Chapter 1
of Thunder in the Blank Space
Potentially upsetting themes include : drug use, sexual violence, self-harm, suicide and mental illness.
Author’s note : Because this is substack and I can do whatever I want, I’d like to start with an optional orchestral overture for extra credit. I’m a pre-gamer, are you? Below is a song that joined me on many long meditative walks where I envisioned the story opening. How I’d wish to sound bathe the reader just before heavy red velvet curtains pull apart. The opening credits, if you will.
Please enjoy.
CHAPTER 1
The plane was nearly empty. The flight staff, robotic. Nobody sat beside me or in the rows conjunct mine. No snacks or drinks were distributed. A string-heavy film score seeped through my headphones, shrouding me in a meticulous curation of previously arranged significance. I let the album loop for the near 6 hour flight, my gaze hardly shifting from what lay beyond the window. Earth passed below. Bearing her vast swaths of dry, unpopulated lands. Periodically obscured by great castles of cloud formations fit for the gates of heaven or perhaps a portal into a world even just slightly better than ours. I fantasized the life I’d escaped might wither entirely in my absence. That a metamorphosis would dissolve me, mold me into something better.
As the shoreline waters revealed themselves, spread parallel to mazes of shaggy green mountains, the pilots announced their descent. I’d never been south of the border, save for one day on the shores of Cozumel during a cruise when I was 15. My friend’s 16th birthday trip included a ticket for a friend. I didn’t think that counted.
Peter told me he’d paid a local man named Guillermo to pick me up from the airport and gave me his phone number. My temperature was taken upon landing, the security check light for my bags shone green, and my phone had no service. I checked for wifi unsuccessfully, swallowed a purge of panic and slipped tensely through the barrier of loose taxi drivers. Ducking left and right to dodge the laminated hotel information sheets they shoved in my direction. I entered the modest arrival hall and scanned the crowd until a man’s eyes met mine. His long black hair hung tied in a low bun. His sun bleached t-shirt and jeans looked soft with wear, draped loosely atop an agile, athletic frame, not much taller than mine. The mask covering his mouth and nose was a flimsy navy fabric that appeared more for comfort than function. After a moment of shared inspection, we nodded at one another. I moved in his direction.
“Bienvenido a Puerto Vallarta. Eres Eve, verdad? You don’t speak Spanish, right?” He reached for my bags, saying, “Please, please.”
“Gracias. Gracias,” I said twice about the bags and his welcome. “Uh, yes. I’m Evangeline, or, sí soy Eve. Y, no. I don’t really speak Spanish. I’m sorry.” A sour prickling rippled up my throat. My palms ached.
“Oh, no, it’s good. I like to practice my English.” Guillermo spoke with a convincing assurance as I followed him outside to a petite yellow convertible truck.
“How did you meet Peter?,” I asked him from the passenger seat while he began to drive.
“Oh, there’s not many people in town now. A lot of people left during el filtro. The filter, you know. It is only gone today, on June one after two months of no tourists. Es que, most people rely on visitors for income, so. Y pues, Peter is—,” he searched for the words. “Hard to miss. Ah, you can leave your cubrebocas. If you like.” Guillermo freed one ear then the other and slung his mask around the rearview mirror.
I removed my N95, folded and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans. There was hardly any traffic on the drive towards our ultimate path north. We cruised out of the widely developed cityscape and into a portal of green. Guillermo informed me of his current pursuits to open a coffee shop with his wife in town where they planned to sell handmade jewelry and house plants. We stopped at a roadside nursery, a potential supplier, where he spoke for 15 minutes with the ancient owner. I took photos of a creaky guard dog who surveyed me through pale gold eyes. The jungled highway swung and dove through steep curving mountainsides. Sunlight poured from breezy gaps in arching canopies onto the small stretch of cement visible at any given time.
Guillermo turned left on the road marked with a sign that read Pueblo Mágico, and drove slowly down the cobblestone path into San Pancho. A trail of dust kicked up behind us. I wouldn’t have called it bustling, but there were people about. Most walked barefoot and wore thin flowing fabrics. Many were accompanied by an off-leash smiling beach dog. The main street was lined with worn paint jobs on buildings kept below two to three stories. A good number of the storefronts left vacant. We turned to the right and wove back through tight grids of brightly colored houses nestled all together in the hills. Mango trees dropped fruit along the way. More dogs dashed past free ranging chickens, their long pink tongues lolling and tails pointing up to the crisp blue sky.
