Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
VANESSA
I knew it was a bad idea when I laid the box on the shop counter. Knew this fucking thing would get me in trouble more than it’d give me any relief. And yet, mere seconds after ditching the smartphone on the bedspread to save my diminishing mental health, I reach for the fucking thing.
You’re beyond help, Ness.
“Don’t judge me.” I snarl at Murphy as he regards me through slitted eyes.
It’s only one time. Yeah. Sure. Like this won’t become my latest unhealthy addiction.
Still, I lift the phone and swipe up to wake the screen, clicking through to the next story. Article after article about my goddamn brother’s disappearance, but nobody cared to write a single thing about my mother.
Seems some priorities don’t change.
I skim another article touting the same rote facts about Gage’s final moments. He’d been himself in the days leading up to his disappearance, so-called friends say. There’s no other explanation but foul play, community members speculate. He would have called by now, his girlfriend cries.
A girlfriend. Fuck me.
The guy’s thirty-one years old. Do you still call them a girlfriend at that age? Or is it a partner? You know why they’d never use that term for her. Because that would infer that she and Gage are equals, and the men-folk can’t have that now, can they?
Imagine if the women believed they had importance. Value. Gasp. How shocking would that be?
I internally roll my eyes and toss the device aside before deciding better of its proximity to me and throwing it across the room onto the pile of washing near the door. Fuck that thing. It hasn’t given me any answers—only more questions. And an elevated heart rate.
Why the fuck was there a goddamn biker watching my house this morning? And why did he follow us to the darn airport? Are they tied up with my stepfather? Did he send them?
The thought that Chaos may be just another of his soldiers sours my gut, and I cringe, fighting the sudden rush of nausea. It’s so fucked up to admit, but having somebody that interested in me made me feel good. For the first time in so fucking long. It’s not fair. Why is it every time I find something, or someone, that makes me feel good, it’s ruined? Taken away.
Don’t I deserve nice things? What the fuck did I do in a past life to piss someone off?
I scramble off the bed and retrieve the phone, opening the first social app my thumb comes across. If he’s legit, there’ll be a record of his life here. Sure, I’m not that ofay with socials considering they were barred during my teenage years and something I’ve actively avoided since, but I have some idea how they work.
It’s impossible to get through day-to-day life without seeing indicators of its importance shoved down my throat in advertising everywhere.
The digital revolution arrived, and with it went everyone’s autonomy. Everything is done now for validation. For praise.
For likes.
Fuck—I see how much it affects Marianna when her business posts hit a wall. It’s a sickness, and when you’re as already unwell as I am, well, it’s one more disease I don’t have the bandwidth to fight.
I exhale heavily out my nose and stare down at the screen as I fudge my way through the account creation process, then bring up the search bar to type out the five simple letters of his name. I hesitate. Chaos. He wouldn’t have a profile under that. Would he?
I hit search anyway. Sure enough, all I get is a slew of businesses, martial arts schools, and a couple of car clubs thrown in for good measure. Nowhere is there a tall, brooding biker with eyes that command I fall to my knees and confess my darkest desires. Damn it. What now?
How do I find him? I can’t message Marianna this late at night and ask her how she knows who that strange guy watching me was and if she knows Chaos, too. Otherwise, she’d ask why I brought him up, and then what would I say?
Oh, he’s been watching me from close and afar for weeks now?
Of course, you idiot. Where has he been all this time?
I ditch the phone, much to Murphy’s dislike, and clamber off the bed again, darting to the window. The light—shit. I dive right, slamming my hand on the switch to plunge my room into darkness, and then resume my post at the gap in my curtains. What the hell am I doing? Am I that far gone that I seek out the attention of a dangerous man to ease the ache of my mother’s death? My brother’s disappearance?
Yes. Yes, I am.
I scour the landscape, my eyes adjusting better to the dark the longer I hover with hands white-knuckled on my windowsill. Yet, no matter how long I search the shadows and shapes of the roadside opposite, I can’t find a trace of him. No solid outline. No glow of a cigarette amongst the grass. There’s too much in the way. Damn, the pretty garden.
