Chapter 2 #3
And then, as abruptly as it began, the chase ends.
I'm left standing alone in the dark. His figure dissolves into the horizon like mist. There in one breath, gone the next.
A sense of loss grips me, the void he leaves behind more frightening than the pursuit.
The dream, vivid and intense as a memory, lingers on the edge of my consciousness, leaving a residue of fear and fascination as my alarm bounces off my bedroom walls and forces me awake.
He’s gone.
And I miss him.
I open my eyes, but the powerful essence of his presence persists, prompting me to ponder whether the man I've been texting with dwells in the shadows beyond the reach of light. The man on the street lives there too, outside the light’s reach, still snagging in my peripheral.
If I squint, turn fast enough, or blink long enough, maybe his face will become clear.
Maybe the tingling under my skin will quit.
Dragging myself out of the tangled thoughts and sheets, I prepare for the day so I can head to the office.
In the kitchen, last night’s ghost hasn’t left.
He leans near the knife block in warning, thumb rubbing the edge of a turquoise-colored ring I swear wasn’t on his hand yesterday.
He doesn’t speak—he never does. The meaning just presses into my mind, a thought that isn’t mine settling into my bones.
He tips two fingers toward the back door and then the windows.
Count your exits. Always know how many and where.
He nods once at the knives. Watch your back.
The message lands as an instruction, not a fear.
I count by odds to steady myself. It only half works.
I pack my work bag, then do something I’ve never done: slide a kitchen knife from the block into the inner pocket.
The ghost smirks, thumb grazing that turquoise ring.
I count by odds to the door. To the garage.
To the driver’s seat. Yesterday I was too scared to drive, but today I turn the key and shift out of park.
In three. Out five. In seven. I merge—white-knuckled but moving—odds steadying the lights and the noise until my breath matches the traffic.
I reach the office, find a spot, put it in park, scan my surroundings, then step out.
The knife’s weight in my bag is a strange kind of calm as I walk myself through the glass.
Wyatt’s by the water cooler, his surprise at seeing me as clear as the flicker of guilt I feel.
“Melinda,” he says, his tone a mix of surprise and something I can't quite place, disappointment, maybe? “You, uh, disappeared on me last night.”
A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. “Wyatt, I'm so sorry. It completely slipped my mind. I actually tried texting you earlier than that last message, but got the number wrong the first time. It wasn't intentional, I promise.”
He studies me for a beat, then his expression softens. “It's okay. I figured something might've come up. Just wasn't sure what.”
The air between us is thick with awkwardness, that I desperately want to dissipate. “Can I make it up to you?” I offer. “Lunch, on me, today?”
It’s safer than dinner. There’s a time limit.
We can leave for lunch, but we’re expected to be back at a specific time.
Unlike dinner, where Wyatt could’ve held me hostage for God knows how long.
It loosens the tightness in my chest that appeared yesterday at the thought of going out into the city with a stranger.
We’re with other people at work. There will be plenty of people around at lunch and we’ll return to people afterward.
I can do lunch.
He considers this, then nods with a small smile. “Sure, Melinda. Lunch sounds good.”
Relieved, I make my way to my desk, the tension of the awkward encounter slowly lifting off my shoulders. I settle in, coffee in hand, ready to tackle the day’s emails, when my phone pings with a new message. The sudden sound makes my heart leap. Without even looking, I know it's him.
Cassius.
I sneak a glance at the screen. His name glows back at me. A small thrill runs through me as his message appears, and somewhere quiet inside me that’s been packed in tissue and stored on a top shelf, unfolds an inch.
Cassius:
What does an editor actually do at 9:15 a.m.?
Rearrange pens.
Cassius:
My kind of violence.
You?
Cassius:
Meetings and pretending I don’t hate them.
Something tells me you wear a suit well.
Oh. Wow. That was bolder than I am. I don’t flirt with strangers. I don’t flirt, period. I wait for the shame to show up and find only a little thrill. The truth is, I’m having fun. I’m allowed to enjoy this. I’m allowed to be curious.
He sends a photo. It’s closely cropped. His dark sleeve. His silver cufflink catching light. My breath snags. Heat slips low. I shouldn’t like this, but I do. I zoom in on the back of his hand and feel ridiculous and alive at the same time, also a little dizzy.
Cassius:
To help your imagination, Lindy girl.