  start  to  smother  me,  wanting  too  much  of  my
time,  and  I  would  pull  back  for  air.  And  then  Everly  would
complain  that  I  was  too  cold,  too  distant,  and  that  would
make  me  disengage  even  further,  brushing  him  off  to  the
point  that  he  would  seek  out  affection  and  attention
elsewhere.

After all these years, Everly could still make me feel like

it was my fault. And that was just so ridiculous and unfair
that I didn‟t even know what to do.

“I don‟t love you anymore,” I said, surprising myself with

the strength of my voice. “And I never will again,” I added,
because I knew that Everly would bring up the possibility. I
was having none of that crap tonight.

“This is ridiculous.” The doorknob stopped moving and I

heard jingling instead. If he thought he could pick the damn
lock again without me calling the cops—

“I‟m calling 911,” I told him in my adrenaline-

strengthened tone. I held the phone up to the door as I
pressed the keys so he‟d know I was serious.

The jingling stopped and Everly swore. “You‟re

overreacting.”

“I‟m pressing send,” I warned. I wasn‟t, because I would

have rather finished this without the hassle of filing a police
report, but he didn‟t need to know that.

Maureen Willmann

“Fine, fine. I‟m leaving. For now.”
Holding my breath, I waited for the sound of defeated,

retreating footsteps down the hallway and the ding of the
elevator before I dared to look through the peephole again.

Nobody. Just an empty hallway. And across the way,

there was Dave‟s apartment door, warped and fisheyed from
the view through the peephole.

I was shaken—maybe too shaken, or just not shaken

enough.  My  apartment  was  silent  except  for  the  gurgle  of
bubbles  and  the  hum  of  the  filter  from  Gus‟s  fish  tank.  I
stood  there,  staring  at  the  carnival-fun-mirror  version  of
Dave‟s door, and thought about how all I wanted to do was
talk to him and affirm that we were more than friends with
benefits.

To my credit, I tried to quell the urge. A quick glance at

the clock told me that it was way too late to go traipsing over
to his place and ask for reassurance. But the longer I stood
there, the less confident I became. Before I knew it I had my
keys in my hand, standing outside my apartment as I locked
it, and then I was knocking at Dave‟s.

Seconds ticked by. Minutes. I knocked again and soon

after I heard slow, slumping steps like a zombie‟s, followed
by Dave opening the door. He stood there, shirtless and
rubbing his eyes, and yawned.

“Randy?” he croaked, his voice rusty from sleep, and

squinted at me. “Are you pissed again?”

I let out a breathless bark of laughter. “No, I‟m not

drunk, but I am mad. I‟m just—Everly came by. It was
stupid. I shouldn‟t have talked to him, but I did and now I‟m
upset. Can I come in?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

At the word “Everly,” Dave‟s shoulders had tensed and

his entire posture had drawn up into rigidness, but he
relaxed when I asked to come in.

“Yeah, of course,” he said and then seemed to curl back

into his previous state of just-woken-up sleepiness. He
turned, stumbling blindly to his bedroom, and left the front
door open behind him.

I stepped inside, shut and locked the door, and then

followed  Dave  to  his  bedroom.  He  was  already  flopped
facedown on top of the covers, face smashed into the pillow
and  one  leg  hanging  off  the  side  of  the  futon.  He  looked
absolutely adorable and I had to smile. I climbed in next to
him,  nestled  down  against  his  side  with  my  nose  brushing
his  hair,  and  sighed  happily  when  he  squirmed  and  put  an
arm around my waist.

“Mmph,” he said, turning his head so his breath hit my

neck.

“How tired are you?” I asked, hoping he didn‟t take it

the wrong way. Normally when I would ask something like
that, I would mean it in an, “Are you too tired to have sex?”
kind of way. Right now I meant it in a clingy, “Can we talk
about our relationship?” kind of way.

“Tired,” Dave replied vaguely, opening one eye to peer at

me.

“Okay,” I said, swallowing down my disappointment. I

kissed the top of his head and made myself push away all
the thoughts churning around in a sick mess inside my
head. I‟d talk to Dave about it in the morning, hopefully. Or
maybe this was just a passing concern and it wouldn‟t even

Maureen Willmann

matter in twelve hours—and then it would be a good thing
Dave was too tired and was falling asleep against my neck.

“‟Night, Randy.”
“Goodnight,” I said, inhaling the smell of Dave‟s

shampoo, and closed my eyes.

N THE

morning, I woke up and was disappointed to find the

feeling  was  still  there.  It  flip-flopped  around  in  my  stomach
when I rolled over and saw Dave sleeping on his side, facing
away from me. I curled up behind him, arms tucked against
his back, and hooked one leg over him because I was feeling
needy.  Dave  must  have  slept  like  a  rock,  because  he  didn‟t
wake  up  or  even  seem  to  register  the  movement—just
slumbered on peacefully and breathed a little too loudly.

Eventually I had to get up to pee. I washed my hands,

splashed water on my face, and brushed my teeth with my
index finger. When I headed back to bed, Dave was sitting
up, blinking slowly at the wall and rubbing his cheek.

“Morning,” he said with a grin when he saw me, holding

out his arms.

A little thrill sprang in my chest, sort of like an electric

shock,  and  I  couldn‟t  keep  the  goofy  grin  off  my  face  as  I
settled  back  down  on  the  futon  with  Dave,  side  by  side.  I
kissed  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and  ran  my  hands  over  his
shoulders.

“Thanks for letting me in last night.”
“No problem,” he said dismissively. If he remembered

why I came over, he didn‟t want to talk about it. He just
squeezed my waist and kissed my cheek.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

I felt bad, knowing that I was going to ruin this cuddly

morning  moment  by  bringing  up  our  relationship.  I  would
have  withheld  further,  but  there  was  a  numb  sensation
gnawing  away  at  my  stomach  lining.  I  was  already  proud
enough  of  myself  for  not  keeping  Dave  awake  last  night  to
spill my guts.

