Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
TAYLOR
Bex is still sprawled out on my futon, one arm thrown over her eyes in a gesture that’s half dramatic, half tactical, blocking out the slant of sun sneaking through my cheap curtains.
My apartment smells like a hangover– burnt coffee, last night’s microwave popcorn, and the sour bite of spilled tequila somewhere near the radiator.
The scene presses against me with an almost painful familiarity; a shadow of the life I used to know, now so far removed from the one I’ve been living.
I’m perched at the scarred Formica table by the kitchenette, re-reading last night’s text thread with James, my phone held at arm’s length so the blue light doesn’t sear my retinas.
I’ve already drained one mug of coffee. I’m working on my second, bitter enough to leave a film on my tongue but strong enough to sand paint off the walls. Just how I like it.
Bex stirs, groaning, then plants a foot on the floor and pivots upright in a single, fluid motion. “The Prince of Darkness needs to learn some damn manners,” she declares, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“He’s a cat,” I shrug. “He does what he wants.”
“I’m serious,” she mutters. “I woke up in the middle of the night with his butthole pressed to my forehead. That’s… not okay.”
“Well, I also woke up with your butt in my face at one point, so we’ll call it a draw,” I smirk.
“At least I was wearing underwear,” she huffs, rubbing her temples before standing and scanning the room for coffee like it’s the only thing that’ll keep her soul tethered to this plane.
I push my mug her way in offering.
She pounces on it like an addict, sips, then immediately sets it back down with a grimace. “Jesus, Tay. Are you trying to pickle your organs? Did you use the whole damn canister?”
“Double the grounds, double the strength,” I reply unapologetically, sliding my mug back in front of me. “You kept me up until four. Payback’s a bitch.”
“Don’t act like that isn’t a regular occurrence for you these days,” she scoffs, hopping up onto the counter and hugging her knees to her chest. She’s wearing my oldest hoodie and a pair of boxers from an ex whose name we both refuse to mention.
Her hair is a black tangle, mascara smudged under one eye, yet she’s somehow still glowing.
I swear she’s the only person who can make a hangover look like an aesthetic.
“I mean, you could’ve kicked me out,” she mutters, almost as an afterthought. “It’s not like you ever listen to my advice anyway.”
I glance up from my phone, meeting her gaze. “What, and miss your insightful commentary on vampire dating etiquette? Never.”
She grins, but there’s something heavy behind it– a hangover that has nothing to do with the cheap tequila. “So…” she starts, drawing the word out. “Are you going back?”
I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth. The question lands harder than it should, considering how much we danced around it last night. I set the mug down carefully, pressing my palms to the tabletop to steady myself. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean… yeah, probably.”
Bex narrows her eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a yes.”
“I’m not sure,” I insist, but even to my own ears, it sounds hollow. “I’m not sure of anything except how I feel about him. And I’m not even sure I can trust that.”
“God, you’ve turned into such a romantic,” Bex teases, clutching at her chest in mock horror. “We have to stop this before it spreads!”
“Shut up.” I fling a napkin at her.
She bats it away, laughing. “No, really. Listen to yourself. If I’d told you a year ago you’d be mooning over a dude who rips people’s heads off for funsies, you’d have threatened to chloroform me and dump my body in the lake.”
I roll my eyes, pretending to ignore her, though my cheeks burn. “He’s not that bad.”
She snorts. “He’s not that good, either. But whatever– it’s your funeral, bitch.” Bex pauses, then adds, “You know, you can stay here. You don’t have to go back.”
I stare past her, at the wall where the paint’s chipped away in uneven patches. This place used to feel safe. Sacred, even. Four walls and a futon felt like a palace when I had nothing else. Now it looks small, like a dollhouse version of my old life, made for someone else.
I shake my head. “This just doesn’t feel like me anymore.”
Bex tilts her head, studying me. “Not enough glitz and glamour?” she jokes, but there’s softness underneath. “You’ve changed, girl. A lot.”
“That’s not always a bad thing, “I murmur.
“I’m not saying it is,” she quickly amends. “At least in your case. Before, it was like you were always waiting for the world to bite. Never letting yourself breathe.”
“And now?” I snort.
Bex gets that faraway look, thumb dragging over her chin. “Now… you seem more grounded. Maybe it’s because you know where the bite is coming from and you’re not afraid to bite back. I mean, you’re living with a monster, but he’s your monster, isn’t he? You feel safe with him.”
