CHAPTER 11. DISQUIET
What the hell just happened?
I stare at Xavier’s door, my mind still reeling from the sudden shift in mood, the sharp words, that final, loaded confession. The kitchen is too quiet now, the air heavy—like I’m breathing through fog. My heart won’t slow down, pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to piece it together.
What the fuck does this even mean? Is Xavier jealous? He sounds jealous—but maybe I’m being delusional again, and the last thing I want is a repeat of this morning.
And still—loving Xavier Ormond.
The words keep looping in my head, dragging up a mess of feelings I have no idea how to sort. Did he mean romantic love? No. He couldn’t have. Maybe he meant it platonically. I don’t fucking know.
For a second, I hover there, torn. Should I go after him? But what would I even say—without blurting out that I’m in love with him? Which, again, feels like a catastrophically bad idea, considering everything that went down this morning.
So I just stand there under the harsh kitchen light, feeling more lost than ever.
***
Xavier doesn’t come out of his room until evening, and I spend the whole day trying—and failing—to figure out what it means. Is he jealous? Hurt? Angry?
I want to ask—just to understand what the hell’s going on. But I’m afraid I’ll just get the same humiliating answer as before.
I don’t need you.
The memory alone makes my chest tighten. He cut me off before I could explain, then found a reason to get upset and retreat—leaving me alone to sit with it. With him gone, all I have is the echo of what I should’ve said and the weight of my own guilt.
I want to confront him, to shake some honesty out of him, just do something to break this silence between us. But I know how that goes. I’ll just end up hurting myself more.
So I don’t.
Like the coward I am, I let it go. Maybe he just needs time. He usually does.
Even though the adult part of me says I should just wait for things to go back to normal, I spend the whole evening on edge. I try to keep busy—tidying up, doing the dishes—but somehow, I keep drifting toward Xavier’s door without meaning to. He never comes out.
Monica calls twice. I let it go to voicemail. I’m not in the mood to talk.
When I take out the trash later, I run into Mrs. Waverly in the hallway.
“You don’t look so good,” she says, peering at me. “Maybe you should get some sleep, Newt, dear.”
It’s past ten. I blink at her, still half-elsewhere, my mind stuck on Xavier.
“Sorry, what?”
She frowns. “You look sick, dear. Did those newspaper people wear you out?”
“Uh…no,” I say, sighing. “Xavier and I had a bit of a fight.”
I’m not even sure why I say it—maybe because it’s getting harder to keep all of this to myself.
Mrs. Waverly catches the edge in my voice. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” she says gently. “But it’s okay. Xavier’s a sensitive boy.” She pats my shoulder. “It’s hard for him to say exactly what he means.”
I just nod, feeling miserable, a strange heaviness settling in my chest.
Mrs. Waverly goes on, “But Xavier really cares about you, Newt—whatever he might say. So just give him time.”
I nod again, blinking back the sting in my eyes, trying not to fall apart right there in the hallway. I thank her quietly and head back to my apartment, more grateful for the conversation than I know how to show.
By midnight, after a long shower, I drag myself to bed. I turn off the light and climb under the covers. My mind feels empty, but somehow my thoughts keep drifting anyway—floating in and out, refusing to settle.
I close my eyes and will myself to sleep. It doesn’t help.
I drift off eventually, but it’s the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest—light, broken. Every time I surface, Xavier is the only thing on my mind.
A couple of hours pass in that hazy, half-asleep state before I wake again. The room feels too hot. I kick one leg out from under the comforter and stare at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. Then I roll onto my side, tracing shapes in the dark.
Another hour slips by, and I still can’t stop thinking about him.
Is he asleep? Awake? Working?
I glance out the window. The sky is dark, the moon a milky white blur veiled in gray haze, half-lost behind fast-moving clouds.
When I look away and back again, the clouds have thickened, swallowing the moon entirely and turning the sky a flat, endless gray.
Only the faintest streaks of blue along the horizon hint at how fast the fog is rolling in, blanketing the city.
Every so often, the mist shifts, letting the moon shine through for a second before covering it again.
I lie there until four, listening to the slow, miserable ticking of the clock and the occasional hum of cars outside.
When I finally drift off, my dreams are a mess—murderous journalists sneaking through Rishetor’s Laboratory, Fred Collins in a clown costume muttering something about the Kansas City Shuffle…
And, of course, Xavier.
