The Boyfriend

by Freida McFadden

And I’m terrified that the moment I get her alone, I will wrap my fingers around her pretty, white neck and squeeze the life out of her.

What a great meet-cute. I can already imagine telling the story to our children. This jerk was trying to kiss me, and that, kids, is how I met your father.

I wonder what it’s like to cut into a person with a scalpel. To feel their skin separate under my hand. To see their insides. I can’t wait to find out.

Well, there’s no point in dwelling on it. There are millions of people in this city, and I’ll probably never see Mystery Man again for the rest of my life. I blew it.

I have something called von Willebrand disease, which basically means that if I get a papercut, I’m going to leave a trail of blood behind me.

Why is dating so hard? Why can’t I just find a great guy, marry him, and live happily ever after? Is that really too much to ask for?

Is it possible that Mystery Man and Dr. McHottie are one and the same?

“I will never kill a flower ever again.”

It’s Mystery Man. After all this time.

I try to remember it and savor it, because very soon things are going to get really bad.

But he’s in his mid-thirties and still single. So there must be something wrong with him. Probably serious commitment issues, like half the other single guys in their thirties.

“Are you serious? So this is a serial killer?”

“That sounds very nice,” I say. And just like that, I have a boyfriend.

YOU ARE IN DANGER!!!