I’m Cassius.
Unknown:
That’s your name, but not who you are.
Do you not have a favorite book?Is that why you won’t answer?
Unknown:
These Is My Words by Nancy E.Turner.It’s not widely known but I read it at least once a year and have since I was young.
I close out of our messages and open Amazon.Her book is historical fiction.One of my favorite genres.I order the paperback before opening our message thread back up.
I just ordered it.What’s your name?
Unknown:
Melinda.
Melinda.
Now what, Lindy girl?
I can’t keep talking to her, can I?She could quit answering me.She hasn’t yet.
You wanna keep talking, Lindy girl?
Unknown:
About books?
About anything.
two
The desert airis too warm, even as twilight slips between buildings and smooths the edges of the city.My footsteps echo against the concrete, a solitary rhythm in the vast expanse of Las Vegas.
Everyone else left Silver State Publishing hours ago, drifting out with takeout menus and easy laughs.I stayed behind, telling myself I was unpacking my boxes and organizing files, which mostly looked like lining up my pens parallel to the keyboard and alphabetizing three stacks of manuscripts I won’t actually read tonight.But mostly, I didn’t want anyone to see how badly my hands were still shaking.Anxiety disguised as organization.If the spines sit flush, if the paperclips all face the same direction, maybe the noise in my head will quiet.
It doesn’t.Vegas hums through the walls, a neon heartbeat that never sleeps.
I told everyone I came for the chance to learn things on a smaller scale.Intimate.That’s true.It’s also not the whole truth.Mila stopped answering.Starting over felt safer than admitting I’m still scanning every lobby and crosswalk for my best friend’s face.
It wasn’t a bad day.Just a loud one.Fast.Unfamiliar.People here talk over each other, finish sentences that aren’t theirs, and make decisions on instinct and caffeine alone.
Before, when I was working in London, we scheduled brainstorming sessions like surgeries and emailed each other from desks ten feet apart.I wore heels and pressed dresses and never once worried someone would ask me to edit a manuscript titledMotorcycle Lust and Moonshinebefore I’d even found my computer login password.
Things are a lot looser here.Unscripted.I’m not sure if that’s freeing or terrifying.
In London, HR called it a misunderstanding when my boss’s comments kept insisting we close the gap betweenmentorandmine.People can vanish in a city this wide, and I need a bit of disappearing right now.
I lock my office door, check it twice, then once more because twice isevenbut three makes my chest loosen.Downstairs, the building’s lobby is a bright, over-polished aquarium.Outside, my street corner is the opposite, all flickering lights and empty sidewalks, the kind of quiet that makes every sound feel like footsteps creeping up behind you.
I parked my car in the garage at my apartment building and chickened out on driving the Strip today.I wait for a cab and tell myself tomorrow I’ll be braver.The lamp above me stutters, on, off, on, and throws a stop-motion halo at my feet.It probably once held a steady glow, but now is whimsical fluctuations.Each flicker brings a brief dance of shadows, creating a transient, almost eerie atmosphere.It was probably a mistake staying in the office so late.A creak behind me.I turn.A man steps into the light.Not a ghost.I wish he were.
Ghosts wouldn’t make my pulse miscount like this.They wouldn’t cast shadows or shift the air with the weight of their presence.This man does.He moves like gravity answers to him first.My breath snags.It’s half fear, half something I’m not sure what to name.If he wanted to hurt me, I couldn’t stop him.So I make myself follow the rules for panic: plant my feet, square my shoulders, unclench my jaw.Don’t fidget.Stay aware.Breathe.
I can’t imagine what he’d be doing here at this hour, but he could be thinking the same thing about me.My heart stumbles.Not quite panic, but close.I inhale the crisp desert air, which is suddenly colder than it was a moment ago.
