Thanks

Thanks to everyone who has supported my writing and
tolerated my tantrums: Cookie, Dad, Geena, Lauren, Mom,
Paula, Sheldon, and Sherrie. Thanks especially to Becky,
Kacey, Keri, and Taylor for reading it over a zillion times and
offering suggestions. I would include my cats, but I think
that might be pushing the boundaries of being a crazy cat
lady.

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.”

Maureen Willmann

Like that could change the fact that there was an ocean

of water and hurt feelings between us.

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

Document Outline

Thanks
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
More Romance from Dreamspinner Press
Copyright

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Maureen Willmann How to Keep the Love of Your Life (After Mistaking Him for a Serial Killer)

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