Chapter 29
Mireya
Play - Do I Wanna Know By Arctic Monkeys
Just Between Us
I stand in front of my bedroom door a little too long, my palm on the handle, Blue circling my legs again as if he senses something's wrong, that I'm anxious about this game.
“This is stupid…” I murmur. My cat looks at me as if he disagrees. “I’m leaving now, don't do anything stupid, I love you.”
He meows once, as if to tell me he loves me too, or maybe I'm just crazy, but I take it that way.
I sigh, open the door a crack... then stop again. If I lose, I lose. There's no going back, no excuses, I'll have to go along with it and take on even more responsibility.
Why am I even thinking about this? About this whole thing, I mean. Young girls who have never had justice, and a guilty man walking free… It infuriates me. If I lose, I'll be tied to him, to his case; to something I can't control, and right now, control is all I have left.
My fingers tighten on the handle, then I release.
“Stay there, Blue,” I murmur, gently pushing my cat back inside before closing the door behind me.
The hallway is quiet; there are only a few people brave enough to be out partying at this hour on a weekday.
I walk through the empty corridors, the rooms plunged into darkness, the windows reflecting my image, tense, a little withdrawn, already too involved for my liking for someone who hasn't yet accepted anything.
The library is open when I arrive, so I push the door gently. The light is weak, the main room empty. No one's at the reception desk, which isn't surprising given the time.
I step forward, trying to see where he might be, but I can't see anything. I walk between the shelves, my fingers gliding over the books and then—
“Are you stressed already?”
I freeze and turn around slowly. He's here, leaning against the shelf behind me, as if he'd always been there, as if he'd watched me come in.
“Do you always just pop up like that in the dark,” I say, crossing my arms, “or is this some kind of special intimidation tactic?”
A slight smile crosses his lips. “If I wanted to intimidate you,” he says calmly, “you wouldn't be talking.”
“Confident much, Mister Caldwell?”
"Lucid actually,” he replies.
I look away first, walking past him. “Let’s make this quick.”
When we sit down at the table where his jacket is lying, I realize that nothing is on it, no files, no papers. “Let's keep it simple,” he says, adjusting his glasses and pushing the chair back so I can sit next to him. Simple, coming from him? I'm not entirely convinced.
“A game,” he says.
He leans back against the edge of the table, his arms folding loosely across his chest.
I narrow my eyes at him, unsettled by how calm he looks. “What kind?”
“I make an observation about you.” His dark blue eyes stay on me.
I let out a sigh that sits between disbelief and amusement. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“That hardly seems fair, don’t you think?”
A soft look touches his expression. “I never said it would be, Miss Vitelli.”
There’s something about the way he holds my gaze that makes it feel less stressful and more of a challenge. “And then?” I ask, waiting for him to explain the next step.
“If it’s true, I get a point. Then we switch. If you make a correct observation, that’s a point for you.”
I cross my arms, trying to ignore the strange curiosity settling beneath my ribs. “And if I lose?”
His eyes flicker over my face for the briefest moment before returning to my neck. “You work with me.”
I tilt my head. “And if I win?”
For the first time, he seems to hesitate, then his mouth curves into a confident smile. “I’ll let you finish your year without bothering you with this.”
“I’m a very good liar,” I say. “Who’s to say I won’t tell you you’re wrong every single time?”
He doesn't reply immediately, he watches me, long enough that I become aware of every blink of his eyes and everything they land on.
Then slowly, his tattooed arm moves between us, the veins along his hand pulsing as his fingers curl around the base of my chair, between my legs. He pulls it closer, until the chair shifts and I’m turned fully toward him, our knees brushing now.
Then he settles back, shoulders relaxed, legs falling open as he makes room for me.
“If we’re going to play,” he says, resting his forearms on his knees, “I expect my student to have enough integrity to answer honestly.”
I hold his gaze as I lean back. “Why would I make this easier for you?”
His eyes don’t leave mine, "You wouldn’t even if you tried.”
My eyebrows furrow as I tilt my head slightly. “And why is that?”
