CHAPTER EIGHT

CONSCIOUSNESS

( — the state of being; awareness of one's own existence, sensations, thoughts, surroundings, etc. )

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          THE FIRST THING ROWAN NOTICES IS HOW WARM ISLA IS. Not in a perverted way, as they both kept to themselves throughout the night, with Isla raiding his fridge and flipping through TV channels, while he stayed mostly focused on the book and Candy Crush Saga. He only notices it when his hand accidentally brushes against the side of her neck as he tries to wake her up.

          There are plenty of ways Rowan thinks she should be spending a Friday night and none of them are being in his apartment. Compared to the people she must be friends with, Rowan is pretty boring, despite his many qualities, and, even if she's suddenly interested in playing detective, he's not the right guy for the job. He writes about mysteries, but he doesn't solve them, nor does he have any interest in doing so.

          He even showed her the fire escape, after plenty of insisting coming from her, even though he had no idea why she was so interested in that thing. She said she wanted to check whether the view from there was as breathtaking as he had previously described, but tonight's just not a good night, especially for watching the sky and the stars.

          It would be, as long as the fog gave them a break, but it has been so thick lately you can barely see anything ahead of you whenever you look outside. Even the streetlights and glaring headlights of the vehicles circulating on the roads around town are barely distinguishable, having become mere blurs of light; if that's not saying enough, then Rowan doesn't know what is.

          Nevertheless, she was stubborn enough to make him concede and take her outside, wishing it didn't feel as intimate as it did—after all, he had let her enter his apartment, which he hasn't done to anyone else in this damn town, and his fire escape is, supposedly, the most personal of his personal spaces. It's supposed to be an exit, not a way in, but, as she set her hands on the metal rail, staring up at the cloudy skies, he couldn't open his mouth to tell her she should go.

          "You're blocking the view," she told him, after taking a step back.

          Rowan, leaning the small of his back against the exact place where her hands had been, crossed his arms and ankles. "I am the view."

          "God." She threaded her slender fingers through her hair and, somehow, the mixed scent of her shampoo and cologne reached his nostrils, even with the potent smell of smoke and the cheesy pizza Rowan's next-door neighbors had been eating outside earlier. He didn't move an inch. "I don't know why I even try."

           "Perhaps I'm a lost cause"—he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, the orange light of the flame briefly illuminating her face—"have you ever thought about that?"

           "I thought you were only being difficult at first, but then I realized you're just an asshole. Plain and simple." He threw her a smug smile, raising his hands as if to say, 'I told you so'. "I don't think you're the way that you are because someone broke you or because you're hiding something; I think you're the way that you are because you're entitled, pretentious and think everyone out there owes you something. In the words of Lady Gaga, you were born this way. I don't know, maybe you've gone through some bad things and maybe they've shaped you into who you are today, but they can't possibly be the only reasons why. You're simply too obnoxious for that."

          "Aw." Rowan placed his free hand on his chest, right above his heart. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever told me."

          "Tell me. Didn't your mom give you enough compliments while you were growing up? Bad break-up?"

          "Bad genes," he corrected, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette, wondering whether he should have offered her one or not, even though he had never seen her smoke. Then again, it wasn't like they had ever spent plenty of quality time together. "I have her temper. If you think I'm bad, wait until you meet her. But yes—to both of those things."

          The wind blew Isla's hair to the side, and she tucked strands of it behind her ears to prevent it from falling in front of her face, but it didn't do much. "So now you want me to meet your parents?" Rowan simply glared at her and her lips twisted into a mischievous grin, stretching her eyes. She looked like a cat, ready to catch her prey. "Dude. I'm just kidding. You should have seen the look on your face."

          He pinched his nose bridge. "You little—"

          "What, are you going to strangle me next, like what Homer does to Bart?" Isla laughed, the sound echoing around them. "If you don't mind me, I'll be heading back inside. It's really chilly out here, isn't it?"

          After she went back inside and found a comfortable place to sit—namely, his armchair, the one which already has the marks of his body carved into it—she must have been so warm it knocked her out almost instantly. Legs swung over the arm of the seat and her own arms crossed in front of her chest, she, once again, reminded Rowan of a cat.

