Chapter 2 #2
After I send that text to the mystery number, I copy and paste Wyatt’s actual number into a message and let him know that I couldn’t make dinner, though by now that’s embarrassingly obvious.
I hope he didn’t sit at a table by himself hoping I’d show and watch the door for me. God, I have to see him tomorrow.
Unknown:
Are you a librarian?
The mystery number sends back and I can’t help but smile. Words, books, have always been my closest friends. When there’s nothing else, there’s always a story.
Close. An editor.
I reply without giving much thought as to why.
Wyatt however, does not reply. I already ruined my chance at having friends here and it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours.
I shut off my bathroom light now that my nighttime ritual is complete and climb into bed but stay sitting up, pulling the covers up to my waist. My phone pings again.
Unknown:
What’s your favorite book, editor?
My ribcage tightens. I glance at the ghost in the kitchen like he might advise me on texting etiquette. He doesn’t. He never does. This is a stranger. A wrong number. I should stop.
I don’t know that I could choose. Do I know you?
For a moment, I panic. A sharp, electric shiver crawls down my spine, and I freeze in place, toothbrush still in hand.
I’m alone. Not the fun, self-discovery kind of alone. The kind where no one knows if you’re okay. The kind where you could disappear and no one would notice until your smell started to creep out from under the door.
The reality sinks in hard and cold. This city wraps around you like a second skin, until you forget what it’s like to belong anywhere. The vastness of Las Vegas doesn't just extend around me; it seeps into my bones. And now, I’ve willingly opened a door to a total stranger.
A stranger who has my number.
A stranger who could use that number to find out God knows what else about me. I glance at my phone. The messages seem harmless now, almost sweet. But what if they’re not?
What if this is how I end up in some true crime podcast? What if—
My brain skips sideways.
Can ghosts text? I blink at the screen like the answer might appear there. No, probably not, right? But I’ve never really tested that theory.
Unknown:
Do you need to?
Yes, my inner protector screams. Yes, you do need to know who you’re talking to.
The safe answer is always yes. I glance around my sparse apartment.
The shadows are different now, they’re inching in, leaning closer.
I feel foolish, reckless even. The logical part of me knows that a simple text conversation with a stranger is hardly a threat, but the emotional part, the part that's still frayed from leaving everything familiar behind, still adjusting to silence where laughter used to be, tightens with unease.
Everything in me says to stop. To close the thread and go to sleep. But something about the earlier streetlight, about the way that stranger looked at me like I was more than background, makes me press my lips together and let the rule bend.
I’ve never found myself in the position of texting a stranger.
Unknown:
I’m Cassius.
Cassius. It’s not a name I’ve ever heard before. I whisper it to hear the way it sounds, to taste it in my mouth.
That’s your name, but not who you are.
Unknown:
Do you not have a favorite book? Is that why you won’t answer?
These Is My Words by Nancy E. Turner. It’s not widely known but I read it at least once a year and have since I was young.
With a hesitant tap, I send a cautious reply, my mind a whirlwind of doubt and curiosity.
I'm stepping into the unknown, one text at a time, even as I question if it's the right decision.
The city outside doesn't care about my hesitations; it moves on, indifferent and vast. And here I am, trying to find my place within it, one text, one moment of panic, and one decision at a time.
Unknown:
I just ordered it. What’s your name?
Melinda.
I send my name back and hit send before his message sinks all the way in. He ordered my favorite book. Why? He must like to read, that has to be a good sign, right? Criminals read too, my brain taunts.
Unknown:
You wanna keep talking, Lindy girl?
Lindy girl. I stare at those two words, an unfamiliar flutter in my stomach.
My mom has never let anyone give me a nickname.
No one called me Mel or Linda or Lindy. Anyone who tried was immediately corrected by my mom.
If I wanted her to be called that, I would’ve named her that, she’d say, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
Her name is Melinda. Once I was old enough to understand, I followed suit, echoing her insistence with a polite firmness that brooked no argument.
I would tell anyone who offered up a nickname to please, call me by my full name.
