Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Rose
“Who was that?” Maxwell asks as we turn the corner of the library.
His hand reaches for mine, holding onto it possessively.
He never bothers to do it in public, but now, he’s like a dog pissing on his territory, feeling compelled to do so, and it’s such a turn-off.
Whether he suspects I know Alex or not, he’s not stupid.
He could sense the way Alex looked at me with such intensity.
And the way I tried to hide the rapid beating of my heart, not to mention the shocked sound I tried to stifle when our eyes locked on one another, his eyes dragging me back to the promises he made before I all but ran out of Dr. Flores' house.
Does Maxwell remember him from that day?
The confidence Maxwell usually carries slips, now almost entirely gone.
I get it, though. I can’t fault him because Alex is the tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome kind.
The kind that women ache for. The kind romance novels sculpt into the perfect illusion of forever.
Except I know that there is no such thing.
I open my mouth to reply, but Chelsea answers first.
“His name is Alex,” Chelsea chimes, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers, her voice a grate on every exposed nerve.
“I see him all the time in the library, buried in his textbooks.” She sighs, releasing her hair from her fingers as if fantasizing about him while clasping her hands together before she continues.
“I figured he could use some company.” She beams, with all her cutsie freckles and asinine good intentions.
I snap my head toward her, irritation flaring hot beneath my skin.
Normally, I adore her kindness. Right now, though, I want nothing more than to take one of the eleven-blade scalpels I use in the OR and peel that clean off her freckled, angelic face.
I want to make her understand how badly she misread the situation because Alex is definitely not hers.
How could he be? How could he belong to someone else when he looked at me like that?
When every part of me still felt pulled toward him?
How was it taking everything in me not to turn around and run back to him?
I scoff. “He’ll never be hers,” I mutter as Maxwell drops my hand. I must have been squeezing tightly with each internal truth I let slip from my mind.
Instead of saying anything about that, I blurt out, “You’re dating him?
” My voice comes out a little too disbelieving and a little too growly.
My shoulders are bunched up near my ears, tight with something dark and instinctive.
I roll my shoulders back, forcing them down, as I try to coax the tension out of my body.
I hadn’t meant to react that way, but hearing Chelsea speak about Alexander with that much interest sends something cold and calculating through me.
Something that made me feel a little stabby.
“Well, that’s the plan,” she singsongs, her voice light and oblivious.
My molars grind together, and my eye twitches with irritation as I force myself to remain silent.
I feel Maxwell’s tension ease beside me.
But she keeps talking, oblivious to my internal struggle.
My stomach lurches violently, and my late lunch threatens to make a reappearance.
But apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, because I stay right where I am, breath held tight, heart in my throat, waiting with bated breath for whatever she says next.
Maybe I’m craving the ache. To feel something after feeling nothing at all for so long.
To let me know that I am still alive and capable of feeling emotions and not just going through the motions.
Maybe I want the wound split wide open. To fester and never heal.
She sighs, almost regretfully. “No. He told me that he’s only interested in one person right now. He wants to see where it goes.”
The words flay me wide open. I suck in a sharp breath, but it catches in my throat, as though I've forgotten how to breathe.
I force myself to inhale slowly. Three pairs of eyes immediately find me, each waiting for an explanation.
I take a few measured breaths, willing my heartbeat to slow. My acting skills are on point.
“Asthma,” I wheeze. “Forgot my inhaler.” I add, this time sounding more convincing.
Maxwell nods knowingly. Well, not really, because then he would know that I don’t really have asthma anymore.
Not like when I was a child. “The air is just—” I pause as if to catch my breath.
“—brutal.” Maxwell starts patting my back with all the finesse of a toddler with a hammer, like he’s trying to dislodge an obstruction from my esophagus—and that’s being unkind to toddlers.
“I’m not choking, you moron,” I mutter under my breath.
I sidestep out of his reach, pretending to adjust my boot.
He barely pays attention, too busy listening to Lucinda ramble about some party this weekend.
She clearly wants him to go because those are the next words out of her mouth as she extends the invitation.
He nods. “For sure. I’m there.” He turns his head in my direction, forgetting he'd been trying to pound my lungs into submission a minute ago.
