Page 37 of I’ll Find You

Chelsea exhales softly, like she’s about to share something serious. Her lips purse. “I’ve been looking for you, Rose, and I was passing by and thought you’d be here since you might not have your car.”

Again. The thought slips in before I can stop it. She knew where to find me at the shelter. Now she knew I'd be here. A faint unease stirs in my chest. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm reading too much into it.

“What do you mean by my car?” I ask, interest piqued.

I look at her, and then at Alex, his arms crossed over his chest as he sits there silent. Always observing. Calculating. He heard that, too.

She leans in like she’s going to tell me something profound, secretive. “I was at the apartment packing up my stuff for winter break when Maxwell was there with Lucinda. He was livid,” she says, the drama reenacted through each sentence. “And…it wasn’t good.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my brow scrunching up in confusion.

“They got into it,” Chelsea continues. “Really bad. He was yelling at her. Accusing her of things.”

“Accusing her of what?” Alex asks.

“Of vandalizing your car.”

The words have the desired effect. “What?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Chelsea’s gaze flicks to me. “So, it’s true?” I nod, and she continues. “He was saying that he was in the dean’s office with you and Alex this morning,” she says lowly, though not hushed enough as to not be overheard. “He was convinced it was her,” Chelsea says.

I see Alex’s back straighten, but he makes no effort to say anything or ask questions that I know he’s dying to. “Said she was trying to—” She flicks her fingers in the air. “I don’t know, send some kind of message or maybe get back at you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Lucinda wouldn’t—” But I don’t continue. Would she?

“Oh, my God.” Her eyes widen. “Do you think Lucinda really did it?”

I shrug. Beside me, I can sense Alex studying her. When I look at him, he’s not confused. He appears focused, the cogs in his mind taking in all the information and processing it.

“Personally, I don’t think she did it,” Chelsea adds quickly, her tone softer and reassuring. “She seemed genuinely shocked. Honestly, she looked a little shaken.”

I shake my head slightly, trying to piece it together, but nothing fits together the way it should. The reasoning and the scenario, although plausible, don’t add up. It's like staring at a puzzle with one crucial piece missing. No matter how many times I turn the pieces over, nothing fits. Chelsea’s hand brushes my arms again, lighter this time.

“It’s just a lot,” she says gently. “I thought you should know.”

I nod, even though I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to. This all seems too weird. The people I thought I knew so well are nothing at all like the friends I’ve had over the past few years. But the worst part is that I don’t know what is real or not anymore. Things I’ve been seeing, the nightmares that wake me from sleep, and people whom I’ve known for years… I feel as though I’m losing my mind.

By the time we get back to the townhouse, the events of the day have taken their toll. We don’t talk much, trying to process everything we’ve heard and the news Chelsea hit us with at the coffee shop. Instead, we fall into routine, the kind familiar enough to get by when everything else is crumbling at the seams. The lights go out. Doors close, and I am lying there alone, in the dark, with just my silence and runaway thoughts.

The distance between Alex and me lingers, close yet still not what it should be. And that’s on me. It doesn’t feel the same tonight. I lie in bed, with sleep just out of reach, my thoughts looping easily, and I can’t stop it. Every time I close my eyes, something pulls me back to Chelsea’s voice, Maxwell’s name—God, even the way Lucinda would roll her eyes at me. And then, that same question. I try to ignore it, but my mind keeps circling back. If I had been different, maybe they wouldn’t have hurt me. Or am I the problem—the one who keeps choosing wrong?

The silence in the room is suffocating, and my thoughts are too loud. I know that I’m not going to sleep like this. Definitely not alone. I move quietly down the hall, where the house remains dark except for the faint light spilling in from the window in the living room. He’s there. On the couch, where he’s been sleeping in his own home, offering up the bed to me, so that I can be comfortable, because that’s the type of person he is. So different from the man I thought he was months ago. Every choice Alex has made since I came into his life has somehow centered around mine. I thought he was cocky, entitled, and a player, when he was nothing like that. I assumed, based on one instance, one initial encounter, that he was a certain way, when in reality, he was far from it.

Alex is already asleep, one arm thrown over his head, his breathing deep and even, like the world wouldn’t dare bother him. For a second, I just stand there, watching him. Something in me relaxes just being close to him. For the first time all day, I draw a slow, steady breath. I move closer, careful now, not wanting to wake him, but unable to stay away either. The couch dips slightly as I sit on the edge. He stirs almost immediately. He's suspended somewhere between sleep and waking, only vaguely aware of the world around him.

His hand moves before his eyes even open, finding my wrist, then sliding up to my arm and onto my cheeks, like he needs to make sure it’s me. “Rose?” His voice is rough with sleep.

“I can’t sleep,” I admit. That’s all it takes. He moves without question, moving over, making space for me like he expected me to be here. Like this was always going to happen, and he’s ready. I hesitate for a half second, then lie down beside him. The space between us doesn’t last long.

“Can you…” I start, then stop, the words catching in my throat. I swallow, forcing them out. “Can you hold me?”

There’s no hesitation. His arm comes around me immediately, pulling me into him, firm and tight. He doesn’t even think about it as he brings my back flush with his front. I rest my hand on his arm, and the other clasps me tightly, like he’s afraid I’ll leave—say it’s too much and walk away.

I don’t think he realizes that after this, there’s no more running, no more walking away, and no more questioning what I want. His hand moves slowly up and down my arm, and some of the tension leaves my body with it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low, still thick with sleep.

And this time, I believe it. I let myself melt into his warmth, into the steady rhythm of his breathing, into something that finally feels solid and real. For the first time all night, the noise in my head fades. And I don’t feel alone.