I chuckle softly, watching the crease in Xavier’s brow, and lean in again.
This time, his cool hand catches me, pressing against my chest—holding me back before I can kiss him.
“Enough.”
There’s indignation in his eyes. Confusion too—and something else.
My fingers find the belt of his robe. I tug it loose, let it drop to the floor.
“Oh God,” Xavier says hoarsely. “You’re so drunk.”
He keeps holding me back—not forcefully, but steady.
I laugh again, cupping his face, letting my hands wander down over his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone…
“Newt…”
I jolt awake, heart pounding. The clock on the wall reads a quarter to seven.
I feel drained, like I didn’t sleep at all. I drag myself out of bed and head for the shower. Xavier’s door is still closed.
Afterward, I make coffee and sit at the kitchen table. I’m not hungry. My stomach’s in knots, and there’s a lump in my throat. How does Xavier always manage to make me feel guilty—even when I haven’t really done anything?
I wait for him to wake up, running through what I’ll say.
Yesterday, I was convinced I should do nothing.
Just wait for him to cool off. Give him space.
But today, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to lose him.
Whatever that was between us—sleeping together, him asking me to stay—I know that if I wait, it’ll disappear.
Whatever it meant. Whatever it could mean.
So today, I’m sure. I have to take the risk. I have to tell the truth. Because if I don’t, I’ll be stuck in this limbo forever. And whatever happens next—I need to just get it over with. But do I actually have the courage?
God, I hate knowing exactly how much I’m afraid to lose him. Maybe if I tell him I love him—not that I’m in love with him—it’ll be vague enough to keep the friendship intact. Still honest, but easy to misread if he wants to. He could brush it off, assume I meant something else.
7:30.
7:50.
8:00.
8:20.
Unable to wait any longer, I push to my feet and head for Xavier’s room, my resolve settling with every step. I knock—loudly—then go still.
Silence.
I push the door open.
“Xavier?”
No answer.
The windows are shut, the curtains drawn, the bed neatly made.
Empty.
A wave of disappointment hits me, hard enough that my legs almost give out.
When did he leave? How? Was he even home last night?
I step inside, glance around just in case, then sit on the bed. My shoulders ache, and I’m suddenly aware of how tired I am. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the bed—the same one where I’d slept in his arms. The room feels too quiet.
Damn it, where is he?
Somewhere in the kitchen, my phone starts ringing. My heart jumps. I rush to grab it, hoping it’s him. But when I check the screen, it’s Monica.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Are you okay?” she asks instead of saying hello. “You sound off.”
“Yeah.” I let out a heavy sigh. “What did you want?”
“To talk. Are you deliberately ignoring my calls?”
“No.” I let the line hang.
“Let’s meet up tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
I sigh again. “Nothing, I’m just busy.”
“When can you meet then?”
I roll my eyes but make myself stay patient. “Listen, if you’re free, come by tonight around six. I’m expecting guests, but honestly, I don’t even feel like seeing them anymore, so I wouldn’t mind the backup.”
Monica’s voice softens. “Okay,” she says, sounding a little brighter. “Who are the guests?”
“Just friends,” I say. “We’ll talk later, okay? See you at six.”
“Alright,” she says, and I can tell she wants to ask more but holds back. “See you.”
She hangs up.
I lock my phone and stand there, motionless in the middle of the kitchen. The apartment is silent.
For a while, I manage to shove Xavier out of my mind.
My feelings for him have been so all over the place these past few days, I’ve barely been able to focus on the investigation.
So I pour myself a large cup of coffee and settle onto the living room couch with the Bridge case file, flipping through witness statements and the autopsy report.
But I keep circling the same dead ends, like there’s a piece missing—something that would tie it all together.
I let out a sigh, feeling useless—my thoughts are scattered, my brain a mess. Eventually, I give up and decide to take the day off. I make a grocery list for the party, head to the supermarket, try to reset.
When I get back, I step inside and pause, listening for any sign of Xavier—but the apartment is quiet. I shake it off and head to the kitchen to start cooking.
Outside, snow starts falling again, spreading a pale haze over the city. I glance out the window at the snow-covered street, and for some reason, I feel even worse.
The whole party suddenly seems like a monumentally stupid idea. Why did I invite Monica? And then Katie, Fred, Bernard—people I barely know—when the only person I actually want to see isn’t even here?
At this point, I might as well invite Willand, the Waverlys, and Ernest too—go full sitcom with it.