7. Bindi
SEVEN
BINDI
Jordyn flew out this morning. He called last night to remind me to lock the balcony doors even though we’re twenty floors up. I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder then snatch my keys off the hook. The second I swing the door open, my eyes catch on something sitting on my welcome mat.
A box.
Small. Black.
With a folded note taped to the top.
I stare at it for a second, toe tapping against the concrete. Could be from a creep who followed me home from the bar—wouldn’t be the first time. Could be from Anthony, desperate for forgiveness.
We fucked. Once.
. . . No. That’s a lie.
We fucked multiple times.
But whatever claim he thinks he has over me is delusional. I’m not his girl—I’m nobody’s girl. I never have been.
That’s also a lie.
I blink hard, my chest tightening, throat itchy with memory.
One person.
One boy, back then.
But he doesn’t count.
Not anymore.
I crouch and scoop the box up, yank the note off, and shove both deep into the pit of my duffel bag. I don’t know why I don’t just toss them in the trash. I want to—maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll stare at the box at 2 a.m. with a cigarette in my hand and contemplate all my life decisions.
Because whoever left me this gift, is not someone I’m wanting to be associated with.
After slamming my apartment door and making sure it’s locked, I head down the stairs, taking them two at a time, until I reach my car.
Then I throw my bag into the passenger seat of my car and slam the door with a little more force than necessary.
I turn the car on, and it rattles like a tin can on its last leg.
That’s fair—it probably is. The inside smells like old fries and cheap perfume samples, but again .
. . it’s endearing. Much like my shitty apartment.
I drive like I always do. One hand on the wheel, windows down, music just loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I keep reaching for the volume knob. Up. Down. Static hums between stations. My fingers twitch.
Why am I so anxious today?
I park inside the parking garage of Jordyn’s building and just sit there, engine idling, staring at the skyline bleeding into orange in between the two hunks of concrete in front of my car. Miami always looks beautiful when you’re half a second from spiraling.
I light a cigarette, take a large drag and then flick ash out the cracked window, before finally fishing the box from my bag.
The paper note is folded once, clean. Not like Anthony—he writes like a toddler with rage issues. This ink is bold, blocky. The kind you write slowly to make sure every letter is legible. I know this handwriting. It’s imprinted on my soul.
You left this.
That’s all it says.
I stare at it for a long time, lips parted, breath stuck in my chest. No signature. No name. He doesn’t have to announce himself.
My fingers go numb as I peel the box open.
Inside sits a keychain. A cheap, plastic gator in sunglasses—bright blue and hideous. Not the same one I had when I was thirteen, this one’s newer. Shinier. But I’d know that stupid face anywhere. It looks like the same one he slipped into my pocket all those years ago, outside the gas station.
I nearly drop it, my stomach flipping with revulsion, nostalgia, and panic—all crashing into each other like bumper cars against my ribcage.
He’s here.
I curl my fingers tight around the gator, the plastic ridges digging into my palm until it leaves white indentations on my palm.
I stuff the box and note back into my bag and storm out of the car.
When I make it inside Jordyn’s apartment, I throw the bag on the kitchen island and grab a bottle of whiskey, spinning the cap open and downing at least three shots’ worth.
Five years ago I ran.
I ran so far away from him.
Cassidy Reyes and I are a chemical fire. A grenade with the pin halfway out. We’re collateral damage dressed up like devotion.
The man I wanted to give all my firsts to.
The man that promised to be all my lasts.
I guess he’s cashing in on that promise .
Fuck.
The whiskey hits my bloodstream and heats my cheek. I move over to the couch and sink down onto it. The cold leather kisses my thighs through the thin tights I have on underneath my denim shorts. I press the cold bottle against my cheek and stare at nothing.
I should change. I should do anything except sit here spiraling, taking yet another sip of whiskey. I press my hand to my chest, like that’ll stop my heart from trying to beat its way out.
What the fuck is he doing here in Miami? He should be in state prison in Tennessee. He killed a man—for me. He let me run away. He shouldn’t be out at all. This doesn’t make any sense.
I take another swig from the bottle and hiss through my teeth. Looking down, I notice the bottle is one of Jordyn’s more expensive ones. Oopsie. Maybe that’s why it’s going down like fucking water.
The room starts to tilt, and it makes me curl onto my side, pulling a throw over myself.
“Fuck you, Cass. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to haunt me.”
But Cassidy Reyes doesn’t haunt.
He possesses.