“This is madness, Ness,” I mutter to myself.
And yet, I turn for the pile of washing anyway and tug out my oversized sweatshirt to jerk it on over my sleepwear. He said he liked your T-shirt. Yeah, he did. But what if it’s not him out there? What if it’s that crazy guy again? What’s his name? Carny? Circus. Yeah, that’s it. What if it’s Circus who watches me from their new home?
I hesitate halfway down the hallway as the realization hits. Their new home. How long have I got until a whole fucking gang of those guys calls the old farmhouse theirs? Will I cope with the intrusion?
I’m going to have to.
My bare feet slap across the floorboards as I dart into the kitchen and grab a knife, just in case. Handle clutched in my fist, I march back to the front of the house and jerk the door open. Where are you? The breeze tickles my bare legs as I creep to the very edge of the porch and search the road. Nothing.
Shoulders sagging, I turn to head back inside when the shifting shadows snare my periphery. I spin around, leap off the porch in one long stride, and then jog lightly down to the gate.
Sure enough, the outline of broad shoulders shifts against the dark field beyond.
“I can see you.” Damn, my shaky voice. I clear my throat and try again. “There’s no point hiding.”
The man pushes off the fence and stalks toward me, but the height is wrong. His hair isn’t blond. And there’s not enough of it. Shit. My heart pounds a fist against my ribcage as Circus steps onto the dirt and stops halfway across the road toward me. Knew it.
He shunts a hand in his pocket, tugs out his phone, and takes a fucking photo.
“You good there, buddy?” I lift the hand that clutches the knife and knock the catch open on the gate.
His head is down, thumbs working the screen as I approach.
I stop out of arm’s reach—because I’m not that horror movie girl—and call out to get his attention. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
He lifts his head. My veins chill. His goddamn eyes are black. Not the actual eyeball, but the hollow beneath his eyebrows, all the way down to under his lower lashes. Is it actually inked like that?
“Why are you here?” I ask, voice a darn sight smaller than before he looked at me. “Why not Chaos?”
He tilts his head, mouth opening slightly as he runs his tongue across his upper molars.
“I asked you a question.”
He smirks—my goddamn skin erupting in goosebumps at the sight—and turns heel. The freaky dude glances down as he walks, the phone screen illuminating his leather vest and face.
A cut, I learned their vests are called when I did my research earlier.
The smartphone is far too fucking useful for curious minds. Especially when it’s so easy to type into a search bar, what are motorcycle clubs like? Fair to say I should probably get my door lock fixed.
“Why won’t you answer me!?” My voice carries to the asshole as he merges with the overgrown field. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, knife as useless as a child’s toy in my hand for how little it bothered Circus.
Deflated and frustrated, I return indoors, checking the locks on all the doors before setting the knife down on my nightstand. My head is filled with utter mayhem, the swirling thoughts inside dragging me under as I drown with overwhelm.
I need to clear the decks.
With a last glance toward the curtains, I reach across and tap my lamp on before retrieving my journal. The cover falls open, a glimmer of red ink visible on the edge of a page. I slide my fingers between the paper and spread the journal wide, reading over his notation.
The silence they give you is a form of closure in itself. Stop expending energy on those who don’t deserve it.
I scan back up the page, over the lines of my entry that he underlined.
I wish they’d care enough to talk to me. Aren’t they curious how I’m doing? Am I that easy to ignore?
My sigh whooshes out as I flick to the unused section at the back and tear out a few pages. If I’m going to unknit this mess in my head, I need to purge everything out. I need to get some semblance of order to these thoughts to reduce the overwhelm by tackling the problems one at a time. With the blank pages propped on the hard front cover, I tug the pen cap off and hover over the blank canvas. Where do I start? Wherever feels right.
Everything around me fades to insignificance when I draw a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s just you and your thoughts. The pen touches the paper, and the words start to flow.
The absence of love feels like punishment…