I type it out. Please call me Melinda. I delete it.
It’s Melinda. Delete again.
Lindy girl. For the first time in my life, my instinct isn’t to correct my name.
I trace my finger over the text, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
I stare at it. At that name. Lindy. It feels like a whisper from a life less ordinary, a hint of someone I could be, someone less tethered to the expectations I've always lived by. It feels like a secret, a small thing, yet it's a deviation from the norm that brings an unexpected comfort, a warmth that blooms in the cold expanse of my new reality. Vegas is about being less afraid. Letting this stand counts. It’s only a nickname and somehow it isn’t only anything.
About books?
I type back, choosing for now not to comment on the nickname.
A part of me wants to cling to this tiny rebellion, this minuscule slice of identity that’s solely mine, not dictated by my past or the expectations that have always surrounded me.
It's a tentative step into the unknown, a silent acknowledgment of a self that might exist beyond the boundaries I've always known.
Unknown:
About anything.
What’s your favorite book? I’ll order it.
I type back, still choosing not to mention the name. Because some part of me wants to hold onto this. Wants to believe that Lindy girl could be more than a slip of the keyboard. She could be mine.
Unknown:
What’s your address? I’ll mail it to you.
Nice try, stranger. Are you the one without a favorite book?
Unknown:
Shogun by James Clavell.
I close out of our messages and pull up his book on not even bothering to read the description before I hit the buy now button.
I ordered it. Now we have things to talk about.
Unknown:
Did we just start a book club?
He’s funny.
Unknown:
And devilishly handsome. If we’re starting a book club, give me a line you love. Any book.
“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”
Unknown:
Alcott.
So you do read.
Unknown:
I told you. I like books. They’re maps to places I’ll only ever see on pages.
And lighthouses.
Unknown:
A guiding light. Probably don’t text me when you need one of those.
I laugh in my empty room at his reply. I don’t want this to end, but it’s way past my usual bedtime.
This has been fun, but I have to sleep. I have work in the very near future.
Unknown:
Have sweet dreams Lindy girl.
Without giving myself time to question it, I save his number. Another dangerous decision that feels alarmingly easy. His name nestles into my contacts like it’s always been meant to stay.
Sleep well, Cassius.
I plug my phone into the charger and roll onto my side, searching for comfort in the unfamiliar weight of blankets that smell faintly of cardboard and packing tape.
My mind refuses to quiet, buzzing with thoughts of the stranger on the other end of the phone.
Who is he? Why does he seem so interested in talking to me?
I should be cautious.
I am cautious.
But there’s something calming in the simplicity of it.
No expectations. No awkward pauses or social scripts to follow.
Just the soft rhythm of back-and-forth words with someone who doesn’t know who I’m supposed to be.
A tiny proof that I can choose the small things, my words, my name, and survive the choice.
If I can do this, maybe I can make one real friend.
Maybe I can spend a whole day alone and not feel like I’m disappearing.
And maybe that’s what I like most.
He’s talking to me.
Not the version of myself I rehearse.
A man stands ahead, his form cloaked in shadow. His aura is undeniably dominant and unavoidable.
We’re in a forest. The trees tower above us, their needles slick with rain. I can smell pine and wet earth, sharp and grounding. Above us, the stars above us sparkle so vibrantly that I reach up to touch them.
The man strides with a confidence that compels admiration, and the dark parts for him.
Suddenly, he turns, presenting me with his back, and begins to walk away.
A panic seizes me, not at the prospect of his departure, but at the thought of being left behind in this oppressive darkness without the strange comfort his terrifying presence provides.
An urge to follow washes over me, compelling and irrational. My feet move of their own accord, but with each step I take, he seems to drift farther away, swallowed step by step into the thick velvet of the dark.
The dream shifts, becoming a labyrinth of shadows and whispers.
I'm chasing a monster, a man who is both a nightmare and a savior.
The closer I think I am, the more elusive he becomes.
The atmosphere tightens, suffocating, as if the very air is alive with his essence.
I can't make out his face, but the power of his presence is unmistakable, drawing me deeper into the forest.