Chapter 24
KEATS
Sosie happened so fast. Just like the first time.
Her presence fills a space I’d been ignoring in my life.
It was easier to focus on work, writing, and anything that didn’t involve my heart in the process.
I lost contact with the organ so long ago that I wasn’t even sure I still had one.
In her absence, heartbeats became echoes and then faded off as if they’d never existed at all.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be alive.
To be touched by hands that care. To be loved.
To be breathing the same air as Sosie again has changed everything.
Our connection lies in the distraction when I should be focused.
In the empty spot between my arms where she should be. She’s the proof that soulmates exist.
The background noise of the TV is only a mere distraction as I sit on the couch and scroll to her name in my phone’s contact list. I never blocked her, but she blocked me.
I only found out when I slipped up once and texted her.
Too much whiskey and a bad night at work left me something I’d worked hard not to be.
Penetrable. The stab to my chest wasn’t real, but the pain it caused was still pulsing from the fallout six months earlier. It was not the best time in my life.
“Get your mind back on your own life, Keats.” I look up.
Tiny snowflakes flurry past the window. The sweater and pajama pants have kept me warm, along with the apartment’s solid heating.
Having unreliable heat in my old apartment left me wearing layers upon layers to stay warm or walking around in my underwear when it was blazing in August. I chuckle, remembering how it had a mind of its own.
Now the snow only reminds me of Sosie. She was bundled in her coat when she left, but she wasn’t wearing much else to protect herself otherwise. Chain mail couldn’t protect her from her parents. They always manage to find her Achilles’ heel to hurt her.
What if they didn’t leave the city? Or got wind of how last night turned out for jackass from the pub? She hasn’t checked in, and worry twists in my gut as dread sets in. Is she okay? Did she get out? Was she threatened again? Fuck.
To calm the tides of concern rippling through my veins, I pace the apartment.
Should I go over to make sure she’s alright?
That’s the worst thing I could do. It undermines what she’s trying to accomplish.
It would defeat her independence to do this on her own.
She’s capable. She’s stronger than she realizes, considering the shit she’s been through.
Hell, she’s stronger than all of us. Most people would have crumpled under the weight of the pressurized threats.
But what did she have to give up in exchange for maintaining her survival? Her freedom to choose her own fate. Is she doing that now? Will she choose me to go along for the ride?
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I hit my knee on the couch diving for it. It falls to the floor as I go tumbling after it with an achy shin, and I’m pretty sure I have a newly acquired concussion from catching myself on the hardwoods with my head. “Fuck.”
Reaching under the table, I grab the phone and hold it up to read the message: New deals on phones this holiday season. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Come on, Spark, call me.”
My phone rings as if the heavens actually listened. And when I see her name on the screen, I sit up and answer, “Hello?” Too fast. Too high-pitched to sound like I wasn’t waiting around for this call. I clear my throat and lower my voice. “Hello?”
Laughter trills through the speaker like music to my ears. “Are you okay, Poet?”
Despite myself, I smile. “I’m good, fine, never better.” The foot I shove in my mouth clams me up, but getting out of sounding like a raging idiot is a different story. Pushing up to my feet, I sink into the couch. Dropping my head into my hand, I ask, “How are you?”
My pulse quickens in the silence.
She says, “I got my stuff without issue, and now I’m in a hotel room lying on top of the bed and savoring every second of being free.”
We didn’t discuss the plan for when she left.
It wasn’t mine to have a vote or decide what happens next in her life.
I’m not owed an explanation, and I have no right to demand a say, but hearing that she checked into a hotel still comes as a surprise.
And stings, though logic tells me I don’t have a right to that reaction either.
What do I have with her?
Where do I stand in her eyes?
After one night of reuniting, where do we go from here?
“Do you have a nice view?” What the fuck am I saying? I’m not banned from broaching important topics, but what issues cross the line?
“Umm. It’s okay. I wasn’t thinking about the request when I checked in. I was just happy I got away with it.”
“I am, too.” I finally feel the relief that she exhibits in her tone.
“I’m proud of you.” It was the simplest phrase, four words that hit deeper than she could have realized when she said them.
Saying them to her comes easily when I decenter my own concerns.
I am proud of her. It’s interesting to root for a person I haven’t known as long as some people in my life, but the connection runs so deeply that I’ve been fully invested in her success since the moment we met.
She deserves it. She needs this. And I need her.
“Really?” The tone strikes a note of surprise. “You mean that?”
“Really, Spark.” I stand at the window, watching the city blanketed in fresh snow, and smile at her voice. “I mean it. What you’ve done wasn’t easy, but you did it.”
I can hear a soft breath exhaled, reaching the receiver. “Thanks.”
“Now that you’re free to do as you please”—I walk into the kitchen to find a snack—“what happens next?”
“Are you still hungry for ramen?”
Victory runs through me like she called my final bingo number, and I rub my stomach. “Starving. Want to meet at the restaurant?”
“Five minutes tops.” The slide of her legs across the sheets of the hotel bed scratches through the phone before she adds, “It will take about twenty to get there, though. Meet you out front?”
“No, wait inside where it’s warm. I’ll see you soon.”
I rush to get dressed. I’m not sure where in the city she’s staying, but I know I’m not close to the restaurant.
Grabbing my wallet and coat, I stuff my phone into my pocket and head out, adding the extra layer during the elevator ride down.
The lobby is empty, but the street seems more so.
I shove my hands in my pockets, keeping my chin down as the snow I marveled at minutes prior pelts my face now that I’m outside.