“How long do you plan to stay in Mexico?” Guillermo asked me.
“Well my return ticket is booked for 10 days, but I can change it for free because of the pandemic policies. Now that I’m here, I’m feeling like that’s really soon,” I answered candidly. I knew I could never really love Peter, or sustain the performance of it, but my voyage suddenly felt entirely too brief.
“Ah, yes — you should stay more. Soon it will be the raining season. And, there’s more bugs, but is really beautiful. Everything comes alive, you will love it.” He stopped the truck and cranked the break into place. “Llegamos.”
Peter’s rental house, save for the terra cotta tiled roof, was hidden behind a fawn cement wall.
“Gracias, thank you for the ride,” I said as he placed my roller bag onto the unpaved road.
Guillermo drove away from where I stood at the arched wooden gate. I extended my right palm and pushed, finding it and the oversized door beyond it, unlocked. I stood in an open format kitchen, dining, living room. A clean mopped checkered ceramic floor splayed out in all directions. Peter was visible straight ahead, seated beyond the opened patio doors, poking on his phone. A rectangular soaking pool twinkled behind him. High built security walls camouflaged with dense varieties of palms and bright flowering plants ensured our privacy.
“Hey! You made it.” He smiled victoriously and arose from his chair. His hair was cut in an army like fade, longer on top. Dyed pink some weeks before as inferred by the half inch of silver sand roots. He removed his ear buds and attempted to mask the beam of gloating excitement. His lips trembled to suppress a grin as he blinked hard against wide eyed elation.
“Yeah, I made it. Guillermo was very kind. It was easy, thank you for sending him.” We shared a performative hug.
I had only ever seen Peter in New York. We’d met soon after I’d moved there as a 22 year old hopeful actress. He was born into wealth, raised in Manhattan and maneuvered like an expert there. At two decades my senior, our friendship was never exactly a conventional one, but we liked to do a lot of the same things. Eat good food, bought by him. Visit museums, talk about art and go to the movies. Peter stood a solid 6 feet with a meaty abdomen and skinny calves. Arthouse prison tattoos covered most of his body though he rarely succeeded at embodying the edgy, exciting man he presented himself as. At his core he was utterly uncool. And periodically lovable as such.
I was struck by how much older he looked. His posture had begun to reflect the weight of time. Nearly 7 years had passed since our first encounter. I’d seen him briefly a few months prior, and yet the man before me was more wilted than the one I remembered. As if privy to my thoughts, he made an effort to stand up straight, but there was a small dome built at the base of his neck disabling him. His head hung too far forward.
“I was thinking we could go to the farm,” Peter said. “You’ll really dig it. I’ve been harvesting all of my own produce since living here. They have a well that’s much better water than the chemically treated stuff you can get in town and we need to refill.”
“Alright, that sounds good.” I idled with my bags, unsure which direction to head.
“Do you want to shower or change or anything before we go? You might be hot in those jeans, but up to you.” Peter stood with his toes pointed in opposite directions, both hands on his hips. A bead of sweat dripped down his neck. He swiped it away before drying his palm on his tie-dye shirt.
“Ah, yeah a quick shower might be nice,” I replied.
“Okay, so that room there, past the bathroom—” he pointed beyond the living room, “is where my housemate Emmanuel stays, but he’s out of town for now, and so Heather and Diego will be staying there. Did I tell you about them?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so.” I followed Peter as he passed through the patio towards what revealed itself to be a separate building made up entirely of his master suite.
“They’re my friends from Mexico City and they’re getting here later today. I think you’ll really like them. They’re a really sweet couple and very fun. So they’ll stay in Emmanuel’s room while he is gone and you can bunk with me in here.” He gestured to the kingsized bed professionally wrapped in a finely woven cream comforter with four crisp white oversized pillows, then to the sitting area beneath the arched brick ceiling, and finally the bathroom. “Feel free to get cleaned up, I’ll wait for you in the other house. Oh, do you want the wifi? It’s unreliable, I’m trying to get it fixed.” Peter handed me a plush folded towel, gave me the password so my phone would potentially work and left.
The shower was more than spacious, host to three different shower heads. Only one was necessary to wash my face and body. I wrapped the towel around myself, tucking it to free my hands, and paused to evaluate my reflection in the mirror. I wasn’t entirely pale, that was good. At least not in contrast to the platinum bleach of my hair, grown out to my chin. My eyelids were still a little puffy from the bout of tears they’d cried the night before. The whites were tinged an irritated pink, in contrast to my gunmetal irises. But I didn’t want to think about that, about why. I dismissed my image, tossed on a small tank top, denim cut offs and sunglasses. Opted for socks and worn ankle boots over sandals.