Hiding my face in the comforter, I frowned where he

couldn‟t see it and said, “Can I ask you something girly and
awkward?”

“Uh,” Dave said, which I took to mean “I‟d rather you

didn‟t.”

Unfortunately for Dave, it was a rhetorical question and

I was going to ask anyway.

“Are you seeing anyone else?” I asked.
“What do you mean, seeing?”
“Sleeping with,” I said. “Going on dates with.”
“Uh, well, here‟s the thing….”
Oh God, Everly was right. “Don‟t. Just forget I asked

that, okay? Whatever we‟re doing is fine. You don‟t have to
say anything.”

“It‟s not like that.” Clearly bracing himself, he took a

deep breath, held it in, and then released it slowly. “It‟s just
that I have to go back to New Zealand in a week.”

The way I felt, he might as well have just punched me. I

stared at him and tried to find the words to express the hurt
and shock vying for my attention.

“In a—in a week?”

Maureen Willmann

He shrank away from me. I must have sounded pretty

loud and hurt for him to react like that, but I couldn‟t help
myself.

“Finals were last week,” he explained meekly. “That

party  was  an  end-of-semester  thing.  I  have  thirty  days  to
leave  the  states  after  the  last  day  of  class  and  I  already
bought  my  ticket  last  month.  Didn‟t  you  notice  all  my
boxes?”

Crap. Yes. I‟d just thought…. Oh God, I felt so stupid.
Dave leaned forward earnestly. “Look, Randy, it‟s not

that I don‟t want to. I really like you. You get that, yeah?”

Numbly, I stared at the wall and remained silent.
“I‟m sorry. Say something,” he urged.
I licked my dry lips and forced myself to breathe. “What

about after you leave?”

“When I‟m in New Zealand?”
“Yes,” I said. My heart thumped. Why was I trying so

hard for someone I‟d ignored for an entire year? “I mean,
there‟s e-mail, right? And Skype.”

“Randy,” he said, shifting to sit up and give me an

uncomfortably intense stare. “Do you think that‟s a good
idea?”

I deflated.
“No,” I admitted miserably. “It would be hard and

probably end badly.”

Realism, Randy. It was a kick in the ass.
Dave slipped his arm around me and said, “I‟m sorry. I

bought my ticket before we‟d even spoken. It‟s
nonrefundable. And I have to be out of the country within
twenty-five days, anyway.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“I see.” Numbness split me like a wishbone. I felt

wooden, unable to move, and so I sat eerily still on his futon
and  waited  for  the  empty,  twisting  sensation  of  regret  to
leave  my  gut.  The  disappointment  from  this  morning
throbbed  and  echoed.  I‟d  wanted  to  come  out  of  this
conversation a couple, but now here I was, embarrassed and
wrong. And worst of all, Everly had been right.

“We can still have fun until I leave, right?” Dave coaxed,

rubbing my arm.

I twitched, turning to him.
“Fun?” I echoed. I‟d been ready to ask where we were

going with our “relationship,” and he thought we were just
having fun? God, could he rub Everly‟s words in my face any
harder? Friends with benefits indeed. And here I‟d been
thinking we had a connection.

Some of my rage and incredulity must have shown on

my face, because Dave started backpedaling rapidly.

“Fun like, you know, uh,” he stammered releasing me.

He sat up and scooted to the safety of the edge of the futon.
“I mean, we enjoy each other‟s company, yeah? And I like
you, so why shouldn‟t we keep seeing each other until I
leave?”

When he put it that way, it made me seem like the kind

of clingy boyfriend I usually hated. It made sense, but the
sluggish, painful thumping of my heart told me it wasn‟t
enough. It would never be enough as long as there physical
distance between us. And that was when it hit me that I was
already in too deep. The hesitant, nascent feelings I had and
the words that went along with them had already taken root.

Maureen Willmann

I was well and truly screwed, so I supposed the only logical
thing to do was enjoy it while it lasted.

All my anger deflated in one long sigh. I followed Dave to

the corner of the mattress and sank down next to him,
pressing my forehead into his shoulder.

“Okay,” I said, soft and scared.
Dave stared down at me in confusion, open-mouthed,

almost like he thought he‟d misheard.

“What?”
“Okay,” I repeated, burrowing under his arm. His touch

stirred  something  electric  within  me  and  I  closed  my  eyes
and soaked it up while I still could. As he wrapped his arms
around me, I remembered the smell of his shampoo from last
night,  the  toast  with  jam  and  cheese  he  made  me  when  I
staggered  drunk  through  his  door,  the  heady  taste  of  our
first  kiss.  They  all  seemed  like  ages  ago  even  though  we‟d
known  each  other  such  a  short  time.  I  hoped  that  these
memories would still comfort me after he left.

E MADE

it to three official dates before the week was up,

but they were all tinged with the cloudy depression that
seemed to follow me wherever I went. It wasn‟t Dave‟s fault,
so I was more sad than angry. If Dave minded, he didn‟t let it
show, because he still agreed to let me take him to the
airport on Sunday.

The drive to the terminal felt abnormally long and quiet.

It was predawn early with just enough  bite in the air that I
wished  I‟d  worn  a  jacket.  My  fingers  were  clenched  in  vise-
like  grips  on  the  steering  wheel  and  my  jaw  was  clenched

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

even harder. I didn‟t look at Dave even though he spent most
of the ride trying to catch my gaze.

I wanted to look angry, to give the impression that I

hated  him  for  doing  this,  but  it  was  hard  to  pass  for  angry
when my eyes were  suspiciously watery  and I kept blinking
way  too  hard.  Strangling  the  wheel  helped  me  fend  off  the
urge  to  do  something  phenomenally  stupid  like  ask  him  to
stay.  At  one  point,  Dave  put  his  hand  on  my  knee  and  I
almost  gave  in,  hoping  it  was  a  silent  apology  or  maybe  a
confession,  but  he  pulled  away  after  maybe  only  five
minutes.

