Chapter Fourteen
Skye
It’s been one week of pretending everything is normal while my world has been completely turned upside down.
Seven days of Macey asking why I’m so distracted, of Adrian wondering why I keep staring off into space during our morning coffee runs, of professors calling my name twice before I realize they’re talking to me.
Seven days of replaying that night in the car until I can recite every word.
I perch on the edge of my bed, staring at the psychology textbook in my lap without seeing the words.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m studying human behavior when I can’t even understand my own.
A rational person would have gone to the police by now and filed a restraining order—and also changed their locks or moved apartments.
Yet here I am a week later, having done none of those things.
Instead, I’ve been analyzing every moment we shared, trying to separate the lies from the truth. But the conclusion I keep coming to absolutely terrifies me. I don’t want to forget them—I can’t—because for the first time in my twenty-two years I feel completely and utterly myself.
My phone buzzes with a text.
MOM
Dinner tomorrow at seven. Your stepfather wants to discuss what happened at the gala. Don’t be late.
There is no way I’m going.
I delete the message without responding, like I erased the other twelve messages she’s sent this week. I know what she wants to discuss: my inappropriate behavior at the gala, my rudeness to Preston, me disobeying Alexander and leaving with the guys after he told me to stay.
I stand up and walk to my window with a sigh. The truth is, I miss it, miss them. Miss the anticipation of not knowing when they’d appear next, the excitement of being hunted by someone. I miss feeling alive.
A knock on my bedroom door interrupts my thoughts. “Skye, are you okay in there?” Macey asks.
“Yeah, just studying,” I call back, even though the textbook lies closed on my bed.
“Adrian and I are going out for dinner if you want to join us. You’ve been living on coffee and granola bars all week.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
There’s a pause, then the sound of her soft footsteps retreating down the hallway. I know she’s worried about me—they both are. Yet how do I explain I’m mourning the loss of something I’m not even sure I should want?
Once I hear the front door close, I shuffle to the bathroom, glad I won’t have to answer any awkward questions.
After I’m done, I look in the mirror as I wash my hands, noting the uncertainty swirling in my eyes.
As I reenter my room, I turn to my bed and freeze.
There’s now an envelope on my pillow. Cream-colored paper, with my name written across it in cursive. It wasn’t there five minutes ago.
My heart races as I pick up the envelope and open it to find a single card inside.
You’ve had a week to think. We are coming to collect what is ours.
Now is the time to choose.
I sink down onto my bed, with the card clutched in my hand.
The smart thing would be to throw it away, change my locks, maybe even transfer schools.
To start fresh, somewhere they can’t find me.
But I’m so fucking tired of doing the smart thing.
Of living my life according to everyone else’s expectations.
What about what I want?
What about the girl who signed a contract asking to be stalked? The woman who felt more herself in the arms of masked strangers than she ever did in designer gowns?
What about the part of me that’s been waiting my whole life for someone to see through the carefully constructed bullshit and want what’s underneath?
I look at the card again. Screw it. I grab a clean dress off the chair in the corner of my room and get dressed.
The lights cut out, and my entire room descends into pitch blackness.
My heart races. This is it.