My phone buzzed, finally catching signal. A text from my parents with photos of my dogs, proof the pair of them were happy and safe. A stab of guilt and longing at the sight of my favorite creatures. Another few messages from my best friend Faith, Driving to the gorge today, wish you were here. You make it to Mexico?? Did you kiss the old guy yet?
Then three more messages— from Thomas. A wave of clamminess crashed over me at the sight of his name. The artery in the left side of my neck bulged with an increasingly forceful pulse. Hey. Then, Did you block me? And finally, Hello?
I immediately swiped out of the messaging app and pocketed my phone. A welling of hot tears threatened to spill. My throat shrank. My eyes shot back towards the mirror, glassy and panicked.
Get it together bitch, I begged. I used a couple squares of toilet paper to dry my lower lids, cleared my throat and returned to Peter.
“Let’s go,” He said, and I followed him to the golf cart parked out front in a daze.
We wove back through the cobbled streets. The smell of paradise entrancing us. Ocean water, jasmine, citrus and coconut. My chest swelled, lungs expanding to take in every possible whiff. In silence, I invited the new world to flood every sense. To make me forget. Not a moment later, my breath caught. The pain from loving Thomas dragged me downwards. Memories flashing — none of them bearable, good or bad. I pressed the base of my palm against my forehead.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, just a headache all of a sudden. I’m sure it’ll pass.” I took a sip of the water bottle he had stashed in the cupholder.
“Probably the pressure changes from flying,” he offered.
“Yeah. Probably.” I gave a weak smile as if comforted by the revelation of his assessment.
We crossed the jungled highway and took a series of dirt roads headed inland for about 10 minutes before arriving to the farm. The hills that surrounded it were dried a crunchy looking brown. A small group of angular men in plaid button downs and cowboy hats sliced mangoes next to the chicken coop constructed with mismatching planks of wood. They looked up upon our arrival.
“Hola,” Peter sent their direction. All faces turned unaffected, back to their work and gave no reply.
A woman I’d guess was in her late 30’s strode towards us with short voluminous honey blonde hair and sun drenched skin. “Hi Peter. What do you need today?” She spoke with an accent I couldn’t quite place.
Peter introduced Nora and I, and we all walked towards the garden gate where he took a basket from the stack beside it. I followed him to the hibiscus bushes that were in season with rubbery anemone shaped fruit, shaded a dark bloody rhubarb. We plucked and piled them together in the basket to boil later for iced tea. Tons of small crimson beetles found their day greatly disrupted as we shook and flicked them off. When Peter sensed no one could hear him, he relayed that Nora owned the property with her Mexican husband.
“She met him working on a weed farm in California. Murder mountain they call it. It was just her and 6 Mexican guys.” His eyes widened. “She had to like, bathe in a river and sleep in a sleeping bag for months. And then she fell in love with the jefe and they got married. Can you believe that? She’s hardcore.”
Peter grew bored of asserting effort after the hibiscus harvest, so I joined Nora to gather the rest of our shopping.
“You know, one day you’re going to have to learn to do this part yourself,” she said to him, rolling her eyes. Then to me, “Let’s go this way to the arugula first.”
I was significantly impressed by Nora. Struck by the intensity of her effortless beauty. Her fluency with the land and crops rooted her appeal in a practical knowledge and severe sense of proficiency. Her confidence came so easy, despite her position in a foreign territory. She spoke spanish to the farm employees with proper ownership of the words.
“Where are you from originally,” I asked her on the way to the rows of herbs.
“Ah, Finland,” she answered. “Where are you from?”
“I live in Nashville now, but I’ve only been there a couple of years. I was in New York for a while, but I grew up on the east coast, so. Yeah.” I took off my sunglasses to clear away the sweat stinging my eyes.
“And you like living in Nashville?” Nora asked.
“Uh, well, honestly not really.”
“Why not? What do you do for work?” She took a bandana from her pocket to wipe down a pair of long silver sheers.
“I guess I’m just not finding a lot of inspiration in living there at this point. I bartend and paint. But I’m furloughed from my bar job while everything is shut down.” I left out the bit about my life having descended into habitual, predictable self-destruction. Necrosis of the heart. Thomas.
