Chapter Thirteen

Chevelle




1. Figure out what I want to do with my life.

2. Figure out my feelings for River.

3. Get Caprice’s opinion on what’s been going on with River and me.

4. Find a job and a place to live. (I can’t stay here forever.)

5. Ki

The jiggling of the door handle brings me out of my thoughts. Glancing at my phone, I notice that River’s home early today compared to normal. Not that I’m complaining. I’m not particularly fond of staying here by myself but until I find a job or enroll in school or something, it’s just me and my lonesome self. All day, every day.

The jiggling of the handle again causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end as I get up from the couch.

“River?” I call out, “Is that you?”

There’s no answer, just more jiggling.

“River?” I hear something hit the door hard and know that it can’t be River. “Whoever you are, leave now or I’m calling the cops!” I shout as I rush over to the counter, searching through the drawers for something to protect myself with just in case whoever it is gets through the door.

A black handgun catches my eye at the back of the drawer filled with oven mitts. Why is there a gun with the oven mitts? I think to myself as I pull it from the drawer. On instinct, I press a button on the side and the clip releases into my hand, fully loaded. Shoving it back into place, I turn off the safety and aim at the door.

“I have a gun!” I yell, praying that whoever is on the other side will run off at the prospect of being shot.

Glancing down, I watch as something is slipped through the crack between the door and the floor. Reaching down, I pick up a folded piece of worn paper that appears to be some type of newspaper article with a sticky note attached to it. Removing the sticky note I begin reading the article.

A late-night accident on September 14, 2021 claimed the life of one, leaving another in critical condition and a third with only minor injuries.

Victims have been identified as Sierra Compton, age 21, deceased. Chevelle Daniels, age 20, who was transported to St. Anthony’s Hospital in critical condition. The third victim,############ , age 21, was treated and released at the scene.

An investigation is still pending as to the cause of the accident.

My heartbeat picks up speed as I read over the article, wondering who could have left it. Reaching for the door handle, I quickly pull the door open and rush out into the hallway of the building, hoping to find whoever left the article but there is no one within the vicinity that I can see.

Slowly, I make my way back towards the apartment that River and I share. Shutting the door behind me, I pick the article back up from the floor where I dropped it and stare at the marked-out name of the third victim, wondering who it could be and why the name was marked out.

Looking at the sticky note I read what the messenger wrote: “Rain-slicked roads may have washed away her memory, but the pieces of that particular puzzle will soon come together.”

After reading the note, I find myself even more confused as to why someone would have left it. Was it for me to find or was it meant for River?

Tucking the article into my back pocket along with the note, I make a mental note to ask River about it later.

⨳



Walking from the kitchen back to my room, I stop just outside of Rivers' door when I hear his voice through the cracked door.

I know that I shouldn’t be listening in, but I can’t help it. He’s been acting weird since I brought up the article later that same night that whoever slipped it beneath the door.

While we were sitting at the table eating dinner, I pulled the note and newspaper article out of my pocket and set it on the table. At first River looked confused as to what it was but once he read it and I began asking questions his look of confusion morphed into one of horror.

River’s answers were short and uninformative. He quickly cleared his dishes and left me at the table with even more questions than before.

There’s this uneasy feeling that creeps up the back of my neck anytime I think about it. I try not to. Honestly, I do. But no matter what, I can’t seem to get over how he responded to my bringing the article up or how he’s been acting since then out of my head. It’s the only thing that I can think about. It’s as if I have no control over my mind whatsoever.

The distance that he’s deliberately put between us makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong. Like somehow, I ruined us, and I hate it. He’s been spending even less time at home than he was before and when he is home, he makes it a point to keep away from me.

At first, I thought he was doing it for me after my freak out after what happened the night that he came home from the club but that uneasy feeling at the base of my neck doesn’t allow that thought to rest.

He said that it was okay and beautiful and natural and that nothing was wrong with what happened between us, so if that’s what’s got him acting like this, why tell me all of that?

And if it’s because of the article and note, then I don’t know. None of this makes sense.

Letting curiosity get the best of me, I peek through the crack, watching him pace back and forth, admiring the way the strong muscles of his back roll and flex with each movement. He stops in front of the window that faces towards the park, the light from the setting sun casting shadows across his profile.

“Dude, I know. Okay?” he sounds exasperated as he begins pacing again. I yearn to go to him, to give him comfort but I have to remind myself that for whatever reason, right now he doesn’t want me or any comfort that I can give him. ”I know… I just...” he hesitates, stopping next to the bed only to begin running his free hand through his hair. “I can’t do it, at least not yet.” he starts back up with the pacing, nerves rolling off of him in waves.

“I’m all…I just...” He stops talking, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line before nodding his head in response. “I know. I know. I’ll do it, I swear. I will. I just, I need time…” he heaves a loud sigh, stopping the pacing once again to run his fingers through his hair.

It’s a nervous habit that I’ve noticed and find incredibly sexy.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” The person on the other end starts yelling, although I can’t make out what they’re saying. “I said I got it, jackass!” he yells, disconnecting the call and throwing the phone across the room. “Fuck!” he growls.

His eyes are haunted; I’ve never seen them look like that before. Lost and as if they hold secrets that I couldn’t even begin to fathom. I can see how haunted he is even from my perch at the door.

Knowing I’ve overstayed my welcome, or lack thereof, considering that I should have never eavesdropped in the first place, I tiptoe back towards the spare room that he has set me up in.