Page 7 of I’ll Find You

I even pull up the third-year medical student curriculum, scrolling through rotation schedules until the words blur. Clinical rotations, off-sites, and hospitals—I mean, she’s probably not here at all. But I still hope. Hope that whatever brought us together once will bring us together again. Which is why I have been forcing myself to study in the library. Every day, I sit at the same table. The same seat close to the door, so that I might monitor the traffic, keeping tabs on those coming and going. Just in case it’s her.

I can see it so vividly it feels less like a daydream and more like a memory I'm reliving. I lift my head from my book as the library door swings open, letting a burst of frigid air inside. She steps through, muttering something about the cold, brushing wind-tangled hair from her face. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the winter air, a color that somehow suits her name. Then her eyes find mine, like they were always meant to. And for a second, the world stops. It’s just long enough for me to believe she came here for the same reason I did. But the door keeps opening for everyone except her, and I’m still staring at my phone, the one I still can’t bring myself to use to call Uncle Jameson.

Just as I am reliving this fantasy for the thousandth time, sharp, snapping fingers in front of my face break through it. A soft laugh follows, causing me to look abruptly at the source of it. I blink, disoriented. A woman is standing beside my table. She's pretty in a clean, understated way, wearing little makeup. She's also bright-eyed in the way people who sleep well and spend time in the sun tend to be. She’s smiling at me, hesitantly, almost shyly. But there is something purposeful in her posture. It’s as if she is giving herself an internal pep talk before she opens her mouth. Her teeth catch on her bottom lip as she hesitates, before deciding what the hell with a shrug of her shoulder. I wait on her, trying to look more present than I feel. Finally, her eyes meet mine.

“Hi, um,” she starts, voice wavering, “I was just wondering if maybe I could get your number? I see you in here a lot,” she flings her hand to the seat that occupies my bag, “by yourself. And I thought maybe you’d want some company sometime?” She wrinkles her nose as she says it timidly, almost apologetically, wanting to bow out. The freckles across her cheeks rise with the movement, and a warm pink flush spreads under them as she waits for my answer.

Footsteps approach from behind her, but I don’t look. My eyes stay on hers, even though a knot has already begun forming at the base of my neck. I reach up, rubbing the spot, stalling and collecting myself before I speak, trying to soften the rejection ready to leap off the tip of my tongue. She’s beautiful in her own natural way. She’s kind, too. But she’s not Rose. And the truth is, I can’t even begin to entertain the thought of anyone else. The need to find Rose lives beneath my skin, a constant hum I can never silence. Every part of me is drawn to the memory of her, desperate to know that what passed between us was real.

I need to see her again. I need to know that the pull I felt toward her was something that I didn’t imagine. I need her with a rawness I’ve never felt for anyone in my life.

“I’m Chelsea,” she says, holding out her hand.

I take it, giving it a brief, polite shake before pulling mine away. “Alex,” I offer.

Her reaction warms a little at my introduction. She tucks a strand of honey-brown hair behind her ear, shifting her weight from one foot to another, in a sheepish movement of someone not used to being this bold.

I sigh. “I’m sorry, but I’m kinda into someone.” She wrinkles her nose up as if she’s trying to sniff out a lie, and is being let down easily, but that’s not the case. I want her to know the truth. “I’m only interested in one person right now, and I am hoping to see where it goes.” She seems to nod at this and then smiles, albeit a little sadly.

“I get it,” she says. Just as I hear another woman call her name, she looks up. “Well…if things don’t work out…” she trails off, trying to recover from the rejection, “you know where to find me.” Her hand extends in a flourish toward the library. Before I can reply, the footsteps I heard earlier close in, echoing off the stone archway of the library entrance. Chelsea glances over her shoulder, offering me one last small wave before she heads toward the circulation desk. I watch her go, then turn my gaze.

“There you are,” the woman says to her friend, sounding more like a reprimand. “We’ve been looking for you. We’re about to leave.” When I lift my head, I see three figures approaching, but the others blur. My eyes lock on only one. Her sable brown eyes catch mine, and then all my breath shudders out of me. I feel as if she has pulled every molecule of air between us. She’s a black hole, a well of antimatter, and I’m being sucked in and now falling through it. Her eyes move from me to Chelsea, before darting away again. A small shake of her head betrays her attempt at nonchalance.

Fuck. Not again. I want to explain, but a man stands close beside her—his presence is offensive even from a distance. My eyes burn with molten fire when he wraps his arm around her waist and leans to murmur something into her ear. He knows what he’s doing, and I recognize that same face that was parked in my driveway mere months ago. His movements are too familiar and too possessive, so it makes me want to follow him out of here. She turns her face toward him, but her eyes betray her, straying back to me. Heat blooms at her throat, a faint blush climbing the elegant line of her neck. Jealousy claws through me. I want to rip his hand from her body. Tear his whole damned arm off for touching her. My eyes narrow as something passes between them, and the corner of her mouth quirks into a small, secret smile. It’s not for him, I know that. And it’s definitely not innocent.