“Because I’d know.”
A small laugh escapes me as I speak again, “That sounds suspiciously vague.”
He simply takes off his glasses and replies, “Come on, Miss Vitelli, I thought you were competitive?”
Competitive…
I have spent too much of my life being measured.
Always one more thing to prove, one more reason I wasn’t enough yet.
So maybe I learned the wrong lesson from it.
Maybe somewhere along the way, I stopped knowing how to do anything without turning it into a competition.
Losing has never been an option, not when winning was the only thing that ever earned me approval.
I meet his gaze and smile, “Let’s start then.”
First round.
He studies me for a moment, then says, “You have a hard time being told what to do.”
I blink. “That’s your guess?”
“Yes.”
A quiet sigh leaves me, almost a laugh. “Everyone has a hard time being ordered around.”
“Not like you,” he replies immediately after. “You dislike the assumption that someone else knows better than you, not that you’ve given an instruction.”
I’m trying my hardest to find an answer, but I have none. It annoys me somehow and he can probably see the irritation in my expression because he smiles slightly. “Point for me.”
Second round.
It's my turn now, so I study him, the way he studied me. The way he looks so detached and never gives more than he intends to, the way he chooses every word.
“Do you often pester your students to work with you on cases... or are you just incompetent?”
He bursts into a short and controlled laugh. “That’s not an observation.”
I hold his gaze and continue, “I know, it’s a question.”
His expression turns darker, more serious than before as he leans toward me, “Miss Vitelli, you haven’t understood the rules here.”
I lean forward too and speak again, “My observation is that you’re used to people agreeing with you.”
His expression remains unreadable. “To answer your question. Just you.”
I frown. “Mmh?”
“Just you,” he repeats. “Point for you.”
A warmth creeps into my face, and no matter how strange I feel at this moment, I’m still sitting here, waiting for the next observation.
Round three.
A smile appears on his lips as he’s getting ready to talk.
“You seem to like it when I make a distinction between you and the other students, Miss Vitelli,” he says.
My breath catches before I can stop it. I find myself staring at him, caught somewhere between irritation and curiosity. And yet, something inside me takes over. An instinctive, unthinking insolence.
“So you’re admitting there is one.”
His smile returns as he asks, “A distinction?”
“A different treatment.”
"Yes,” he says calmly.
The answer caught me off guard, and I narrowed my eyes. “And you’re just admitting that?”
His expression is still the same mixture of cold and detached. “You’re not bothered by the distinction.” I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes. His eyes stay on mine when he continues, “You’re bothered that you like having it.”
He is right, I’m not bothered by it, if anything I strangely like it.
For once, someone isn’t looking at me like I’m something to manage, dismiss, or even as someone that needs to be corrected before I’ve even finished speaking. He listens and challenges me. He expects me to have an answer.
Mister Caldwell has no reason to flatter me. I have spent years fighting to prove I am capable and he simply assumes that I am.
And somehow, that feels more dangerous than being underestimated.
“Point for me,” he murmurs finally, and I understand then, that I lost.
He stays there, patient, and perfectly composed. "Well?" he finally says, proud of himself.
“Very well…” I finally murmur. “I'll work with you.”
A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, his gaze still on me, as if he's won much more than the game. “You lack enthusiasm about working with me.”
“I lost. I'm a sore loser, I'm afraid.”
“You lost because you played badly,” he murmurs.
I frown. “And you didn't?”
Almost amused, he replies. “Never.”
“It was rigged from the start.”
“No,” he laughs before rolling up his sleeves. “It was inevitable.”
I give a dry laugh before replying, “That’s reassuring. Looking forward to working with someone so gentle.”
“I get that a lot,” he says, already reaching for his jacket back. He slips it back on, as if the conversation were over and he has no intention of lingering.
“Where are you going? You need to explain this to me first.”
I expect him to launch into something more, for things to really get going.
But he just shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. You have class tomorrow.”
“You made me come here at midnight just to tell me to go to sleep?” I ask as I stand up, mirroring him.
“Yes.”