When we got to the airport, I insisted on walking in with

him. I bypassed the passenger drop-off area and parked in
the long-term lot, silently popping the trunk and pausing to
swipe underneath my eyes before I got out. Dave grabbed his
suitcase and I took his duffel, shouldering it before he could
tell me otherwise. Luckily he‟d mailed most of his belongings
ahead of time or we would have been making trips back and
forth forever.

The silence stretched uneasily between us as we walked.

I slid my hand into Dave‟s, the duffel bag bumping between
us where it hung suspended from my shoulder. The longer
we touched, the more heat spread in my chest. I was going to
miss this.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that I was the

one holding his hand in line to check his bags, not Dylan or
Lilah. The last person with him was the person he‟d known
the least amount of time in America. That had to count for
something, right?

Maureen Willmann

The line moved. He dropped my hand and I felt cold.

Stiffening, I shoved my hands in my pockets and was
suitably amazed when he curled his arm around my
shoulder instead.

“Thanks,” I said, leaning into him. It seemed like an

appropriate first word to say. Despite the fact that I was
bitter as hell that he was leaving, I really was thankful.

It was hard to think of this as our last few minutes

together. I leaned in further, burrowing my nose against his
neck, and heaved a deep sigh. Wetness seeped into his shirt
collar and I was unsurprised to find that I was crying.

“Cheer up,” Dave said, like that was going to help. The

line moved but I didn‟t have the strength to budge from the
moment I was trying to build for us. He nudged me with his
knee. “Come on, then. It‟s our turn.”

Asshole.
Slowly, I lifted my head from his neck and nodded, my

eyes shiny but my cheeks dry. Dave ruffled my hair and took
his bag from my shoulder—he checked the suitcase but kept
the duffel as his carry-on. I should have felt lighter but I
instead I felt much heavier.

We headed for the security line. I think he expected me

to split off before we got there, but I stayed, resting my head
on Dave‟s shoulder with my arm around his waist. He
wordlessly took off his shoes and waited to go through the
metal detector.

About halfway through the line, I just couldn‟t contain

myself anymore. I wanted to talk about it.

I steeled myself, jutted out my chin, and asked, “Can I

visit?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“Sure you can,” Dave said easily, kissing the top of my

head. Somehow, I didn‟t think he got the message that I
meant a romantic visit.

“I‟m going to miss you so much,” I said all in a rush.

Embarrassingly, my voice pinched on the last two words and
I could see Dave was uneasy.

He shuffled down the line and didn‟t look at me.
“I‟ll miss you too.”
That was it. No eye contact. The tears finally started

rolling  down  my  cheeks  unabashedly  and  everyone  around
us turned to stare. Dave‟s entire flight was probably here in
line  with  us  and  he  was  going  to  have  to  spend  a  thirteen-
hour  trip  with  a  group  of  people  who‟d  just  watched  him
break a man‟s heart.

Dave dropped his duffel and put his hands on my

shoulders.

“Hey, come on,” he cajoled.
I was crying too hard. I tried to tell him I was fine but it

came out garbled.

“Randy,” he said in a sigh and pulled me into a full-body

hug. The line was moving but we remained static, gaining
irritated looks for wasting space. But I didn‟t care, because I
was folded up safely against him, hands fisted in his white
tee with my face pressed against his collarbone. I felt warm
again even though I was still achingly sad.

“I wish you didn‟t have to go,” I whispered.
“Um.” He sounded guilty. His fingers found back of my

head and played with the tips of my hair. “Sorry?”

Maureen Willmann

I knew I was just making things worse, but when the

words surfaced in my mind, I knew I had to say them: I love
you. I shifted, pulling away to look up at him with tousled
hair, pink cheeks and wet eyes, and I felt him stiffen. He
must have known I was going to say it too.

“Don‟t,” he told me before I could open my mouth.
I flinched, eyes darkening, and looked away. My hands

fell away from his shirt and hung limply at my sides as I
angled myself away, retreating into a hunch-shouldered
“please don‟t hurt me” stance.

My voice only shook a little when I asked, “Why?”
When I glanced at Dave, he looked regretful, his hand

outstretched toward me.

“Because,” he said, sounding anguished, and touched

my face. “If you say it now, I don‟t know how I‟m going to get
on that plane.”

As if I needed any more reason to say it.
“I love you,” I blurted before I could give it any more

thought,  blushing  as  I  belatedly  noticed  the  crowd  we‟d
gathered.  People  had  stopped  clearing  their  throats  or
glaring  at  us  to  move  and  had  simply  stopped  to  watch  the
drama unfold. As though they too knew that it was crazy to
confess love so soon to a man who was clearly leaving.

“I just told you not to do that,” he said, scratching the

side of his neck and looking flustered.

My heart sank and my eyes stung. Frantically, I dropped

my gaze to the floor, to his shoe, to his bag, trying to appear
unaffected, but it was too late. I looked crumply and
miserable and I knew it. Dave knew it too, because he took
that opportunity to pull me out of line and make for the
bathrooms before I started sobbing in earnest.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Dave checked all the stalls and urinals and then locked

the door. With a gentleness that didn‟t match his dismissal,
he lifted me, sat me on the counter, and brushed at my
cheeks with a damp paper towel. I sniffled and pretended
like none of this was happening.

“I‟m not going to give you a farewell blow job in an

airport bathroom,” I said after a few minutes of silence, a
pale attempt at humor to lighten the situation.

“I know.” Dave tipped my face up and wiped under my

eyes with the scratchy paper towel. Letting out a shuddery
breath, I allowed my eyes to flutter shut and flinched as he
wiped my eyelids too. He set the paper towel down and
hesitated before adding, “I‟m sorry.”

