Chapter Thirteen
Chapter
Thirteen
I wake up wishing I were hungover.
If I were hungover, maybe I could excuse what I did under the guise of too many drinks.
If I were hungover, I could laugh it off—and maybe he would, too.
Maybe the memories of last night wouldn’t be so crystal clear in my mind, like the way his mouth burned against mine, and how he’d cupped the back of my neck in his palm, and—
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
I can’t keep doing this to myself.
It’s a ghost of a thought, and I’m quick to shove it into a box and lock it away in the back of my head.
I’m not ready to unpack that right now. Instead, I pat my hand over my tangled sheets until I find my phone.
I spend a long time drafting my message—I’m sorry about last night or I shouldn’t have done that or It won’t happen again—before I finally hit send.
Reagan:
What happened last night won’t happen again.
I watch the three dots appear over and over again for five minutes as Wesley types out a response. When his message finally arrives, it’s straight to the point.
Wesley:
Before I let that curdle in my stomach, I force myself out of bed and quickly throw on sweatpants and an oversized hoodie; it’s cold.
I make coffee, sit my ass down in front of my computer, and throw myself into the only thing I know will distract me.
I wander the wasteland alone.
As I run, my boots pound against the broken red earth, and I have to weave around the chunks of sharp clear crystal that punch their way up through cracks in the ground.
Entire islands of trees have risen from the earth to float dozens of feet in the air, roots dangling beneath them.
But it’s the bruised purple-and-pink sky broken by flashes of neon-green lightning spiderwebbing across the clouds that serves as the clearest proof of the apocalyptic explosion that killed my world.
All my friends are dead, I haven’t met another living soul for miles, I haven’t unlocked the reason behind the explosion, I have no idea if I’ll survive the night, and yet…
I’m bored.
I tap the nail of my pointer finger restlessly against the scroll wheel of my mouse. On the screen, my character stands silhouetted against the vast broken landscape, her signature red scarf whipping in the brutal wind.
I’ve been calling my NEWT game Afterwards. Inspired by the shit show of my last D I’ve worn it a hundred times myself in his position.
He’s smiling.
Before he speaks, he finally meets my eyes—I’m the only one looking at him, the only one who’s noticed his antics. I know exactly what sort of DM game he’s playing.
I can’t help it: I press my lips together in a small, private smile and nod.
His cheeks twitch, and though I don’t see him grin, I do see that dimple. Interrupting the others’ conversation, he announces, “As you arrive back at the interior of Garren’s chapel, you hear a scratching sound at the window.”
The others turn their eyes to Wesley, as if remembering for the first time that he’s there. Mona’s mouth hangs open, and she pauses where she’s been sketching out different plans of attack in her notebook.
After a stretch of silence, I pick up the thread, eager to see what he’s cooked up. “Sindra looks out the window. What does she see?”
“It’s night, of course—it’s always night—and difficult to see through the church’s stained-glass window.
Shadows flit past, and you hear the scratching sound again at the window’s base.
Then something thumps against the glass, shaking the window in its frame.
” Wesley smacks his fist down on the table.
Several sets of dice shiver at once, and I jump.
“It’s followed by another thump”—he hits the tabletop again—“and then half a dozen more.”
“Is it a bird?” Mona asks. She’s invested now, her notes forgotten.
“Lord Gullet?” Shay guesses.
Wesley shakes his head. “Moss, roll me a nature check.”
Mona picks up her dark green d20 and takes it for a spin. She hums, pleased. “With the bonus I get to add to nature rolls…that is a twenty-four.”
A resounding success, by every definition. Wesley clears his throat and leans forward.
“From the size of the thumps and the high-pitched screeching sound, Moss is able to recognize exactly what sort of animal this is. You know that these are bats, and your suspicion is confirmed at the very moment that the window shatters.”