“Control freak.” I reply.
He looks at me for a long time before letting out a soft and deep chuckle. “Touché.”
“See you tomorrow, then.” I turn on my heel and take a few steps, almost out of the aisle, when I hear a “Wait.”
I stop and close my eyes briefly before turning around. “Yes?”
He's already standing close to me when he replies, “Nothing.”
I frown. “You’re stopping me for nothing?” I feel a slight movement, and then, as he passes, his fingers brush against my wrist. The contact is so light I could almost believe I imagined it. I freeze for a fraction of a second, but he doesn’t; he steps aside immediately.
“Good night Miss Vitelli,” he says as he walks ahead of me, like nothing had happened.
And I reply stupidly, “Good night, Mister Caldwell.” Then walk away.
It’s late.
Past midnight, and I already know I’m not going to sleep.
*****
Play - Fade into you by Mazzy Star
The moonlight flitters through the curtain when I unlock the door. I step inside, and close it behind me carefully, not wanting to wake up Blue.
But it doesn’t work judging by the way he lifts his head from the corner of my bed, blinking at me with a slow, offended expression.
“Sorry,” I whisper as he stares at me before settling back down.
I smile despite myself walking toward my desk and open the drawer where I keep my earphones and cigarettes.
But something else is here. My flask.
I don’t even remember putting it there, and maybe that’s the saddest part, how easily my hands know where to go.
I keep looking at it, sitting there among unfinished sketches.
Close the drawer, Reya.
The thought arrives too late, because my fingers are already wrapped around the metal. It’s cold in my hand, and light.
I sit down beside Blue and he immediately comes closer against my leg, I run my fingers through his fur over and over until his eyes begin to close again.
“You’re a lucky cat, Blue, do you know that?” I say. “You don’t have to think so much.”
I lean down, pressing a kiss to his head and talk again, “Stay asleep, baby.”
And he does.
I take the flask, the sketchbook, cigarettes and earphones and get out again.
One sip of vodka, then a second, then a third, but still, I keep walking until the edge of the cliff appears.
The fresh and salty ocean air fills my lungs as I sit on the grassy area, pull the hood over my head and lay on top of the damp soil.
I pull out the pack of cigarettes, and let one rest between my lips, my fingers finding the small lighter I keep tucked away inside.
The flame flickers in the darkness before catching, and I take a slow drag, letting the smoke settle deep in my chest before I release it free again.
I glance upwards, looking at the night sky, and wonder if the myth is true. The one about loved ones looking at you from above. I wonder if she can see me.
Would she know I’m still trying? Or would she be disappointed in the person I became.
Look at the mess you made me.
Look at what you turned me into.
Bitter thoughts cloud my mind as I think about her.
The moon is so bright tonight that it feels like I can almost touch it underneath my fingertips and bathe in its magic.
I use my free hand to play shadows casting from its light. My fingers move slowly, a small stupid dance, as if pressing keys on an invisible piano, searching for the perfect melody. The shapes change, disappearing and forming again before I can even hold onto them.
You’ve always loved the moon.
My sleeve has slightly moved down, and I can see my scars peeking through. The cold air wraps around my wrist as if it were an invisible bandage to soak up all my pain.
It feels soothing on my scars, they look less visible when it’s covered underneath the moonlight. Invisible almost.
I alternate between the flask and the cigarette, the music loud in my ears, and then the wind picks up. I feel my hands getting colder so I shove them in my pocket.
Something sticks out, and I wrestle to remove it from there.
A small-sized paper sits between my fingers, and I place the tip of my cigarette in my mouth as I use both hands to unfold it.
Tomorrow, 6pm at your favorite place by the cliffs. I will be waiting for you.
-D
Damien.
A small laugh escapes past my lips as I fold the paper back into its little tiny square shape it came in. Then, I place it back into my pocket, shoving it into the deeper part of the fabric.
My eyes stare directly up at the stars as my mind begins to wander.
How did he manage to slip this into my pocket without me noticing? I never allow anyone to get close to me like that.
Tomorrow.
That sounds good.