Page 5 of Hunting Harbor

Forever.

Chapter Two

Harbor

Thestairwelllightflickersas I search for my keys, and I think maybe it’s just me, but it feels like my whole life is flickering—bright then dark, and suddenly very hard to see. I manage to find the right key just as the light goes out.Stupid, run down apartment. I open the door to a darker living room than I’d expected and nudge the thermostat up on my way past.Freaking freezing in here, what the hell!

Inside, I dump my mail on the counter along with my keys and set about starting some tea. An empty mug waits for me on the side table. A paperback is propped open on the couch. Their silent familiarity should soothe me, but instead I feel out of place. Like I’ve interrupted something private. Something’s off, a fraction of an inch away from how I left it. Like that time my brother ransacked my desk when we were kids, left everything just-so except for one perfectly stacked piece of notebook paper, bent at a corner.

But Ian isn’t here. He doesn’t know where you live.

Maybe that’s why I don’t believe it at first, when I see that the window by the fire escape is still locked. I twist the latch back and forth until it feels less sure, more like what I expected, and then startle myself with a sudden laugh. It’s just paranoia. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s like my brain is a snow globe someone keeps shaking.

The heat’s a little too strong now. A crooked picture frame taunts me from the wall with its charmingly slapdash arrangement. I nudge it back in line and bite my lip as I scan the room. Past the couch, past the table, past my battered blue armchair to my desk. My shoulders tense when I reach it, expecting—I don’t even know what. Chaos? Flames? Another freaky letter? But there it is, like nothing happened, like it didn’t crush me last night with its hollow, unsympathetic pages.

I run my palm over the wood, and the only thing that feels wrong is me.

So I whisper it out loud.

“You’re just exhausted.”

I swallow the words back like I’ll start to believe them if they only stick around.

Another too-loud laugh ricochets off the walls.

Another glance over my shoulder.

The corners of the room keep whispering things I can’t quite hear. Like maybe... no. Like I’m not alone.

“Exhaustion.” I mutter again, louder this time. Then: “Crazy.”

The shaking snow globe is heavier now, the fragments drifting more slowly as they settle.

I make myself relax, because the longer I stare, the more I see how irrational I’m being. I feel foolish now for thinking—what? That someone snuck in and polished the furniture? That they cared enough to open a few windows, give the place a little air?

The flutter of resignation in my chest feels a lot like relief.

The flush on my cheeks feels a lot like embarrassment.

A ghost’s trail on the air feels a lot like smoke.

Maybe the words just... never come back. Maybe the sanity doesn’t either.

The snow globe’s stopped shaking for now, but it’s still cracked at the edges. I’ve stopped trying to put the pieces back together and just accepted that I’m nuts.

It’s easier that way.

I grab my favorite ceramic mug and pour my tea, too hot, just right. It makes me feel alright, even if just for a moment. The smell of the florals, the taste of peace… tea always holds the answer. My hands clench around it like the familiar comfort might evaporate. The teabag bobs against the sides.

Leaning against my kitchen counter, the island looks cleaner than I’d left it, and I swore I’d put a notepad there. Walking around the side, I spot it laying on the ground.Odd.

But you know what? Fuck it. If there’s some random weirdo knocking notepads off my counter, have at er. The shit inside them isn’t useful to my cowboy romance anyway. Which… I need to start.

Eh, maybe later. Lighting my favorite candle, I take my tea to the living room.

I perch on the edge of the couch, and just think, scanning my apartment. My breath catches when I reach into the wastebasket and see the letter, even crumpled and smeared with ink. I smooth it open on my lap, feeling the rough creases snag against my fingernails. That same rush of fear—electric, sharp—trembles through me as I read the words again: “I want to destroy your pussy after you run screaming from me. Such a good little girl, just for me.”

Maybe it’s just me, but the line is either an incredibly bad joke or an incredibly bold proposal, and I can’t decide which option terrifies me more.

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