Page 14 of The Editor’s Choice

Chapter Eight

Jade

4:03AM.

Stretching my sore muscles, I try to piece together my evening while absentmindedly staring at the red blocky numbers on the clock on my nightstand. I remember getting into bed with a new book, strawberry daquiri in hand. I refilled the glass a few times, effectively finishing off the bottle. I remember being distracted and not really able to retain what I was reading. My next conscious moment was opening my eyes to those blocky numbers, body feeling heavy from the deep sleep.

All I can remember now are hazy dreams of Emily, seeing her face when we were kids, streaked with dirt and sweat, laughing and soaking up the summer sun. Dreams of our wedding days, the children we would raise together, and all the future goals between us. Those dreams quickly turned to nightmares as they were invaded with horrific scenes of blood and gore. The trail where she was found, the last few days of unanswered questions. I’ve been reliving it all in graphic, morbid detail every time I manage to fall asleep. The monster who took her from me is always there, but he’s hazy and out of focus on the outskirts.

Rubbing the sleep from my tired eyes, I feel around for my book, slipping the bookmark in to the last page I remember reading. After stumbling to the bathroom to relieve my aching bladder, I shuffle back to the kitchen for a glass of water and some toast, hoping to ease the morning hangover a bit.

Opening my phone, I’m greeted by several new messages. One from my mom back home, begging me to call and update her when I get the chance. Letting me know she’s worried about how I’m handling things. Blah, blah, blah. With an annoyed sigh, I scroll to the next message.

R: Hey, sunshine. Let’s catch up later. Wanna make sure you’re still breathing.

R: Ah fuck! That was inconsiderate. And awful. And rude. Fuck.

R: Sorry…

With a half-smile, I roll my eyes at his awkwardness. It’s almost endearing. It really does add to his charm to see him slightly uncomfortable when everything else about him seems so confident and self-assured.

J: What a prick.

J: Just kidding. I’ll call you later so you’ll have proof I’m still alive lol.

I make my way through the rest of the messages quickly, stopping when I see another text from Dawson. My earlier smile drops in an instant. He’s been adamant about meeting up to talk for the past several days, though I’ve been avoiding him completely. I just don’t have the mental space to deal with his bullshit right now, but it might be easier to just have the conversation and be done with it at this point.

J: Meet me at noon. The café.

Tossing my phone to the counter with a thud, I make my way back to my bed, determined to get some work done. It’s been days since I’ve even read my emails, let alone written a single word.

Five minutes into emails, I’ve already seen three rejection letters from editors. Skimming each one, I mentally catalog them to respond to later. With my mood quickly tanking and tears filling my eyes, I shut down the email, clicking back over to my latest project and begin to reread the last section with a lump in my throat.

I’ve spent the last decade writing religiously, though you’d never guess it from the insane number of rejections I’ve received. All these years, my only real goals have been to settle down and write a best-selling novel. It seems like both of those dreams have gone up in billowing smoke recently.

With all the recent distractions, my writing, and therefore my mental health, have been plummeting rapidly. Using writing for an escape from reality has always been my go-to, so I dive back in headfirst, barely pausing to take a breath it seems.

As the scene spills out on the page before me, my brain goes quiet. At least concerning my real life. I’m completely immersed in my fantasy world, character building, and plot expansion, leaving no room for Emily or Dawson, or even Roman. Nothing else matters when the words are flying from my fingertips at this rate.

Out of nowhere, my phone is blaring the scream at the beginning of Bat Country by Avenged Sevenfold, causing me to let out the most ear-piercing shriek that’s ever come from my body. “Fuck!” I swear, holding my hand to my chest in an effort to keep my heart from exploding from my body. I let out a deep exhale to try to calm my racing pulse before I make my way to the kitchen to turn off the alarm.

Mentally berating myself for the song choice, I slip on my shoes and grab a water from the fridge. It’s time to go meet Dawson and see exactly what the fuck is so important.

***

At noon on the dot, I take a seat in the corner booth at the little café in the center of town. The leather is cracked and chipping from years of use. This used to be our go to spot. We visited often throughout our relationship, both with and without Emily. Now those memories are all tainted, but it seemed like the right place for this meeting when I sent the text. Things started here, so it seemed fitting for them to end here as well. Now I’m not so sure.

But it’s too late, as I see Dawson swing open the door and hear the little bell chime above it.

I’d been wondering how it would feel to see him, knowing the things I now know but also having had some time to process Emily’s death and the utter chaos of the recent days. And all I feel is disgust. Gut-wrenching nausea, to be exact. He smiles when he finds me in the booth, causing bile to burn the back of my throat. His smile falters when it isn’t returned, and something sinister flashes in his eyes. It’s gone before I have time to process what I saw.

Doing my best to keep my face neutral, I wait for him to slide into the booth before folding my hands on the worn tabletop, keen to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“It’s good to see you, Jade,” he starts, the sadness evident in his tone. His voice is laced with it, but it doesn’t have the effect on me I had expected. Instead, a deep-seated anger starts to bubble in my chest.

The anguish doesn’t sound sincere, though I can’t pinpoint exactly what makes it feel off. His words strike me as nearly theatrical. Like he’s putting on a performance.

“What did we need to discuss?” I question, voice clipped.