“Oh, so where will you go next?” Nora asked, falsely assuming I had a plan.
I wanted to give an answer that would win some evidence of her approval. Flinching at the thought she might group me in with Peter. Might consider me entitled, incompetent, out of place. I tried to think of ways to behave or things I could say that might make her see she and I were alike. I wanted to find a reason to tell her I grew up working on horse farms because my family couldn’t afford to pay for lessons. That I’d collected and dumped thousands of wheelbarrows of horse piss and shit in every sort of weather. I wanted her to know I’d gone trekking in the Alaskan wilderness when I was 19. I too bathed in rivers, I slept on Earth. But she’d been around enough of the world, I could tell. Seen it from its varying angles. She could see plainly what I was. Lost.
I answered her honestly, “I don’t know.”
Nora led me through the plot of land and we picked arugula, kale, butter lettuce, parsley, fennel, peppers, thai basil, and light green spiked nubs she told me were called devil’s cucumber. We pivoted to the chicken coop. Out of the twelve eggs in our carton, one was enormous and purple. The water jugs were filled and waiting in the cart.
“I’m starving,” Peter complained after paying for the haul. He chomped twice on the last sliver of mango in his hand and swallowed hard. “Let’s go eat something in town.”
*
Peter and I sat opposite one another at a narrow wooden table on the sidewalk in San Pancho. His initial excitement for my company had already been replaced by an aggravated restlessness. Every moment that passed without his being fed, Peter’s capacity to be charming or polite corroded. Julia was a young Italian homeopathic healer who kept residency of a small shop to assess and treat her clients and sell the things she made. Holistic tinctures, balms, bug sprays, along with a limited number of lunches. We waited for her to reheat the curried lentils and rice on the portable hot plate.
“Julia, how long does it take to heat up food? I don’t get it. What kind of business are you running? Should we go somewhere else because this is ridiculous.” Peter developed a lisp when he spoke angrily.
“No. It’s fine,” I spoke in her direction, then turned to Peter. “We’ve been here less than 5 minutes, what is your problem? You’re being rude.”
“I’m not being rude,” he defended.
“You are. It’s embarrassing. Calm down.” I didn’t hide my look of disgust. Considered for Julia’s sake that maybe I should take him somewhere else.
“Well, I’ve been sick actually. Really sick from food poisoning. For almost a week. I thought it was getting better, but it’s getting worse and I haven’t slept great. I went to the doctor in Puerto Vallarta, but it didn’t help. I’m going to have to go back now. I’m just stressed about what to eat and not eat and, you know. I guess the stress is making me come off rude apparently.” Peter frowned, feeling sorry for himself.
Julia brought our bowls of food and spoke with a shaky voice, “Peter, it is not ok when you speak to me like that. And in my own shop. I am working and cooking food for you and you just want to make me feel bad. I don’t understand why. It’s not nice, and I don’t want you to come back here if that is how you will be.”
He finally apologized. It seemed at the time like he’d meant it, but as we pulled away in the golf cart he grumbled, “She’s so serious.”
An audible scoff broke through my lips. “Well maybe she doesn’t know you well enough to know she can just tell you to shut up and have a little patience when you start harassing her.”
“Right. Well, I’ll show you the stores that are open,” he said in a brighter tone.
Peter took me to the cacao shop. He bought us each a paper cup of chocolate water and a piece of bitter dark chocolate for me. We wandered into the surf shop next door. I entertained myself at the hat rack. Pulled a red bucket hat pattered with little white rabbits over my head.
“That’s cute,” Peter said from the swim trunk section.
I tightened the strap until it was snug under my chin.
“I need to find gifts for my nieces. Can you help?” He asked.
After a quick scan of the place, I migrated to the table displaying delicately beaded accessories handcrafted by the Huichol people and stacks of traditional Otomi embroidery wallets, make up bags, sunglass holders, change purses. I narrowed it down to a pair of micro beaded flower necklaces and two change purses. One embroidered with a hummingbird, the other a dolphin.
“How’s this?” I asked, holding out my finds.
“Perfect,” Peter said with hardly a glance. “Pick one of each of those for yourself too.”
“Because I’m also a little girl?” slipped out of my mouth. It’d played in my head as an insult. The tone of delivery mimicked one of flirtation. I was horrified.
“Or pick something else if you want, or not, I don’t care.” Peter pulled out his wallet and stared blankly at my balking.