That was just adding insult to injury. I wanted to yell at

him and tell him that if he was sorry, he‟d be doing
something about it, but instead I just drew my knees up to
my chin. I could feel my lower lip quivering and my eyes
stinging again. As hard as I tried to be a man about this, it
didn‟t change the fact that he was breaking my damn heart.

When Dave couldn‟t endure my silence any longer, he

picked up the duffel I hadn‟t seen him put down and slipped
it  over  his  shoulder.  A  long  sigh  ruffled  my  bangs  and
prompted  me  to  open  my  eyes,  focusing  slowly  on  where
Dave  stood  in  front  of  me.  He  was  looking  at  his  watch,
soulful and remorseful.

“I have to get through security, Randy.”
I nodded numbly, feeling like I was sitting on the edge of

his futon being told he was leaving all over again. Tenderly,
he touched my hair and offered me a wobbly smile.

“I‟ll call,” he said. “Remember to download Skype.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Chapter Five

T HOME

, I found myself a quarter of the way through a

bottle of cheap fruity wine that I adamantly told myself was a
project  and  not  a  crutch.  Dave  didn‟t  call  and  I  didn‟t
download Skype. Because Dave was on a plane and literally
had  no  way  of  contacting  me  without  absolutely  stellar
cellular  service  and  potentially  interfering  with  some  very
delicate  airplane  equipment.  It  was  hard  to  lie  there  on  my
couch  and  do  nothing,  knowing  that  I  had  to  wait  thirteen
hours  before  we  could  finish  the  conversation  I‟d  stupidly
begun.

When a knock came a little past six, I was actually

foolish enough to hope it was him. That he‟d seen the unsaid
message in my eyes and come back. I slammed the bottle on
the table, finger-combed my bangs and pinched my cheeks,
and leapt for the door. Stupidly, I didn‟t even check the
peephole before I opened it.

It was Everly. With flowers. Standing with his hair

pulled back into a ponytail, looking bright yet apologetic.
When he saw me, he stuck his foot in the door and held out
the bouquet.

“I heard your friend left town.”
I only took the flowers so they wouldn‟t hit me in the

face. They were pink and white, elegant and trumpet-shaped,
and I thought they were lilies of some type. My first instinct
was to throw them down as some sort of dramatic rejection,

Maureen Willmann

but it wasn‟t the flowers‟ fault, so I glared at Everly and went
to put them in water.

I should have called the authorities. Everly took it upon

himself to drape himself across my couch and pick up my
blackberry merlot. One eyebrow arched, he sniffed it and
gave me a disapproving glance. “You know, I was hoping this
was just sparkling grape juice, but now I see how serious the
situation is.”

Since I didn‟t have a vase, I put the flowers in a pitcher

of water, which had the same effect as putting a
Michelangelo fresco in a five-dollar Walmart frame. I turned
back to him, too numb to muster the appropriate fear or
outrage, but I knew I had to say something.

“This isn‟t something you can belittle and then expect to

get away with,” I said, walking back to the living room to
snatch up the wine and clutch it to my chest.

He smirked. “What, Arbor Mist? That‟s a little

unrealistic.”

I almost dumped it on his head, but I refrained.
“Don‟t be an asshole,” I said. With exaggerated care, I

put the bottle down on the coffee table, out of his reach, and
then swept my hair behind my ears. If I composed myself, I
was  sure  I  could  handle  this.  Numbness  went  a  long  way
toward  looking  poised.  I  smoothed  down  my  shirt  and
continued,  “You  know  I‟m  upset  because  Dave  is  gone,  and
you‟re  only  here  to  try  to  take  advantage  of  me  while  I‟m
vulnerable.”

Unexpectedly, Everly had the audacity to look offended.

He rose to his feet and took a step toward me, but I took two
steps back, and he stood there with his arms helplessly
outstretched. His face actually looked pained.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“I came here because I care about you and I know you‟re

hurting,” he said.

I was not going to fall for this, I was not going to fall for

this, I was not going to fall for this. I told myself to kick him
out, throw away the flowers, and get rip-roaring drunk as
soon as possible, no matter what polite societal standards
said. Now that I was an adult, I didn‟t need to buy into his
stupid games anymore.

But unfortunately, even as an adult, I was still human,

not  to  mention  pitifully  vulnerable.  So  when  Everly  took
another  step  toward  me  and  looked  me  in  the  eyes  and
asked if I wanted to talk about it, I broke. Maybe because he
seemed  so  genuine.  He  wasn‟t  even  being  demanding  like
usual.  Just  acting  like  the  Everly  I‟d  first  met,  which  was
perhaps the most dangerous thing about it.

When I told him everything, he didn‟t have to say

anything for me to know I was an idiot to think some
impromptu romance with my neighbor was really going to
work out.

HERE

was no decision to try again with Everly, but there

was a truce. He stayed over, took my supposed wind chime-
to-be away from me, and just listened. He fed my fish for me
when  I  got  too  worked  up  to  do  anything  except  go  to  bed
early  and  cry.  I  was  actually  in  my  pajamas,  with  sleepy,
mussed  bedhead,  supervising  Gus‟s  feeding  when  another
unexpected knock came at my door two days later. Thinking
it  was  Lilah,  I  studiously  ignored  it  and  tapped  at  the  tank
while the fish zipped around catching flakes of food.

Maureen Willmann

There was another knock. Everly sighed and flipped

down the tank lid.

“Are you going to answer that?” he asked.
“Probably not.”
He tutted and spun me around, giving me a push

toward the door.

“Go on, don‟t be difficult,” he said. “You answer the door

and I‟ll start on breakfast.”

Breakfast. He‟d probably make something extravagant

to impress me. I missed toast and frozen waffles.

Resignedly, I dragged myself to the door and opened it,

squinting and shielding my eyes from the light of the
hallway.

“Go away, Lilah.”
“Randy,” a familiar voice said, sending a burst of

surprise and joy straight to my gut. Dave dropped his duffel
on the floor and pulled me into his arms.

