Chapter 20 Annalise
Annalise
I roll over, searching for my phone on the nightstand, and glance at the time.
I should be at Tag’s right now, penning songs beneath the moon.
My gaze drifts to the open window as a summer breeze filters inside. The moon isn’t full—a waning crescent—but it still glimmers like honey among the stars.
The imagery has my throat squeezing, heart kicking up speed.
Wide awake, I collect my phone and slide out of bed. Alex doesn’t stir as he lies facedown on the mattress, head turned away as his arms cradle the pillow, a small comfort. He looks peaceful like this. Free of turmoil and inner demons.
My breath hitches as I turn away, quietly padding from the room. There are two cigarettes buried in my purse, calling to me. I need something to quell the chaotic butterflies in my stomach, my own small comfort.
I carry the cigarette and a lighter out to the tiny balcony off the living room, closing the door all the way so the smoke doesn’t carry over to Alex. He’d hate that I’m smoking.
The air is still and fragrant as I take a seat on the metal chair. Crickets hum in the tall grass, and the trees stand dark and unmoving against a sky dusted with stars. A firefly gleams once before vanishing into the black, here and gone in a blink.
I flick the lighter, watching as the night sky distorts around the edges of the flame. My thoughts are parchment paper. Thin, brittle, and ready to burn.
I did it. I gave in.
I’m not sure how I feel now. Alex cherished me in the aftermath, kissing away my tears, apologizing, holding me until I dozed off. But something was missing.
And I think that something was me.
As I light the cigarette and inhale a lungful, my eyes dart to the phone sitting on my lap. Two missed text messages illuminate the face.
Kenna: Call me when you get a minute. I love you.
Chase: Just making sure you got home okay. LMK.
My thumb hovers over the texts, idling between the two. I want to text Kenna, let her know I’m okay, that the moment onstage tonight was just a glitch. Nothing to be worried about.
But I open Chase’s message instead.
Anxiety swims through me, mingling with adrenaline. I should respond with something short and sweet, nothing more.
I’m fine.
I’m home.
Thanks for checking.
Against my better judgment, different words materialize on the screen.
I press send.
Me: Are you awake?
The feeling expands in my gut, both a warning and a buzz. I take another long drag on the cigarette, my hands trembling as my gaze fuses to the blue text bubble.
Don’t be awake.
Please be awake.
The message shows Read. A moment later, his three dots dance to life.
Chase: I’m here.
I let out a breath that feels like relief.
I wonder what he’s doing.
Lying in bed. Carving wood into instruments. Writing music. Staring at the sickle-shaped moon.
My eyes snap shut, tamping down the visuals that don’t matter.
Me: I’m sorry about earlier.
The text goes through with a swoosh.
Chase: I already told you, you never need to apologize to me.
A smile twitches on my lips.
Me: Because you lost that privilege when you kidnapped me?
It takes a few minutes before he starts typing again.
Chase: Yeah. But also because you don’t owe anyone an apology for feeling what you feel. For being vulnerable or scared. What happened tonight was a human moment. That’s nothing to be sorry about.
My throat stings at the unexpected response. It was deeper than I was anticipating.
The floodgates crack open.
Me: Can I ask you something?
Chase: Go ahead.
I exhale a plume of smoke through my nose, watching as it evaporates into the moon.
Me: I know you’ve been through a lot. With your sister. My problems seem insignificant compared to that, but… How do we separate who we are from all we’ve experienced?
His reply is quick. Like he knows exactly what to say.
Chase: We don’t.
Chase: But our experiences aren’t all we are.
I read over his words a dozen times. Two dozen times. They seep inside me, battling with every misguided, baseless belief I’ve fed myself. Lies that don’t serve me.
Holding my breath, I keep typing.
Me: I guess I just feel lost lately. Like a side character in my own book. That sounds really pathetic, but I’m trying to figure out what I want, what’s right and what’s wrong.
I pause.
This part…
It feels too raw. But it’s there, poking at me. So I add it.
Me: And something tells me you’re supposed to be a part of that.
He goes quiet.
Two minutes drag by as I puff on the cigarette, second-guessing my own intentions. I don’t know what I’m searching for here.