          Sighing, he just let her be, moving his stuff to another couch just so he could get some more reading done instead of immediately calling it a night, but conveniently forgot she had drunk more than he did and shouldn't be driving, especially on such a foggy, dark night. However, as the clocks ticked, the feelings of dread creeping up his spine continued to grow.

          He wishes it was just thanks to the shady things unraveling all over Vofield, though that certainly is a big part of it. It scares him to realize there is stuff he can barely remember about the last couple weeks, even events that used to be significant. For example: he couldn't remember how Isla had helped him when he moved here. It's even worse knowing he forgot about the chain of events following the vanishing of ships and ferries, when that's something he knows he read about and wrote down somewhere.

          There's a whiteboard in his room, where he slaps post-it notes with relevant information, maps and connects stuff using strings of yarn like a true detective, but he's not one. Considering how much he cares about planning everything to the last detail when it comes to his writing, it's abominable realizing he's been slacking. It's either that or there's something here messing with his head.

          Maybe it's in the air.

          Maybe it's in the water.

          Maybe it's just in his head.

          So, when his eyelids grew too heavy for him to keep reading and worrying about whether his sanity had begun to deteriorate or not, he decided to go to bed instead of beating himself up over it. Truth be told, the past few days have been everything but calm and it's only normal for him to be forgetting things; he knows just how exhausted he is and the consequences it brings to him, especially on a cognitive level.

          "Isla," he calls, gently shaking her shoulder, and his skin burns on the place where it brushed against hers. She stirs in the armchair, groaning, but still keeps her eyes closed shut. "Hey, come on. Let me call you an Uber. You're not going to drive like this."

          "What are you, my father?" she mutters, almost curling into a ball, and Rowan sighs, with an arm stretched over her so he can set his hand on the back of the armchair. "Let me sleep."

          "In your dorm room. Is there anyone I can call to come pick you up? Your roommate?"

          "She's probably busy being all heart-eyes around Jude." Rowan wrinkles his nose, as he has no idea what Isla is talking about or who the hell Jude is, but he assumes it's the guy he saw at the library the other day, sitting next to Rhiannon. Either way, it doesn't matter. "I'll drive tomorrow morning, okay? I'm too tired—"

          "At least take the bed, then. Sleeping like this will kill your back, trust me."

          One of her eyes flutters open, the one on the side turned to face him, and he immediately straightens himself, with the electric current between them shooting up his veins. "You're worried about my comfort and well-being all of a sudden? Guess I should have come here sooner."

           "Don't push my buttons." Yawning, she swings her legs to the side, gently kicking his thigh to make him step aside, and stands up. She's strangely firm for someone who has just woken up, but Rowan is glad he won't have to carry her; it's not like she's heavy or like he has no upper body strength, but doing it would mean he'd have to cross a line he doesn't even want to recognize it exists. "Cross the hallway, and it's the first door on your right."

          He hates that he does, but Rowan follows her, just to make sure she doesn't fall or knock anything aside. She does everything so gracefully it leaves him feeling terribly self-conscious, as he's never that delicate when he's in the same situation as she currently is, but he forces himself to think about anything else.

          Something that isn't turning around to face her as she takes off her cape and sets it aside.

          "Do you . . . need a sweatshirt?" Rowan asks, through gritted teeth, and she hums in affirmation, with him still having his back turned to her, pretending to rummage through a closet full of blankets. He throws her a dark-blue sweatshirt, almost the same color as her jeans, and picks up a rolled wool blanket to cover himself while he sleeps on one of the couches. "If you need anything, I'll be in the living room."

          "Sure, boss," she whispers, sliding under the sheets of his bed. "And thank you."

          "Don't make a habit out of this," he warns, turning off the lights, standing by the door. "I don't want to get in trouble with your father."

          "If my father was the only thing that's stopping you, I'd be shocked."

          "What's that supposed to mean?"

          "G'night, Rowan." A rustling sound coming from the bed tells him she has just rolled to the side and, since her voice comes out a bit muffled, it's easy to tell she's lying stomach down, face against a pillow—his pillow. Rowan clenches his jaw. "Sleep tight."