In a hurry for the scene to play out, I grabbed the closest change purse and flower necklace. Delivered all six to the register where he waited. With one swift yank, Peter ripped the tag off my hat, which I’d forgotten was still on my head, and added it to the pile of things to be rung up. Thankfully upon further examination, I was quite fond of the blind grabs. The small pouch stitched with a yellow green snake and the wispy beads of cream and caramel.
Peter toured me through the most central roads in search of more available activity. He pointed out the local butcher. “Should we get steaks to grill one night with Heather and Diego? That sounds good, right? Do you eat meat?” He asked.
“Sure. Yeah, I do now. I didn’t for years, but then I felt like I was dying or dead basically already, and the acupuncturist I started seeing told me I needed to eat red meat medicinally. He said I was blood deficient, so it was either eat red meat or take a million supplements. I get really bad periods too and it’s supposed to help with that.”
“Oh—kay.” Peter responded. He might have preferred a simple yes. “This is the spa I go to,” he said as we approached what looked to be a boxy two story stucco home, painted white. The cart stopped beside a chalkboard sign advertising skincare treatment, reiki and private yoga. He shouted towards the open balcony doors, framed with ropes of flowering ivy. “Iris! Iris! Come to the window.”
She did. She was beautiful. Full lips and soft eyes. “What do you want, Peter? I am busy,” she said with a laugh and disappeared.
Nearly all of the women in town were unusually attractive. Tan, relaxed, confident with healthy shining hair. I made a mental note of the churro stand by the soccer fields. Peter waved to a man in a wheelchair on his porch and informed me how he and his son were both affected by the same spinal deformity. They sold peanuts and waved hello to the community all day, alongside an oversized sleeping pit bull.
When we returned to the house, Peter suggested we rest before the guests arrived. I stepped into the bathroom as my phone started to buzz with a series of notifications.
Faith had written, Text me back so I know he didn’t sell you into the sex trade please.
Thomas must have seen his messages marked delivered. He’d sent another one. What’s up?
My lungs stiffened as I considered the best reply. I wanted to shred him, or to answer cooly, unbothered. I wanted to tell him the truth. Silence was the only safe option and the most suitable punishment I could imagine, so I replied to Faith instead. I’m fine. No kissing yet. He has food poisoning lol. Then, Fucking Thomas texted me.
With only seconds passing she sent, OMG. What did he say?
I wrote, Literally nothing. Had me blocked for three months just to reopen with,“What’s up?”
Well obviously he was always going to come back. What are you going to say? Faith fired off.
No idea. Nothing? I was crying about it all last night. Just want to move on at this point.
I switched my phone to do not disturb and returned to Peter in the bedroom. We laid on the mattress for a few minutes without touching before the gregarious warmth of Heather’s voice introduced itself through space. She was American, half a decade older than me and a good 4 or 5 inches taller, dressed in a vibrant assortment of colors and patterns. Diego grew up in Mexico City, matched Heather’s height, seemed about the same age and dressed with equal flamboyance. It was decided we’d all change clothes and go immediately to the beach.
Peter drove the four of us in the golf cart up the coastal road towards the north end of town. He parked and directed us to sneak around the forested borders of a large iron gate, chained and padlocked. We obeyed. I had never seen a more appealing driveway than the one the gate concealed. Flat, smooth gray stones shouldered together and roamed downhill, off to the left and out of sight. The sky wore an elaborate mask of palms and spikes from the walls of greens so high, they curved over head. Thick spiraling vines stretched between the vaulted branches and bird calls I’d never heard before echoed for miles.
The driveway led us to two coastal mansions, both empty of occupants. An effectively private beach stretched out its soft golden belly, cupped on either side by rocky cliffs broken down into surf. A line of lanky coconut palms shushed and swayed along the border of grass and sand. We dropped our things there. The consistent pounding of waves had me uncharacteristically nervous to get in. Large swells broke vertically and plunged directly into the sand. The tide pushed fast up the bank, then receded with urgency to deliver another rough crash. Peter said he spent an hour in the water everyday no matter what and waltzed right in. Heather, Diego and I charged under the next big wave and swam hard past the break.