“Babe, you going or what?” he asks, and the word makes me almost flinch. Babe. I hate when he calls me that. I rub my temples. I answer with a half-hearted shrug.
“You know I have to volunteer at the shelter,” I reply noncommittally.
Rolling his eyes, he snorts before returning to his conversation, already dismissing what I do there.
And for a fleeting moment, I see myself plucking them out with the metal straws I keep in my bag.
Clean, simple, and oh-so-satisfying. Lucinda huffs, pretending she wouldn't want him to herself.
“Max, if she doesn’t want to go, leave her alone.” Always playing the benevolent best friend, even though we know she is anything but. Her intentions lie beneath the smooth, venomous tone of her words—a viper waiting in a dark corner for the perfect moment to strike.
I keep my expression neutral, refusing to acknowledge the way she purrs his name, Max—that shortened version of Maxwell that’s way too familiar and drips with implied intimacy.
Or the way she leans into him, biting her lip in a cheap attempt at seduction.
If they aren’t already sleeping together, then they will be soon.
He certainly isn’t getting anything from me.
I hate the reek of liquor on his breath every time he comes into my room expecting sex.
I’ve told him more than once that the scent brings up memories from my childhood.
I’d rather all of it stay buried in that coffin six feet under where my father’s rotting corpse resides.
He either doesn’t listen, or worse—he listens and doesn’t care.
And if it’s the second one, God help me, I’d almost rather he was simply oblivious.
We step onto the porch, and the boards groan with our weight.
The structure sags, as if it has given up trying to hold the weight of renters after all these years.
The wind has picked up, making whistling sounds as it slips through the gaps in the wood.
The door protests, either from the cold or from the ill fit in the frame, as we pry it open with two pushes.
We close the door behind us as we enter our side of the duplex.
It’s just one in a long row of student rentals in varying stages of decline.
Each one looks barely maintained, passed from tenant to tenant with just enough work to make them livable.
Our shoes echo along the old pine flooring.
The boards are dulled and scarred, in desperate need of a good sanding and varnish that will never come.
The whole house looks like it has been waiting for a little TLC, silently in this state of despair.
I can relate. Sometimes you just need someone to see the beauty in a ruinous state.
To see all the broken pieces, gather them up, and remake them into something shiny and new—someone willing to put in the work.
I start to unwind the scarf from my neck, but pause, frowning when I remember that I didn’t get the mail.
Leaving my scarf half-unwrapped, I walk toward the back door, which is easier to open.
I’ve been waiting for a letter from my aunt and for her latest update on whether we’re spending the holidays together.
She still insists on sending me old-fashioned letters while she’s traveling.
I secretly love it. It gives me something to look forward to.
She’s been wandering the country in her RV with her boyfriend, sending me postcards from every new destination.
She didn’t have to raise me, but she did.
She took me in when my parents died, and with the money from my mother’s life insurance policy, I had the chance to go to college, and she finally has the time to live her life the way she wants.
I glance over at Maxwell and Lucinda, chatting animatedly, while Chelsea rummages through the cupboards for a snack.
“I’m going to grab the mail. Be right back,” I announce, but only Chelsea looks up and smiles before I shut the back door.
With my coat wrapped tightly, I step outside, and it greets me with a blast of cold air that catches my breath.
I rub my hands together, looking up at the moon that sits high and bright in the sky.
The sky is clear, revealing a scattering of stars.
I exhale, watching my breath fan out in a whitish plume, as the wind assaults my cheeks, slapping them into a pinkish hue.
The mailbox creaks open on its rusty hinges, but I smile when I see I got a postcard from my aunt.
I gather the rest of the mail, most of it for my roommates, and turn back toward the door.
That’s when I stop. A chill skates down my spine, lifting the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.
I sense that I’m being watched. I spin around, scanning the empty street, but there’s no one.
No cars travel past, and no neighbors are out for a walk.
The only sound is a dog barking somewhere up the block, breaking the otherwise chilling silence.
I don’t wait to investigate further. With the recent posts around campus about another student gone missing, I turn and hurry back inside.
It’s hard to imagine something like that happening here, in this sleepy little town where nothing ever does.
Clutching the mail to my chest, the unease follows me in, closing around me before the door even clicks shut.