The world reeled. I drew back to do a double take,

scouring his face for the brown eyes and wide mouth I was
used to, and belatedly remembered to breathe. My trembling
hand touched his face and I thought I was going to cry again
like at the airport.

“It‟s been two days,” I said, unable to think of anything

else.

He smiled nervously and said, “Well, I needed a day to

have a lie in and be miserable and realize I never should
have left in the first place. Mum loaned me the money to
come back and grovel.”

“Oh,” I said stupidly. Something unraveled inside me,

light and relieved. Tingly, almost. I sagged forward against

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

him and returned his unlikely grin, clutching his arms to
keep him there as long as possible.

And then stupid Everly called out, “Randy?” from the

kitchen, and Dave‟s smile fell.

“Is that who I think it is?” Dave asked.
“Depends on who you think it is,” I said, weakly

disengaging. I patted my hair down and fought back a
disgraced flush.

“I think it‟s your arsehole ex,” he said darkly. “Tell me

I‟m wrong.”

I shut the door and stepped into the hall before Everly

could show his ugly face and ruin things even more.

“You‟re not wrong, but it‟s not what you think.”

Assuming he thought it was a completely innocent visit that
had nothing to do with absolute loneliness and desperation. I
looked at Dave and tried to smile again, conveying my regret
with the twitch in my lips and the lingering redness around
my eyes. “Give me ten minutes and I‟ll have him gone. Don‟t
go anywhere, okay?”

Dave crossed his arms and huffed. “Yeah, okay.”
“Great,” I said. After a moment‟s hesitation, I pushed up

onto the balls of my feet and kissed him solidly on the mouth
and then practically ran back inside with the plan to toss
Everly down the fire escape.

“Everly,” I hissed, shutting the door behind me and

creeping into the kitchen. He‟d gotten a skillet out and was
breaking eggs into a bowl. I would have felt guilty if panic
wasn‟t currently pushing me to get him out of my house as
quickly as possible. “You have to leave.”

Maureen Willmann

“I assume it‟s Lilah, then,” he said, seeming

unperturbed, and began whisking the eggs with a fork. “I got
the feeling she didn‟t like me much. Can‟t you ask her to
come back later?”

Didn’t like you with good reason, I thought. It was like

an out-of-body experience, watching myself watch this man I
no  longer  wanted  stand  in  my  kitchen  while  the  man  I  did
want  stood  outside  my  door.  Why  had  I  been  desperate
enough  to  let  Everly  in?  I  could  have  kicked  myself,  but  I
would have rather kicked Everly‟s ass out the window.

“Please do this for me just this once,” I begged,

swallowing down my pride and putting my hand on his arm.

Everly sighed like I was annoying him. “Let me finish

this and tidy up a bit and then we‟ll see.”

And this was the kind of thing that had always been

wrong with him. It made my chest tighten, and I pursed my
lips and took the fork and the bowl of drippy yellow eggs
away from him.

“If you don‟t mind, I‟m not hungry, and I‟d really like to

talk to Lilah alone right now.”

Everly studied me for a moment, his discerning gaze

sweeping back across my face for what seemed like forever
until he finally seemed to find something that satisfied him.

He nodded, squeezed my wrist, and said, “I

understand.” And then, to my horror, he started walking to
the front door.

I bolted after him.
“No! Not that way. Take the, um—can‟t you go out the

fire escape? To avoid, you know, Lilah?”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“Absolutely not,” he said loftily, rolling down his sleeves

and checking his back pocket for his wallet. He reached for
me, presumably to hug or kiss me goodbye, but I ducked
away. He rolled his eyes and put his hand on the door knob.
“All right, then, I‟ll just see you tomorrow.”

“No, you won‟t.” I slammed my hand on the door and

glared at him, gritting my teeth. “Leave out the fire escape.
You‟re pissing me off.”

Snorting, he said, “We‟ll see,” and pulled open the door

despite my weight on it.

In a panic, I tried to squeeze past him, to put myself

between Dave and Everly and explain before things devolved
into fisticuffs. But when I got into the hallway, it was empty.
Dave and his duffel were gone, and the only sounds were
Everly‟s languorous footsteps as he walked away.

KNEW

Dave‟s mobile number was probably disconnected,

but I called it twice anyway. It rang hollowly both times until
it  informed  me  that  the  number  I  had  dialed  had  been
disconnected.  I  sat  with  the  phone  between  my  knees,
gnawing  my  lip,  until  I  got  so  angry  at  myself  and  the
situation  that  I  called  the  first  person  I  could  think  of  to
blame.

“This is your fault,” I accused sullenly when Lilah

answered  the  phone,  throwing  myself  down  on  the  couch
with my heart climbing steadily up my throat. It was beating
so  hard  that  I  thought  I  was  going  to  pass  out.  I  was  just
barely hanging on, convincing myself that this was fixable, or
preferably not happening at all.

Maureen Willmann

“What is?” she asked in a combination of confusion and

amusement.

“Everything.” I picked at a loose thread in the cushion,

feeling intensely sorry for myself. “If you hadn‟t invited me to
that party, I could have gone on thinking Dave was a serial
killer until he moved, and then I wouldn‟t be sitting here
with my heart broken because I‟m an idiot.”

“Oh honey,” she said in a sympathetic rush. “I‟m sorry. I

knew I should have told you he was leaving.”

“That‟s not it,” I said, rolling onto my back to glare at

the  ceiling.  The  popcorn  texture  cast  millions  of  tiny
shadows  that  I  desperately,  angstily  related  to  in  my  self-
pity. “He came back, but I—” I paused, chewing my lip again.
I  couldn‟t  tell  her  about  Everly.  “I,  uh, had  company,  so  he
kind of bailed and now I can‟t find him.”

Lilah fell uncharacteristically quiet for a moment before

she said, “You couldn‟t have known he would come back, so
even though I think that was super slutty of you, I can‟t
blame you. Did you check Dylan‟s?”