I was surprised that the water was not nearly cold. Not at all. I stayed perfectly warm, floating in a world of wet pulsating silk and salt. The colors above were pulled from a palette of faded pastels. Robin’s egg blue, smokey lilac and dust rose. I surveyed the craggy edges of the hills that dropped into water. Sparse windblown trees clung atop them, fluttering their hardy leaves. A school of fish swam around and past me. Flashes of silver met the surface then just as soon dove. I immediately forgot anything that anyone said during that swim, if I ever registered it at all. There was an uplifted sense of ease brought into to my being. I studied the novelty. A profound feeling of belonging coursed through me. Not exactly that I belonged in Mexico per se, or with the company at hand, but rather I belonged inside myself; inside that moment. The relief that paired itself was immense.
Timing my return to shore proved more challenging than departing it. I waited for the right pocket and only suffered a minor tumble before I could stand and trudge quickly through the forceful ebb. Diego got worked a bit more than the rest of us, but we all survived and exchanged uncensored smiles. I decided I liked the couple very much. They came off as silly and carefree. Quick to laugh and with a playfulness between them I found increasingly contagious.
I wondered why Peter hadn’t kissed me and when he would, besides having no real desire for him. I’d endured too much heartache to go on holding out for something real. I thought of Thomas, who I no longer believed ever truly loved me back, the hard earned failures before him. At least Peter provided something different. No great risk of loss. No emotive mysteries or potential for hurt feelings between us, we were both in on the game.
Peter made it back first to the grove of palm trees where we’d left our clothes and towels. He turned and observed my approach. Backlit by gold and water still dripping, I coaxed my face into a coy little grin. He spoke, “Aren’t they a sweet couple?” His eyes were stuck, their focus tracking over my shoulder.
I turned to see Heather and Diego as they exchanged tender kisses halfway between the water and where we stood. I answered, “Yes.” The sky melted behind them, a dome of buttery yellow.
We stopped at the bodega-like store on our way home and got limes, ripe avocados, garlic, bananas, a hot snack mix picked by Heather, and three bottles of wine picked by Diego and I. Peter and I showered together before dinner without touching. Made easy by the multiple, well spaced shower heads. I felt a subtle thrill from our mutual nakedness. Shamelessness. Neither one of us made a show of eyeing the other too closely. He finished before me and left without ceremony to get dressed.
On his way to join Heather and Diego in the kitchen, he poked his head back in. Gestured to all of his skin oils set out on the bathroom sink and told me they were available for my use. With the water turned off and a towel wrapped around me, I examined his selection. In the cabinet below the sink, I found his box of half gone condoms alongside lube, partially filled prescriptions of Mexican viagra and testosterone gel. I didn’t care that he’d lied to me before my arrival, about not having sex recently. I never fully believed anything Peter had to say.
I debated whether or not to check my phone and passed on the impulse. I put on a new dress. A soft, long blue wrap with a deep v neck, and some of my lavender pine forest smelling perfume. We smoked a little bit of weed while Heather and Diego peeled the shrimp. I drank one beer and switched to Peter’s choice of fresh hibiscus tea until wine with dinner. The butter garlic shrimp pasta Heather made tasted especially delicious after the long day of travel and sun. I sat quietly while she and Peter carried on. They seemed to know one another well. Had plenty of personal details to reference in their respective lives. An assortment of shared memories transversing a span of years. At Peter’s request, Diego described to us his recent hallucinogenic toad secretion journey facilitated by his shamanic sister. He’d traveled through colorful geometric dimensions. His body disappeared and he became one with all of existence in a timeless plane of light. He was left with feelings of deep peace and pure excitement for life. Giddiness trembled through me as I considered expansive mystical ventures.
*
“I’m having stomach issues, so I’m going to be in here for a little bit. Sorry if I wake you up a lot to go to the bathroom,” Peter stood paused in the doorway, a string of floss held taught between both pointer fingers just below his chin.
“That’s okay, sorry you don’t feel well. I can sleep with my headphones in.” I put both buds into my ears, not ungrateful for a wink of solitude.
I held my phone too close to my face and stared at Thomas’s messages. I typed, I know everything, then erased it. My right hand maneuvered without my direction, under the influence of some invisible force. It tapped on his contact information and then it pressed block. An exhale blew forcefully out.
I laid silent and alone on the right side of the firm, wide mattress. Without any consideration as to why, I was embraced again by the unmistakable sensation of belonging. A creeping notion hinted that everything surrounding me held significance. I’d been led into a realm of clues, signs and messages. Only the meanings of which, I hadn’t the slightest idea how yet to decode.
end of chapter 1
I love your writing, thank you for sharing - can’t wait for chapter 3 + 4!!!!