Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Rose
The night air hits me the moment we step out of Margaritas.
It's cool and biting against my overheated skin, as if the heat burns somewhere deeper beneath my flesh and refuses to let up.
Sitting beside Alex all night, close enough to feel him there, has left me restless.
Something lingers just beneath the surface, pressing at the edges of my thoughts, asking to be acknowledged, and I'm not ready to give it a name.
For years, I've convinced myself that distance was safety.
That detachment was strength. Love wasn't something to embrace but something to dissect, reduce to logic, understand well enough to avoid at all costs.
Because once your heart is involved, control slips through your fingers.
It can crack you open in ways nothing else can.
So I buried my feelings. Not because I didn't have them, but because I did.
I learned to press them down so deeply that no one could ever use them against me.
Yet, this feeling is not fear. It doesn't belong to the crowded restaurant, the lingering spice on my tongue, or the beer I slowly nursed through dinner.
It belongs to him. Maybe it was always him.
Even now, no longer tucked beneath the shelter of his arm, I still hold his hand with a certainty I don't understand, as though letting go would unravel something essential inside me.
Whatever exists between us doesn't feel like a choice anymore.
I chose to be with Maxwell. I knew I didn’t love him, but this is different. It's as if something has been waiting for me all along, as patiently as Alex has. And now that I've touched him, held him, kissed him, I crave him. I’m no longer certain I can turn away.
Neither of us says anything. The stillness of the woodsy landscape beneath a blanketed, star-strewn sky feels intoxicating compared to the noise and artificial lighting we just left behind.
I inhale deeply, letting the cool air fill my lungs, trying to hold onto the calm that washes over me when I’m near him.
But despite the wide open space, all I can breathe is him.
The scent of musk and cedar lingers in the air around us, comforting and familiar, bringing back memories of nights spent beneath open skies, wrapped in the gentle lull of nature while camping with my aunt.
On a night such as this, I almost wish we were out there.
To be far away from everything, where the world feels simpler, and nothing exists beyond the stretch of stars above and the warmth of a campfire beside you.
Instead, I stand here, caught between what I know and what I feel, holding onto him, the only thing making me feel way too much.
And for the first time, I’m not sure I want to let go.
“Which way?” Ezra asks from behind us, disrupting my thoughts, scattering them like water slipping from my hands.
I’d followed them earlier, but the place had been packed, forcing us to park farther apart than expected.
I offered to drive us home, an excuse really, since they’d both had a couple of drinks and I’d limited myself to one beer hours ago.
The scent of hard liquor, especially whiskey, has a way of permeating the air, reaching places I'd rather forget.
I’ve learned to keep my distance from it.
Alex only had a couple of beers. I know he did it tonight, for his birthday, and also because of his cousin.
I crook my finger at Ezra, motioning for him to follow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Alex smiling.
Ezra’s brows shoot up in surprise, but he falls in step behind us anyway.
“Over here,” I say, pointing toward the row where I left my car, my voice softer now away from the noise, as the night seems to stretch around us, swallowing the last echoes of my laughter from the restaurant.
Alex’s hand brushes the small of my back as he releases me, allowing me to move ahead of him, guiding us through the narrow passage between parked cars, the dim glow of the overhead lights casting long shadows that seem to stretch with every step.
I retrace the path without thinking, my body remembering what my mind hasn’t yet caught up to.
The sudden absence of his warmth makes me glance back.
That's when I find him standing perfectly still.
His head tilts to the side, and his eyes roam, taking in our surroundings with acute attention.
Then his expression changes. In two quick strides, he's at my side, his hand coming down on my shoulder, firm enough to stop me before I can take another step forward. When I ask what he’s seen, I find his attention already elsewhere.
His focus sharpens into something I've never seen before. Fear. I follow his gaze, slowly taking in what he’s already assessing in his mind, but I don’t get the chance.
He steps in front of me without a word, his hand finding mine again and closing around it in a tight hold. This time, it carries a purpose that feels less comforting and more restraining as he guides me into a single-file line.
“Alex,” I begin before he cuts me off with a finger to his lips.
We move slowly, and I trail behind him as we creep forward.
His movements are controlled, measured, as though whatever lies ahead needs to be approached with caution.
Then I see what has his hackles rising. The driver’s side door of my car sits slightly ajar, just enough to break the clean line of the parked vehicles.
It’s just enough to feel wrong in the way I cannot immediately explain, but recognize all the same.
“I didn’t—” My voice falters, unraveling at the edges as the realization takes hold.
“I didn’t leave it like that.” This is what he noticed when he stopped me.
“What the fuck?” I hear Ezra say. Alex doesn’t say anything. He releases me and moves before I can stop him. His focus is already locked on whatever lies ahead in the car, as if it has claimed his interest completely.
“Stay here,” he says, the command firm. “Ezra.” He doesn’t need to finish that thought because Ezra is already at my side.
The words hit me wrong, and if anything, they increase the unease already building inside of me.
It pushes at me higher and tighter until standing here feels impossible. So I don't.
“Fuck me,” I hear Ezra mutter under his breath as he follows me. By the time I reach him, the space between us closes faster than I can think. He's standing beside the open door, completely unmoving, already seeing enough.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice strained, afraid to know the answer, but needing it all the same. I'm barely holding it together with anxiety pounding in my chest. He doesn’t answer. The silence tells me everything he won’t. It’s bad.
I step closer anyway, my gaze slipping past him and into the car.
The ground seems to fall out from under me when I see what happened.
The interior is wrecked, but not in the careless way of a random break-in.
There’s intention in it. Precision. My bag had been emptied, its contents scattered across the seats and floor, papers strewn, sifted through and then discarded.
The glove compartment hangs open, its contents disturbed and left exposed.
Nothing about this feels accidental. It all feels deliberate.
“Jesus,” Ezra mutters behind me, the words slipping out under his breath as I push past them, drawn forward by something I don’t fully understand but can’t seem to resist. I circle to the driver’s side, a sense of dread settling in before I even reach the door, as though some part of me already knows there is more waiting for me there.
And there it is. Plain as day. The word has been carved into the inside of the door, cut deep into the surface in uneven, jagged strokes that speak more of intent than of impulsiveness.
The anger and violence of it is unmistakable.
SLUT.
My world tilts beneath me in a slow, disorienting way that leaves me unsteady on my feet. My body sways slightly as a strange weightlessness comes over me, leaving me suspended in a moment that feels both distant and unbearably close because it happened right under our noses.
“I didn’t do anything,” I manage, the words slipping out before I can stop them, my voice catching against the pressure tightening around my throat.
Each breath becomes harder to draw, turning shallow and uneven.
It’s as though my body has forgotten how to regulate itself, leaving me grasping for air that never seems to come in deeply enough.
“Hey,” Alex says, his voice low and controlled. It carries a weight to it I can’t quite anchor myself to, but wish I could. “Don’t look at it.” He moves my head away. I didn’t know I was still staring.
It remains burned into my memory, which makes it impossible to escape.
“Give me your keys, baby,” he says, softer now, closer. I don’t think about it or question it. I simply place them in his hand, my movements distant and automatic. It’s as though I’ve stepped outside myself and am watching everything unfold from somewhere that is just beyond reach.
“Who do you think did this?” Ezra asks, all previous humor from tonight gone, replaced by something more serious.
I don’t answer right away, though the thought is already there, circling, pressing against the edges of my mind in a way that I can’t ignore.
All logic indicates that it’s him. Could it have been him?
“Maxwell,” Alex says, giving voice to what I haven’t said aloud.