“Game on,” I murmur, words meant only for her, though they never reach her ears. She arches one eyebrow. A challenge accepted with the faintest of movements, but I catch it anyway. It's a silent exchange between us. Then she turns away, and they all leave the library. The warmth leaves with her, replaced by a cold that creeps beneath my skin. I remain frozen, unable to do anything but watch the sway of her hips and her retreating silhouette until she disappears into the night. She doesn't look back. Not once. My knees give way, and I collapse into the chair. I drag both hands through my hair before pressing my palms against my skull, as though sheer force alone might keep me from splintering apart. Every part of me aches to close the distance between us, to reach for the woman fate keeps placing just beyond my grasp. Whatever exists between us is real. She may fight it, ignore it, even run from it—but I can't.

“She has a boyfriend,” I breathe out, wishing it to be untrue. It’s my confession, perhaps even a defeat. Only one question remains. Am I too late? A thought hits, a blade finding its mark, cutting through everything else until only the answer remains in plain sight.

I gather my things, clumsily dropping pens onto the floor before shoving them into the side pocket of my backpack. I push through the library doors, bracing myself against the cold air that burns my lungs. My breath billows into the night, drifting upward before disappearing into the darkness. As long as Rose exists, it doesn't matter how far away she is or how long it takes. I'll find her. I always will.

Realizing she might be slipping away, I follow the direction they took, my steps quiet, but my heartbeat is anything but. It pounds in my ears, keeping time with every step. I don't think about the damage or hesitate over what it might cost, because all I can focus on is the end. Her.

Up ahead, four shadows emerge beneath the glow of the campus lights. I trail behind them, keeping to the shadows cast by the old stone buildings. I stay far enough back that they never notice me, but close enough that I never lose sight of them. They move with easy familiarity, turning at the intersection and crossing toward the row of crooked houses lining the cobblestone street. I stop at a tree barely wide enough to hide me. I wait until they disappear around another corner, then stride forward. My combat boots thud against the stones, each step a movement closer to her. But when I get to the corner, they’re gone. The street is empty. Silent. As if they were never there at all.

I whirl around, scanning the street, the doorways, even the empty stretch behind me. But it’s as if they vanished into thin air. I remain there, dumbfounded, suspended in the moment. I hear the creaking noise of springs as a door opens. Then I see Rose striding out alone.

She steps out through a narrow pathway and moves toward a stack of metal mailboxes mounted on the side of the building. She sorts through the envelopes with practiced movements. She gathers them all, then, without warning, disappears behind evergreens. The door slams shut, echoing in the night. She disappears again, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve found her and I won’t let her go.

A slow smile pulls at my mouth. I lean against the street sign and glance up. Auburn Street, spelled out in large white block letters against faded green metal, mocks me. I've been unknowingly hunting for this street, and here it is, mere blocks from campus. I take one last look at the dilapidated building—its weathered siding, sagging porch, and windows so thin they glow with the light inside, offering little protection from the cold. The wind rattles the loose shutters against the siding, yet a single nail stubbornly holds them in place. I commit every detail to memory before turning back toward the library parking lot. This time, when I drive home, certainty follows me. Soon, she'll be mine.

Chapter

Six

Rose

“Who was that?” Maxwell asks as we turn the corner of the library. His hand reaches for mine, holding onto it possessively. He never bothers to do it in public, but now, he’s like a dog pissing on his territory, feeling compelled to do so, and it’s such a turn-off. Whether he suspects I know Alex or not, he’s not stupid. He could sense the way Alex looked at me with such intensity. And the way I tried to hide the rapid beating of my heart, not to mention the shocked sound I tried to stifle when our eyes locked on one another, his eyes dragging me back to the promises he made before I all but ran out of Dr. Flores' house. Does Maxwell remember him from that day?

The confidence Maxwell usually carries slips, now almost entirely gone. I get it, though. I can’t fault him because Alex is the tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome kind. The kind that women ache for. The kind romance novels sculpt into the perfect illusion of forever. Except I know that there is no such thing. I open my mouth to reply, but Chelsea answers first.

“His name is Alex,” Chelsea chimes, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers, her voice a grate on every exposed nerve. “I see him all the time in the library, buried in his textbooks.” She sighs, releasing her hair from her fingers as if fantasizing about him while clasping her hands together before she continues. “I figured he could use some company.” She beams, with all her cutsie freckles and asinine good intentions.

I snap my head toward her, irritation flaring hot beneath my skin. Normally, I adore her kindness. Right now, though, I want nothing more than to take one of the eleven-blade scalpels I use in the OR and peel that clean off her freckled, angelic face. I want to make her understand how badly she misread the situation because Alex is definitely not hers. How could he be? How could he belong to someone else when he looked at me like that? When every part of me still felt pulled toward him? How was it taking everything in me not to turn around and run back to him?

I scoff. “He’ll never be hers,” I mutter as Maxwell drops my hand. I must have been squeezing tightly with each internal truth I let slip from my mind.

Instead of saying anything about that, I blurt out, “You’re dating him?” My voice comes out a little too disbelieving and a little too growly. My shoulders are bunched up near my ears, tight with something dark and instinctive. I roll my shoulders back, forcing them down, as I try to coax the tension out of my body. I hadn’t meant to react that way, but hearing Chelsea speak about Alexander with that much interest sends something cold and calculating through me. Something that made me feel a little stabby.