Page 100 of Dare To Live

I kick the door closed, walk into the living room and dump everything on the coffee table. My gym bag, I leave on the floor. Toeing out of my sneakers, I head for the bathroom. After a quick shower, I pull on a clean pair of yoga pants and Eli’s old black hoodie.

I grab the remote and find my usual sitcom on repeat, and collapse onto the couch. The television fills the silence, the noise making me feel less alone. It’s been a long week, and my boss has been brutal with his criticism. Not only has he made me work late two nights in a row, but he also added a list of new pieces. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to make me go in over the weekend.

My attention lands on the parcel I dumped on the coffee table, and I reach for it. There is no sender’s address, just my own.

Could it be from my mom?

She hasn’t mentioned sending anything recently. I rip it open, carefully. There’s a plain box inside, and I tug the lid open. Packaged inside that is a wooden box with the image of a chessboard printed on it.

With a gentle push and pull motion, I get it out and lay it on the coffee table. As I run my fingers over the smooth surface, I find a tiny handle for a drawer underneath. The black and white pieces are nestled inside. I examine each one and place them in their positions on the board. When I’m done, there’s a gap. One of the white pieces is missing.

I search the box and the packaging, but there’s no sign of the white knight. I check beneath the table to see if it’s slipped out but it’s not there, either. There’s no note or message to say who the chessboard is from.

Eli?

I chew on my lip and eye the gift warily. It’s unconventional enough to be something he would send to me.

Is this his way of saying he still wants to play?

I pick up my cell to text him, and then pause. What if it’s not from him?

Head full of questions, I put the chess set away, and turn my attention to the rest of the mail. I skim past the few bills, tossing them onto the table. The last envelope is thick, white, and looks expensive. My name and address is typed neatly on the front. I rip it open and pull out the sheet of paper inside. The first thing my gaze lands on is the golden shield, with a crown above it and the letters ‘CBA’ inside at the top of the letter.

Everything inside me turns to ice. For one full minute, I think my heart stops beating, before it lurches back to life and bangs like a trapped bird behind my ribs. Nausea rolls in my stomach.

This can’t be real.

I close my eyes, then open them again, but the crest and the Latin words I don’t understand are still there. My gaze falls to the first line.

“Churchill Bradley Academy invites you to a reunion for all those who … What the hell? They can’t be serious.” I drop the piece of paper on the floor as though it burns.

Reunion? The school wants us to come back.

I lunge up off the couch in shock and press a hand to my stomach. My hands are tingling, and my vision blurs. The voices on the TV are blocked out by the rushing sound in my ears. Somehow, I make it to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet. On my hands and knees, I curl up on the floor and fight to breathe.

It’s dark, and I can’t get out. The walls won’t move. No matter how loud I scream, no one can hear me. He left me here. I’m going to die. I can’t get out. I can’t … I can’t …

I’m not sure how long I stay there, caught in the flashback. But when awareness of my surroundings does filter back in, I’m shaking and exhausted. My cheeks are wet with tears. I tilt my face down and bury it into the material of the hoodie. Eli’s scent has long faded but having a piece of him close to me still brings me comfort, and I can pretend I can still smell his cologne. The panic attack fades, but the unsettled feelings it leaves remain. I haven’t had one this strong in years.

I peel myself off the floor slowly and return to the living room on shaking legs. Unable to bring myself to look at the letter on the floor, I grab my phone off the table instead, and move into the kitchen. I sink into one of the chairs at the table.

With a quick scroll through my contacts, I tap on the number I’m after.

He answers on the fourth ring. “If you’re going to ask me out for lunch, I’m available.”

I lick my lips. “Miles, did you get a letter?” My voice is shaking.

“A letter?”

“From the academy.”

“Bella, what are you talking about?”

I focus on forcing out more words. “They’re inviting our senior year back … for a reunion.”

“What are you—”.

“Bella, we’re coming over.” Ivan’s voice replaces Miles’. “We’ll talk then.” He ends the call.

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