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          "DUDE, IT'S NOT HAPPENING," Natalia states, firmly, and crosses her arms, with everyone around her doubting she'll ever be able to uncross them. Joanna sighs, shaking her head, Micah presses his lips together in a thin line, Muse doesn't say anything—though Rowan certainly is not surprised by this—Chase swings his baseball bat in an arch, and Rowan asks himself how in the world he ended up sitting at a table with the most random group of people. "I don't know what fantasy books you've all been reading, but it's not going to happen again."

          "But it happened the exact same way all those other times," Joanna insists, leaning forward across the table, and Natalia throws her a deadpan glare that could easily freeze her solid in her place. "It can't possibly be just a coincidence, right?"

          "Yeah, well"—Natalia sighs—"in case you haven't noticed, life isn't an episode of The X-Files. No one's out to get you and, sorry to say, your obsession with conspiracy theories is getting out of hand, Joey."

          "Mulder, it's me," Micah adds, earning chuckles from both Natalia and Chase, whereas Joanna sinks even lower into her seat, hands folded over her lap. Rowan shifts in his own chair, not really wanting to be involved in a conversation that doesn't concern him in the slightest, but the feelings of unease linger. "Besides, the events don't always happen in that exact order, do they? The one they wrote down is the most common one. We saw it happen the last time and I think the thunderstorm came first."

          "So this happens a lot?" Rowan questions, lifting his stare from his laptop to look at Micah, who sits opposite him. "You know. Tale as old as time?"

          "It happened last year," Chase replies, while Rowan still hasn't gotten used to his sudden niceness and eagerness to be helpful. Something about him feels sort of off, even though Rowan can't pinpoint exactly what it might be. "And the one before that. That year, I think it was the wolves. Even if it ends up being just a mere coincidence, it's still sort of creepy how the same things always happen, isn't it? People have gone missing and shown up dead, after all. That's not something to take lightly."

          They keep arguing about whether these events are connected or not and if all the steps will be complete, but Rowan quickly dozes off, realizing the conversation won't be of any interest to him. If he wants to know more, he can simply read about it instead of asking random college students for their opinions on the matter, especially now that he has seen how controversial this can be.

          Isla is the one who's worried about this. It's Monday and he hasn't seen her since Saturday morning, when she left his apartment . . . and stole his sweatshirt, but he doesn't really mind. He owns tons of those and, hey, maybe she'll return it eventually. However, there's still some awkwardness in the air between them, so perhaps it's best if they keep things that way.

          They're looking for different things. She's here to be successful and doing her own thing, only needing him to help her with whatever investigation she wants to dedicate herself to because she barely has any free time. He's here to work for her father, write that damn book and get paid. If anything, they'll only be using each other and he refuses to try to change her to make her fit the mold of whatever it is he's looking for. He refuses to treat her like some manic pixie dream girl and strip her of her dreams and ambitions, her personality, and her feelings, and, if keeping his distance is what it takes to accomplish that, then so be it.

          He's not brooding. Like she said, he's simply an asshole who doesn't know how to work with human relationships on the long run, which is pretty pathetic, but she's not here to change him or to help him learn a thing or two. They're their own individuals, with lives outside whatever partnership she wants them to establish to figure out exactly what's going on in Vofield, and he's not taking that away from him.

          Not after Jasper drained him dry. He refuses to make someone go through it.

          "I think you shouldn't get too involved," Rowan eventually says, looking at Natalia. "You don't want to ruin your face."

         She huffs. "You think I'm just a pretty face?" Micah's lips tremble with laughter and, from the corner of his eye, Rowan sees her. Not Natalia, obviously, but Isla, walking side by side with Rhiannon—who easily towers over her—and she's wearing his sweatshirt. "Listen, Carrie, this pretty face knows Krav Maga!"

          Rowan raises his hands. "I wasn't trying to—hey, what did you just call me?"

          "Carrie. After Carrie Underwood, obviously."

          Rowan scowls. "Isla."

          Chase shrugs. "What? The nickname is catchy."