Chapter 50
FIFTY
noia
The roar of an engine jolts me from a deep sleep. Disoriented, I reach across the bed, finding only empty space.
“Ryder?” I call out, my voice thick with sleep.
But the only answer I get is silence.
Throwing back the covers, I wince when the movement pulls at my tattoo. I grab Ryder’s T-shirt from the floor and pull it over my head, then pad to the window just in time to see his motorcycle disappearing down the driveway.
My stomach knots with worry. Where is he going at this hour?
I check my phone: 2:37 a.m.
Goonie meows at me from the doorway, looking just as confused as I feel.
“I don’t know why he left either,” I tell him.
Scooping him up, I head downstairs.
The kitchen is dark, but when I flip on the light, I spot a piece of paper on the kitchen island. Heart pounding, I pick it up.
Needed to clear my head —R.
The note slips from my fingers.
“Shit.” I sink onto a stool, hiding my face in my hands. “What have I done?”
Guilt crashes over me. I’d promised him I wouldn’t write specifically about him anymore, wouldn’t risk whatever strange magic that had brought him here. But I’d done it anyway, treating him like a character I could manipulate instead of a person with his own free will.
No wonder he left.
“I really fucked up this time, Goonie,” I sigh, absentmindedly scratching behind his ears.
I drag myself back upstairs to where my laptop sits on my nightstand. Opening it, I pull up the document and stare at the words I wrote.
They’re such simple words, but they manipulated him.
I think of all the pages I’ve written about everything we’ve done since he appeared—detailed descriptions of our thoughts, our feelings, our reactions.
Suddenly, I know that there’s only one way to fix this.
“Shit.”
With trembling fingers, I Control-A all the text—every word I’ve written about Ryder and about our dates since he appeared—and hover my finger over the delete key.
What if deleting everything about him, about us, makes him disappear altogether? What if this severs whatever magical connection that brought him here in the first place?
But I know I can’t keep controlling him, intentionally or unintentionally.
He deserves better.
With a deep breath, I hit DELETE. The document goes blank, the cursor blinking at me accusingly from the empty page.
Closing my laptop with a sigh, I climb back into bed.
But I can’t sleep. The thought of Ryder out there somewhere, feeling manipulated and betrayed, keeps me wide awake.
I figure I might as well be productive, so I throw myself into cleaning—scrubbing the kitchen counters with more force than necessary, organizing the pantry, and doing three loads of laundry.
Physical activity has always helped keep my mind from spiraling into worst-case scenarios.
Too bad it never helped with my writer’s block though.
By the time I’ve folded the last of Ryder’s T-shirts, the sky has lightened from pitch black to a deep indigo. I carry the basket to his room, hesitating when I get to the door.
When I push the door open, the scent of sandalwood and leather envelops me immediately. I set the basket on the bed and start putting his clothes away in the dresser.
When I step into the closet, my heart stutters. All his things are still here—his boots lined up on the floor, his collection of Henley’s. Relief washes over me in a wave so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.
If his things are still here, it means he should still be here. He has to be.
With a renewed sense of hope, I head to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and watch as the first golden rays of sun start peeking through the windows. The rich aroma fills the air as I pull eggs and bacon from the fridge, determined to have breakfast ready when he returns.
Just as I start cracking eggs into a bowl, I hear the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle coming up the driveway. My heart leaps into my throat, and I nearly drop the egg.
I hear the engine cut off. Then a few moments later, the sound of his boots hit the porch right before the front door opens.
With my favorite pink spatula clutched in my hand, I turn around.
Hair mussed from his helmet, his stubble is darker than usual and he looks tired.
My heart leaps. He’s still here. Still real.
Afraid if speaking too loudly might somehow break whatever spell that’s keeping him here, I whisper, “You’re back.”
Ryder shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the hook by the door. “I needed to figure some things out.”
“And did you?”
He crosses the room until he’s standing right in front of me. Intense and questioning, his eyes search mine. “I need to know something first. Did you delete it?”
My breath catches. “How did you—”
“I just do, Noia.” His jaw tightens. “Now answer me. Did you delete everything you wrote about me?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes. Everything. I didn’t want to risk controlling you anymore, even by accident. Even if it meant you would disappear.”
Relief flickers in his eyes, softening the hard lines of his face. “I rode all night, trying to figure out if what I feel is real or if it was just you writing about us.”
“But you…”
“I know it was my idea for you to write about everything. And I also know, except for what you did last night, it’s not your fault if that’s what’s happening. Maybe the universe has other plans.”
He runs his hand through his hair, letting out a deep sigh. “But I need to know if what I feel for you is real. I need to know if I’m the one making my own choices.”
My hands are trembling so hard I have to set the spatula down. “What are you saying?”
“I think we need to spend some time apart.” His voice is gentle but firm, his eyes never leaving mine. “Just to make sure that whatever this is between us is real and not just... fictional.”
My heart plummets. “Time apart? But Rye—”
“It’s the only way, Noia.” He takes a step back. “I need to be somewhere you’re not, somewhere I can assess my own emotions. Figure out if they’re really mine.”
Panic rises in my throat. “But where will you go?”
“I can stay with Jax.” His expression softens. “He’s got a spare room at his place.”
“You don’t need to leave,” I argue. “I deleted all of it. I’m not going to write about you… us, anymore.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not just about that. It’s about me figuring out who I am outside of... whatever this is between us. I need space to think.”
“But—”
“I’ve already called Jax, and he’s expecting me.” It’s obvious the decision is final by how his tone changes almost instantly.
I cross my arms in defense. “How long?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs again. “A few days, maybe a week.”
“A week?” My voice cracks.
Instead of answering, he turns and heads down the hall. I follow him into his room, watching in shock as he pulls a duffel bag from the closet and starts to pack.
“This is crazy,” I say, standing in the doorway. “You don’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I do.” He keeps his eyes on the bag as he zips it closed. “For both of us. I thought you would understand. Or did you forget how you left me here alone so you could go have time to figure your shit out, too?”
Shit. Having what I did to him first thrown back in my face stops me cold.
I let out a sigh of resignation. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He gives me a slight nod.
Five minutes later, we’re standing together at the front door. Duffle bag over his shoulder, his face is blank, but his eyes tell a much different story.
All I can do is fight back the tears. Despite hating how vulnerable I feel and how much it hurts to watch him leave, I understand where he’s coming from.
He steps into my space, cupping my face with his free hand, gently brushing his thumb along my cheek. “Give me a couple of days, okay? And then we can talk.”
The tenderness in his voice almost breaks me and I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, he turns and walks out the door.
I’m still standing in the doorway long after his motorcycle has disappeared down the drive and the sound of the engine has faded into silence.
Goonie winds around my ankles, meowing softly.
A single frustrated tear escapes, and I swipe it away. “Don’t worry, pudge. He’ll be back.”