I felt a stab of hope. I‟d almost forgotten about

Douchebag.

“No, I don‟t have his number. Do you think he‟d go

there?”

A snort. “Duh. They‟re like best friends.” She rattled off

the number while I frantically looked around for a pen and
paper. She had to repeat it twice, but I got it written down.

“You‟re the best,” I managed to tell her through the

emotion in my voice.

“I know I am. And I‟ll be there in about ten minutes to

pick you up.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

My chest fluttered. “To take me to Dylan‟s to see Dave?”
“No, stupid. To take you to the police station to renew

your restraining order, since I know you and I‟d bet anything
it was Everly you had over.”

An embarrassed blush crept up the back of my neck. I

didn‟t have any excuses for that.

I cleared my throat and said, “Yeah, I know, that was

probably a bad decision. He just seemed so nice and
genuine—”

“And then turned into a jerk as soon as he stopped

getting what he wanted, right?” she interrupted me. “Yeah, I
know how that goes. Hang up and call Dylan. I‟ll see you in
ten.”

It took five of those ten minutes for me to get up the

nerve to call Dylan‟s phone, and when Dylan finally
answered on the last possible ring and I introduced myself,
he immediately passed it over to Dave.

“Hullo?” Dave said, sounding a bit confused. Dylan

hadn‟t warned him who was on the line. But confused or
not, the second his voice hit my ear, relief fell over me in a
tidal wave and I couldn‟t stop smiling.

“It‟s me. Uh, Randy, I mean—no, don‟t hang up!” I

pleaded when I heard the muffled sound of the phone being
pulled away and cussed at. I held onto the happiness that he
was  just  at  Dylan‟s,  not  on  another  plane,  and  pushed
onward.  “I  just  wanted  to  say  I‟m  sorry  about  earlier.  If  I‟d
known  you  were  coming  back,  I  never  would  have  let  him
anywhere near me.”

“Look,” he said, too loudly and emphatically to be

entirely sober. He must have been really upset to be tipsy

Maureen Willmann

already. “I don‟t blame you. I get it. I left and he‟s extremely
good-looking and he fancies your pants off. Literally. It‟s
okay, stuff happens.”

“But it‟s not okay,” I said, feeling worse by the second. I

was afraid I was going to throw up. “I would rather have you.
I always would‟ve rather had you. It was so stupid to let
Everly in but I swear nothing happened. We just talked.”

“I‟m sure,” he drawled.
“Dammit, Dave,” I snapped. “Can‟t you stop acting like

you didn‟t come back from New Zealand for me and just shut
up and realize that I‟m apologizing and asking to see you?”

He didn‟t reply. If I hadn‟t been able to hear his soft

breathing on the other end, I would have thought he hung
up. Dylan was saying something incoherent but most likely
douchebaggy in the background.

“Dave?” I asked.
“What?” he said shortly.
Cringing, I hugged myself and hoped for the best and

said, “Can I see you?”

“I don‟t know. It took you two days to get a guy in your

house. That‟s not exactly a good sign.”

I was already near tears, bouncing back and forth

between self-pity and the severe desire to see him again.

“Please,” I begged.
“I‟ll think about it,” he said and hung up.

HEN

Lilah came over, she found me in a fetal position on

the couch with the phone clasped against me. I was sure it
looked very dramatic and pathetic, but she remained

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

unimpressed. Taking me by both wrists, she dragged me off
the couch and into my bedroom and ordered me to get
dressed.

“Put on something a judge would like and tell me where

you keep the copies of your old forms.”

Dazedly, I pushed through my closet and picked out a

sweater that was too hot for the current weather but looked
good on me.

“What do you need copies for?” I asked.
“To give to the clerk,” she said impatiently. “I Googled

how to renew a restraining order before I came over here.”

“I don‟t know,” I said. I took off my pajama shirt, tossed

it the corner, and slowly pulled the sweater on over my head.
“Probably in the safety deposit box. Top drawer of the
dresser.”

“Great.” She hesitated, watching me stumble as I

tripped out of my pants, and heaved a soft sigh. “Randy, you
know it‟s gonna be okay, right?”

Stilling, I stood with one leg in my dress pants and

stared dully at the carpet.

“Not really,” I said in a predictably anguished voice. “He

doesn‟t want to see me.”

“You don‟t think a restraining order against Everly will

change his mind?”

My head whipped around, eyes wide as I gawked at her.

That actually hadn‟t occurred to me yet.

“Lilah, you‟re a genius.”
She just smirked, rooting around in my sock drawer. “I

know, honey.”

Maureen Willmann

When she found the safety deposit box, she tsked at its

unlocked  state,  shuffled  past  my  birth  certificate  and  my
passport,  and  pulled  out  my  current  copy  of  DV-130,
Restraining  Order  After  Hearing.  She  folded  it  in  half  and
creased it with her nail, looking smug.

“You ready?” she asked.
I looked down at my feet and decided I could forego the

time it would take to find dress socks and just wear flip flops
instead. Hell yes I was ready.

visit to the police department was long and tedious. I

had to fill out two forms, have an emotional chat with a
judge, and make lots of copies of lots of paperwork. I tried to
convince Lilah to stop by Dylan‟s on the way home, but she
insisted that if he‟d already been drinking then he was
probably in bad shape.

She was right, but probably not for the reasons she

thought she was.

I knew something was wrong the moment we cleared the

concrete stairs and stepped into the lobby. Even from there, I
could hear yelling and some serious scuffling a few floors
above us. The front desk attendant looked scared and
uncertain.

Lilah, somehow suddenly the practical one in the

situation, whipped out her phone and said, “Don‟t worry.
We‟ll go take a look and call the police if we have to.”

When we got up to my floor, it was clear what had

happened. Dave, my stupid wonderful Dave, had come back
to talk to me and had somehow bumped into my stupid

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

stalker. Everly was mostly bumping into Dave‟s face with his
fist, but he dropped his hand and jumped away when I
screamed. Dave stumbled and slid down to the floor, his
nose bloody and obviously broken.