A text flashes on the screen.
Chase: How does that make you feel?
Conflicting emotions bubble to the surface.
But mostly I feel—
Me: Scared. Guilty.
Chase: Why?
Me: Because you’re not my boyfriend. You’re not the guy I should be texting in the middle of the night, or the guy I wish I was with right now, writing music beneath the stars. It feels wrong.
I swallow hard.
It feels wrong because it is.
Tag said I was playing with fire, but it feels more complex than that.
Fire is straightforward. Honest.
This is something else. Muddy, blurry, and snarled.
Chase: This probably won’t make you feel any better…
Chase: But I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to meet up somewhere and write.
My breath locks up. Temptation seizes me.
He wants to meet up, right now, at almost one in the morning.
Alone.
It’s not like we haven’t spent alone time together, but something feels different. Ever since that night in the hallway.
I wonder if Chase feels the shift, this strange new dynamic, or if it’s all in my head. Intrusive thoughts infiltrate, twisting pure intentions into something that feels scary.
Scary enough to trigger my rational mind.
Me: I can’t. I’m sorry.
Oops.
Me: Oops.
Me: Sorry for being sorry.
He shoots back a smiley face.
And then…
Chase: Was everything okay when you got home?
I frown at the screen, peeling back the context.
Me: What do you mean?
Chase: With Alex. He was coming on a little strong at the table and you looked uncomfortable. Just making sure you’re good.
My cheeks burn. This could easily delve into TMI territory.
But my walls are down, and I feel safe with Chase.
Me: Yes, thank you. Honestly, I don’t always feel present with him. Like sometimes I just kind of slip out of my own head when it comes to intimacy. (Which sounds way more dramatic than I mean it to, promise, LOL)
I scrunch my nose, wondering if that was a massive overshare.
Chase: But nothing happened? Nothing bad I mean?
Me: Nothing bad. Just the usual. I’m fine.
Chase: It shouldn’t have to feel like that. Checking out, going someplace else.
Me: Eh, long-term relationships. You know how it is sometimes.
Chase’s bubbles start to move again, but I’m not sure I want to see his reply.
Time to pivot.
Me: Well, thank you for singing with me tonight. And for being there when I fell apart.
His response falters. Then he starts typing again.
Chase: I would have done more.
Me: But? Feels like there should be a but…
Chase: You know the but.
I hesitate, my emotions getting the better of me again.
My thumbs glide over the keyboard, having a mind of their own.
Me: What would you have done?
God.
I need to shut up. Chuck my phone over the balcony.
He leaves me hanging for several beats.
Chase: Doesn’t feel safe to answer that.
I tap my feet, fidget in place, choking on the smoke-tinged air.
Me: I can be your safe space. You feel like mine.
Chase: I know. That’s why it doesn’t feel safe.
Tension wraps around me. Sinks deep.
My heart is beating a mile a minute, my limbs putty, thoughts askew.
It’s time to say good night.
Me: I should get to bed. If you’re near a window, look at the moon. It’s a floating sliver of honey.
Chase: I’m out on the patio. I see it.
Me: Honeymoon phase. ??
Chase: Here for it.
Embers singe my fingers, and I flick the charred stub to the ground, watching the orange glow disappear, leaving only the faint smell of burnt tobacco.
I glance back at the phone.
Me: Good night, Chase.
A final text pings.
Chase: Good night.
I set the phone on my lap, staring at the cinder’s ghost curling into the night. The air is thick with summer, warm and quiet, but my skin prickles like I’ve walked into something dangerous.
I shouldn’t have texted him. Shouldn’t have let the conversation drift into uncharted territory. But I wanted the weight of his words, wanted to feel something other than this restless ache in my chest.
I drag my hands down my face, exhaling hard.
Pushing up from the chair, I step inside, detouring to the kitchen for a napkin, a pen, and a few aimless lines I’ll probably trash by morning.
Ticking clocks don’t sing
They warn
Darling, do you hear the horn?
It’s time to run
To break, to bend
Or sit and mourn the bitter end
Back in my room, I delete the text string and climb into bed.