When I reach the top step of the underground station, I can hear that familiar rattling on the tracks.
“Shit.” I dash down, jumping over the remaining three steps to catch the end of the train as it disappears down the tunnel.
Worse, it’s not running its regular schedule today because of the holiday.
“I should have caught a cab,” I grumble as I walk down to lean against the wall and wait for the next train.
Not much scares me. Not after my childhood or the rougher teen years.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I realized this is it for me unless I make a change.
No one was going to help me except me. A professor who showed interest in a kid standing in front of the Winnie the Pooh exhibit at The New York Public Library, writing stories on a pad in pencil.
If a guy could write about stuffed animals coming to life, I could write fiction inspired by my own life.
That young professor became my mentor, wrangled a tuition scholarship, and shook my hand at graduation.
He was the first and only person I texted when I got my book deal because I knew he not only cared about my writing and career but also about me.
That’s not who comes to mind when a group of guys, maybe kids, dressed in large puffer jackets and headphones over their heads, but only covering one ear, start causing a ruckus—banging on the bars with a metal pipe, getting in the face of a guy down the way, and not leaving when they reach the exit. Sosie does.
I’m a big guy, but there’s only one me and three of them heading my way.
I start walking, but isolating myself further from the entrance turnstiles isn’t a good idea either.
Fuck me. I turn back, coming face-to-face with the jokers who think they own the place.
The few feet in the bottleneck of this part of the station don’t allow either them or me enough room to shuffle out of the way.
So I head down and keep my eyes on the ground between them and keep walking.
“Watch where you’re going, punk-ass.” He checks my shoulder before I can angle to avoid it, the impact forcing me to look back as the aggression sinks in, and the muscle twinges.
The one shouting earlier, his voice echoing down the empty tracks, eyes me with ill intent and a snarl twisted on his upper lip.
Dropping his head to the side, he glares as if I offended him personally.
Wagering forward, he pulls at his coat like I’ve fucked it up.
“What’d you say?” There’s no room for error.
The matches in his eyes are begging to be struck.
I say the wrong thing, and no good comes of this.
I shrug, an attempt to keep things casual.
“I didn’t say anything. Just keeping to myself and waiting for the subway.
” I turn my back and start walking again, keeping my pace steady and not showing fear to avoid being their prey.
If not me, someone’s going to fall victim since they’re obviously looking for a fight.
“I swear I heard you say something to my friend here.” His voice grows distant, so I keep walking, ignoring the situation instead of feeding it.
Despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins and muscles stiffening, I hold myself together. Sosie is waiting for me. That alone is worth letting this bullshit roll off my back and keep moving.
The heavy soles of their shoes should be fading as I head in the opposite direction.
With my guard up and my body on full alert, their footsteps are gaining ground instead, steady at first before they burst into a sprint.
Their taunts to come back close the distance.
My head jerks back on my neck as my body flies, stumbling forward.
I catch my balance and turn around, standing my ground.
Fucking assholes. But I know guys like these, same as in the old neighborhood where I grew up.
They want victims. Not someone who will fight back.
Is it naive to believe we can talk through this to come to an understanding?
“I didn’t say anything. I’m not looking for trouble, friend. It’s Chris—”
“We’re not your friends.”
Raising my hands, I sway my head, keeping calm. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Fighting used to come second nature. It’s been a long time since I had to defend myself, and I don’t stand a chance against the three of them and a metal pipe.
But when one guy swings, I angle out of the way only to be struck by another fist landing squarely across my jaw.
A metallic taste coats my mouth before my brain, and the pain catches up to what’s happening.
I swing, taking the middle guy out, splattering his coat with blood.
Skidding along the concrete, he sics his buddies to attack.
My body bounces when I’m thrown against the wall, but I duck when he punches, hitting the tile behind me.
The crack of his bones doesn’t sound good.
I kick him toward the track, then throw an uppercut to a guy charging me.
I never saw the other one coming . . . my ribs ache as I tumble sideways to the ground, my shoulder breaking the fall before my head hits it.
The pain radiates, making it hard to know where I’m injured.
Kicks rain down on me from the first one, then two others take their turn.
Shielding myself, I burrow into my arms to protect my head.
“Let’s go,” someone shouts before they take off running.
I peek my eyes open to catch them jumping the turnstiles to escape.
“Aghh,” I groan, rolling onto my back, unable to take a deep breath without fire consuming my body. Not a bone, muscle, or limb remains untouched from pain. I close my eyes, hoping to isolate where it hurts most because it’s a struggle to move parts of my body.
I grew up miles from where I now lie bleeding, stupidly believing that by changing locations I could change my outcome. With my dad’s voice echoing “little shit” around me, did I actually believe I could outrun my upbringing?
I fooled myself into believing I was more because Professor Johns said I could be whoever I wanted to be. I convinced myself I was worthy of someone spectacular and full of light like Sosie. And she fell for me, doubling down on that notion. But I fell for her the first time I heard her voice . . .
“Are you hiding from the party?”
“I’m on a break.”
“Me, too.” I felt empty when her gaze left me and whole when it was bonded with mine. She slowly sways, tapping the toe of her boot to the ground. “So who are you?”
“Keats.”
“Like the poet.” God, that smile was everything to a guy like me. “Heard melodies are sweet—”
“Poet,” she whispers in my ear. “Stay with me.” I reach to embrace her, to hug her to my chest so I can feel my heart beat again. But there is no her, or heart, or beats. Only the sound of the horn forewarns of the oncoming train.
“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice asks just as I close my eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—”