It’s still so surreal for me to think that I’m messaging with two guys at the same time. Two very hot guys. But it’s not like they’re attracted to me or anything. How can they be when they don’t even know who I am? Sure Nash looks up at my window when he’s here. But I’ve heard him say that he thinks something is wrong with me. He’s just concerned, it’s not attraction. My computer continues to ding letting me know messages are coming in. Since Nash’s thread is up, I look at his first, going straight to the last message.
To River: Are you there? I know what you need. A joke. What do you call a fake noodle?
To Nash: Sorry I’m here. Just got distracted with schoolwork and I’m talking to Holden too. By the way, does he know you’re messaging me? And for the joke. No clue.
To River: No, he doesn’t. I’m planning to tell him, though. Is that OK?
Is it? I don’t think he’d stop talking to me if it weren't. We don't have an assignment to do. I know some guy at their school has been bugging Holden like crazy to switch partners. Would he try to convince the professor to do it when Holden tells him? My fingers begin to twitch. The same familiar feeling I used to get before picking up a blade. I hate that no matter how much therapy I’ve had, the need to cut still hovers in the background.
To Nash: Yes.
Better to find out the answer now.
To River: Okay, I’ll do it later tonight or tomorrow. And the answer to the joke is Impasta. I can’t believe you didn’t get it. Hilarious, right?
To Nash: Only you would find that joke funny.
To River: Ahh, my heart. LOL.
I continue to bounce between chats with Nash and Holden for the next couple of hours before I tell them I need to go. I still need to finish getting my belongings together before we leave on Monday. By the end, I’m exhausted. As much as I want to keep talking to them, I need to get some sleep.
Turning off my laptop, I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. The only thing I can think about right now is my bed.
I push the chair back up to the desk and pick up my phone. I move through the living and kitchen area turning off the lights and making sure the door is locked. As I’m walking to my bedroom, my phone vibrates in my hand. When I look at it I see another message.
Unknown: You can’t hide forever in your little castle. Don’t worry. It won’t be much longer.
I immediately run to the bathroom, drop to the floor and throw up everything in my stomach.
What the fuck do I do?
Chapter 29
River
Idon’t know how long it’s been since I laid down. All I’ve been able to do is toss and turn, never being able to get comfortable or have my brain shut off. That fucking text has my body thrumming with anxiety and no way to relieve it.
My brain tells me the logical thing is to tell the guys, to tell Storm. But then all the reasons why I shouldn’t override it. There’s no doubt in my mind what they would do. They definitely wouldn’t let me leave this house, nor would they let the pack from Heatwave anywhere near me. My heat would be a bust, and I’d be forced to go through it on my own. And that’s not an option I want right now. Hell, they’d be worse than ever, watching me like hawks.
“I just need to get through my heat, then I can deal with this asshole.” I don’t know why I think saying it out loud will make it real to me, but it was worth a try.
I roll over on my side, beating my pillow with my hand, fluffing it up, before laying my head back down and sighing heavily. Closing my eyes, I press them tightly together and start counting, hoping that the mundane act would lull me to sleep.
It doesn’t.
Throwing back my covers, I let my legs swing over the edge of the bed as I sit up. My toes dig into the plush rug by my bed, grounding me. Seeing how I can’t sleep, I might as well get up. I make my way out of my bedroom, stopping and grabbing my cozy blanket from the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders. Warm milk should help relax me.
I move through my tiny home with ease, not needing to turn on a light until I reach the kitchen, and then it’s only the one over the stove. I’ve memorized every inch of this home over the last two years, so I don’t need any light to guide my way.
Opening the refrigerator, I take out the milk, pour some into my favorite unicorn coffee mug and heat it up in the microwave. Hopefully this does the trick. If not, I guess I’ll be one tired girl tomorrow. Not that it matters.
While I wait for it to heat, I think about how easily I could alleviate some of the stress I’m feeling over the text with a simple slice of my skin. I can already feel the familiar comfort of the blade piercing my skin, as a slow trickle of red seeps from around it. But there’s not a razor present in the house for me to console my anxiety with.
But there are knives. I’ve never used one before. There’s always a first time, though. I pull a knife from the block and let the end glide across my arm, with just enough pressure to feel the tease of the blade but not break the skin. It would be so easy to just press a little bit more and slice. To let the calm overtake me, grounding me in the present without any worry for what’s to come. It's almost as if I have an angel on my shoulder telling me not to cut, while the devil sits on the other reminding me of the euphoric feeling it will give me.
While the desire to cut is overwhelming, I remember the way I feel after, when I fade back to reality and the shame takes over. Falling back into old habits won’t help me. It’s just a temporarypatch. The problem, the mysterious sender of the messages, will still be there, lurking and waiting to torment me more.
“No. You’re stronger than this, River.” I slip the knife back into its slot and go to my desk and dig through the drawer finding an elastic hair tie, and place it on my wrist. I snap the band with my finger, grounding myself, forcing the urge to cut away.