In my moment of rage, all I could think was that I was

going to kill Everly if Dave‟s nose was  misshapen after this,
because  it  was  my  strong  opinion  that  Dave  had  the  cutest
nose  ever.  I  shoved  Everly  into  the  wall  in  a  burst  of
adrenaline-spurred  strength  and  then  knelt  next  to  Dave,
one  hand  on  his  shoulder  while  the  other  tipped  back  his
head.  I‟d  only  gotten  a  C  in  my  high  school  First  Aid  class,
but  I  vaguely  recalled  that  being  the  protocol  for  a  broken
nose. Or maybe it was only for a bloody nose. Crap.

“Are you okay?” I asked, too panicked to be

embarrassed that my voice was as high-pitched and frantic
as a teenage girl‟s.

Dave gurgled incoherently in reply. He tried to wave me

off, but his hands were slick with blood. It didn‟t inspire
much confidence.

“We need to get him to the ER,” Lilah said firmly. She

glared at Everly where he was recovering from having the
wind knocked out of him and held up one of the five copies
I‟d had to make at the police station. “You‟d better not follow
us, ‟cause we have a temporary restraining order until the
hearing. Look forward to getting served.”

Damn. Lilah the Badass. I would have been more

impressed if I hadn‟t been busy avoiding Dave‟s blood while
I pulled him to his feet.

Everly looked betrayed, but I didn‟t have the time to feel

sorry for him. Punching people in the face didn‟t exactly

Maureen Willmann

generate sympathy. Scowling at him, I looped Dave‟s arm
around my neck and helped him hobble toward the elevator.
When I looked back to gesture for Lilah, she had her cell out
and was presumably phoning the police. Good girl.

Dave tried to refuse the hospital trip, but Lilah shut him

up  with  the  threat  of  septal  hematoma,  whatever  that  was,
and  he  demurely  obeyed  after  that.  I  pushed  him  into  the
backseat of Lilah‟s car and climbed in after him, so happy to
see him that I hugged his arm and let him bleed on me. The
whole  drive,  I  babbled  to  him  about  how  sorry  I  was,  how
Everly was such a dick, and did he hear Lilah threaten him
with a restraining order? Because that was true, and I didn‟t
want him to be angry anymore. I probably would have kept
rambling if he hadn‟t nudged me with his elbow and looked
as  reassuring  as  was  physically  possible  with  a  profusely
bleeding and broken nose.

It was probably the bloody mess down the front of his

shirt and all over my hands that got us into a room so fast.
Fast for an emergency room visit, anyway. There was still
close to an hour of sitting around and filling out paperwork
before we were in our own private room and I could hold
Dave‟s hand and look intensely worried some more.

When it came to it, the doctor explained some medical

jargon that basically boiled down to watching for deformities
and  returning  to  the  hospital  if  his  nose  started  healing
funny.  There  was  the  issue  of  payment,  which  Lilah,  like  a
goddess of cash and random medical knowledge, took care of
with  a  gold  credit  card.  But  as  grateful  as  I  was, I  was  still
hanging  onto  Dave‟s  arm—Dave,  whom  I‟d  thought  gone
permanently from my life and whom I wanted to talk to very
much. Alone. I had to clear my throat three times just to get
Lilah‟s attention again.

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

Lilah glanced between the two of us and smirked.
“I can take a hint,” she said, backing out of the room

with her purse and payment receipt. “I‟ll be in the cafeteria if
you need me.”

“Um,” said Dave after she left, gingerly touching his

nose just to have something to do with his hands. “I‟m not
sure what to say.”

“You came back. You don‟t have to say anything,” I said,

sitting on his bed and smiling. Now that his face was clean
and he‟d been cleared of any likely physical deformities, I
could see the rapidly spreading bruise on his face.

“I owe you an apology.”
I blinked. “For what?”
“For not saying it back in the airport,” he said, looking

into my eyes. It was a kitschy romantic moment that I
wouldn‟t have traded for anything else in life. My breath
hitched.

“So?” I prompted.
“So, I love you, Randall Gallagher,” he said shyly.
Butterflies. There was a technical name for them that I

didn‟t know, but I had them. All in my stomach and
throughout my chest, too many to count, every cliché
romantic moment I‟d ever seen in a movie bundled together.
But it was my romantic moment, and it was with Dave, and I
touched his bruised face and smiled like an idiot.

“I‟m going to have to move again,” I said, light and

casual, like I wasn‟t thinking about something that was
equal parts terrifying and exhilarating and obvious.

Maureen Willmann

Dave sat up and frowned at me. “That‟s ridiculous. You

can‟t keep rearranging your life for this guy. You should just
stick it out and call the cops if he shows up.”

I looked at him like the idiot he clearly was. How was he

not getting the big picture here?

“Wouldn‟t it be easier if I just moved?” I asked.
“Easier like how? Like picking up your life and getting

acquainted with a new city just because some arse won‟t
leave you alone and follow a restraining order?”

“Technically, it was expired, so he wasn‟t breaking the

law, but no. I meant more like moving to New Zealand.” I felt
breathless  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth.  It
was a crazy idea, absolutely certifiable, but I couldn‟t deny it
was what I wanted. Almost immediately, Dave got a panicky
look  and  I  could  tell  he  thought  it  was  a  bad  idea,  but  I
wasn‟t  letting  that  stop  me  again.  I  leaned  forward  and
hovered over his mouth, watching his eyes dilate and his lips
part.  I  kissed  him  gently,  my  hand  cupping  his  cheek,  and
decided  not  to  give  him  a  choice.  “I‟m  applying  for  a  work
visa  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  I  always  liked  Lord  of  the
Rings.”