I manage a small nod– because he is, and I do.
A stretch of quiet settles between us, the kind that only exists between old friends who’ve seen every version of each other. Ozzy hops up on the counter and headbutts Bex’s arm. She absently scratches his chin, her expression unreadable.
“You know,” she says finally, “If you’re bonded to a king, that totally makes you a queen. You’re basically living the dark fairytale, babe.”
I heave a long-suffering sigh.
“I’m just saying,” Bex chuckles. “I’m happy for you. Seriously. If anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s you.”
“You say that like I’ve already decided I’m going back,” I grumble.
“Haven’t you?” She arches a brow in challenge, staring me down.
Because she knows. I know. I just haven’t said it out loud yet.
Bex slides off the counter, leaning down to smack a kiss on my cheek as she passes, then disappearing into the bathroom. I catch my reflection in my coffee, hardly recognizing the eyes staring back. I’m different since leaving this place, but somehow more me than I’ve ever been.
When Bex eventually emerges, she’s wearing her own jeans and a faded pink crewneck she clearly pillaged from my closet. “You ready?” she asks, snatching her purse off the coffee table and slinging it over one shoulder.
“Yeah. Gimme a sec.”
I drop my mug in the sink, scoop up Ozzy, and grab the tote I hastily packed yesterday before calling a cab to flee the estate. I pause at the door, gaze circling the apartment one last time. My eyes linger on the weathered futon, the beat-up coffee table, the old tube TV that barely works…
I’m not coming back. I know it in my bones.
We step out the door, closing it behind us. I engage all three locks out of habit, then turn the knob to check, catching Bex watching me.
“Compulsive much?” she teases.
“Shut up,” I mumble, but can’t help smiling.
We take the stairs down together, Ozzy cradled in the crook of my arm like a baby. The air in the stairwell is cold and damp. I shiver, wishing I’d thrown on another layer. Bex doesn’t even seem to notice– or maybe she’s just too stubborn to let the weather win.
Outside, a black car idles at the curb with its engine purring.
I didn’t request it, but it doesn’t surprise me.
James probably had the poor driver sitting out here all night.
The window rolls down, and the man behind the wheel inclines his head in greeting, his face familiar from other rides I’ve taken with James.
I pause at the edge of the sidewalk, uncertainty pinching my chest. Bex nudges me with her elbow.
“You sure about this?”
“No,” I admit. “But I guess we’ll see what happens.”
She grins, then tugs me into a one-armed hug, careful not to squish Oz. “Call if you need a rescue.”
“Same,” I say.
“Don’t tempt me,” she fires back, then flicks her gaze to the car. “You want me to come with?”
I shake my head. “No, I think I need to do this on my own. Want a ride to your place?”
“Nah, I could use the walk.”
I squeeze her hand, then cross to the car, sliding into the back seat and closing the door. As we pull away, I glance back. Bex stands on the sidewalk where I left her, the sunlight catching the silver of her nose piercing as she gives a little salute.
I’m not sure I’ve ever loved her more than I do in this moment.
The city slides past, block by block, every turn carrying me further from the home I fought so hard to keep. Yet strangely, I don’t feel like I’m leaving anything behind. Instead, I feel ready to move on.
I’m reading Annabel Lee again. I still can’t decide if Poe’s narrator is just tragic, or the only person in history who’s been honest about what it’s like to love something you shouldn’t.
The air in the library is tinged with dust and dying sunlight, the west-facing windows throwing long shadows across the shelves.
I trace a finger under the last stanza, mouthing the words silently, the syllables now familiar as a prayer.
Ozzy’s purr vibrates against my thigh, a grounding line in a poem about obliteration. He’s been especially clingy today, insisting on being in my lap every time I sit down. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a better emotional support animal than I am a person.
I glance up to see the last scrap of blue daylight draining from the sky. My pulse quickens, a drumroll for a show that only grows more dangerous with each encore. He’ll come soon and find me here. He always does.
It isn’t long before I feel it– a subtle shift in the atmosphere, the soft whiplash of space bending around something more powerful than it can contain. I look up and see James, framed in the library’s arched doorway.
He’s bare-chested and barefoot, a pair of black sweatpants riding so low on his hips it should be illegal. His skin practically glows in the moonlight, shadows clinging to the dips of muscle, white-blond hair wild like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.