“That‟s an awful reason.”
“It is, but my main reason is you.” At his continued look

of incredulity, I pushed on, “It‟s really for the best, isn‟t it? I
run an Etsy shop, so I don‟t have to worry about finding a
job. And I really would feel more comfortable living
somewhere far, far away from Everly.”

“We haven‟t even known each other a month,” he said,

although I could tell he was starting to think about it.
“You‟re crazy.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

“I know,” I said breathlessly. “I know, it‟s absolutely

insane. But those two days you were gone were the most
miserable of my life and I feel like if I don‟t give it a proper
shot with you then I‟ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Dave remained unconvinced. He looked pale and small

in the hospital bed, his hulking shoulders still pressed
against the thin white blanket the nurses had given him.

“I don‟t know,” he said. “What about Lilah?”
Stubborn idiot of a man. I put my hands on either side

of his face and forced him to look at me.

“She‟s a hopeless romantic, so I‟m sure she‟ll

understand. Just please, let me try it. Let me move there and
we can date properly. And if it doesn‟t work, I can always
come back. So what do you say?”

Nothing. For a long time, nothing. I fidgeted, waiting for

him to speak, watching the thoughts pass behind his brown
eyes.

“The application process takes forever,” he finally said in

a warning tone, but then he put his hand on the back of my
neck, tugging me down so we could kiss, slow and sweet like
our first. He pulled away grinning. It looked like I wasn‟t the
only crazy one. “But on the bright side, my mum has a guest
room.”

I laughed and leaned into him, feeling more relaxed and

happy than I had in a long time. There would be a lot to do
and get used to, but we‟d figure it out. And I definitely wasn‟t
going to sleep in the guest room.

Maureen Willmann

FTER

one solid week of packing and mailing oversized

boxes to his mom, we were on a plane. To New Zealand. To
New Zealand.

I didn‟t think Dave understood the gravity of this

situation, because the fifth time I turned to him in our
crowded coach seats and told him we were on a plane to New
Zealand, he just looked at me with exasperation and said, “I
know, Randy. Trust me, I know.”

But he didn‟t know. He couldn‟t have. Unless the

mixture of excitement and nerves that had me both shaking
and smiling was what he‟d felt on the plane ride back to the
States to see me. Which was possible, I supposed, but this
was way bigger, because I was going to meet his mother.

“Did you tell her about me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, not even needing to clarify who I was

talking about. His ears were turning red.

I didn‟t need to be a gossip hound to know he was

hiding something.

“And?” I pressed.
He hunched toward the window, tugging the shade

aimlessly up and down. It sent stripes of light over his face
that made his eyes look brighter than usual.

“And,” he said grudgingly, “that‟s why she loaned me the

money to come back.”

“Your mother is my new favorite person in the world,” I

told him.

“Yeah.” He flipped up the arm rest between us so he

could hook his arm around me and squeeze. “Mumsie is
pretty ace for an old lady. I hope you don‟t mind living with
her for a bit.”

How to Keep the Love of Your Life

(After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

I snorted and said, “And I hope you don‟t mind that I

plan on convincing you to move out as soon as possible.”

“After you get your visa, maybe,” he said and chastely

kissed the top of my hair. “I‟m not giving up free room and
board until I know you‟re sticking around.”

We‟d decided that I would have an extended visit as a

regular tourist and if things looked like they were working
out then I‟d apply for the real deal. But that heavy, swelling
feeling I got beneath my breastbone whenever Dave looked at
me told me that we‟d be moving out of his mom‟s house real
soon.

“I think I‟ll stick around,” I said, lightly, as though I

wasn‟t really sure. He laughed and bumped my shoulder,
like he knew I was kidding, and we both settled down to
watch the in-flight movie.

When we got off the plane, he asked me to hand him his

“sunnies”  from  our  carry-on  and  tugged  me  along  by  the
hand  to  baggage  claim.  Luckily,  it  was  blissfully  similar  to
every  American  airport  I  had  ever  been  in,  and  I  was
thinking I could get used to the foreign slang and unfamiliar
dialects as long as there were still constants in my life. Like
Dave, for one, but also slowly turning baggage carousels that
never  spat  out  your  luggage  until  you‟d  gone  to  find  an
attendant.

The butterflies from the hospital were back full force as

we  trudged  outside  to  wait  for  the  cab  to  Dave‟s  mom‟s
house.  Dave  had  his  sunglasses  on,  shielding  his  brown
eyes,  his  hair  crazy  and  unkempt  from  the  long  plane  ride.
He  actually  looked  remarkably  similar  to  the  first  time  I‟d

Maureen Willmann

noticed him, standing behind me on that busy sidewalk as I
waited for that flashing red hand to change to a walk sign.

But now when I looked at him I didn‟t see a serial

killer—I  saw  someone  I  strongly  suspected  was  actually  the
love  of  my  life.  And  it  didn‟t  matter  if  we  had  to  live  with
Mumsie, or if I had to wait months and months to get a visa
to  live  with  him.  Because  with  the  New  Zealand  sun  in  his
hair and a tired grin on his face, the way Dave looked at me,
I knew he felt the same.

About the Author

AUREEN

ILLMANN

lives in the middle of Missouri with all

the  cows  and  corn.  During  the  day,  she‟s  a  stereotypical
librarian with cats, cardigans, and thick black glasses. Some
of her shirts even have cats on them. At night, she retreats
to her room to read and write M/M fiction. She has a degree
in  psychology  she  uses  to  make  her  characters  as  neurotic
as  possible.  When  she‟s  not  writing,  she  spends  her  time
reading  the  work  of  fellow  M/M  authors,  playing  video
games, and watching crime shows.
Visit  her  blog  at  http://maureenwillmann.livejournal.com/
or  on  Twitter  at  http://twitter.com/maureenwillmann.  You
can contact her at maureen.willmann@gmail.com.

More Romance from

REAMSPINNER

RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

How to Keep the Love of Your Life (After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)
©Copyright Maureen Willmann, 2011

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

Released in the United States of America
May 2011

eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-887-7

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