CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHIMERICAL

( — created by unchecked imagination; fantastically visionary or highly improbable. )

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          AS EXPECTED, ROWAN BARELY GETS ANY SLEEP. It's not because Jasper snores—which she doesn't—or because he had too much to drink—which he didn't. Instead, he's still losing sleep over the same reason, being on his toes almost constantly and worrying about what's going to happen next. Installing surveillance cameras inside the apartment would be an expensive, yet good idea, but he doesn't know how he'll explain that to his landlord when it's time to pay for next month's rent.

          He has already paid for this month's because money is one of the very few things he's still responsible for. Considering he writes everything down, not just stuff related to the damn book, you'd expect him to write down the deadline to pay for rent—that's why he's never late with it, with his landlord telling him she wishes the other tenants were as considerate as he is.

          It's one of the few personality-related compliments he has gotten since his arrival. It doesn't bother him nearly as much as he thought it would, with the rest of them revolving around his writing, but, then again, his writing is the reason why he's in Nova Scotia. He didn't get the job thanks to his charming personality—though his competitors seemed to be a lot worse than him, despite him having held back during his interview with Gabriel—so it truly doesn't matter.

          Next to him, Jasper stirs on the bed, with an arm lazily slung around his waist. She sighs softly against the nape of his neck, raising goosebumps all over his skin, especially on the places her hot breath fans across. This is one of the last places where Rowan wants to be, truthfully, with regret washing over him as he replays every moment from the last two hours in his mind, but he can't find the strength to get up and wake her up in the process.

          He's not that insensitive. Jasper might be a terrible person at her core, but, even though he's pretty awful as well, he's not stepping down to her level by keeping her awake throughout the entire night just because he can't fall asleep. Falling asleep isn't even the problem; what bothers him the most is how he simply cannot stay asleep for too long—most of the time, he can't remember his dreams or know if he even dreamed at all. You need to reach a certain degree of relaxation to enter REM sleep, and he doubts he has been hitting it.

          Thinking about it, he really, really wishes he hadn't invited Jasper inside. He wouldn't have minded walking her to her hotel and then return to the apartment—after all, he's still a human being and wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her, especially after Taylor Morris' disappearance—but anything would have been better than this. It's not her fault, obviously, but, God, this shouldn't have happened.

           Huffing, he tries to sit up as slowly as possible, with Jasper's hand falling limply over the mattress with a soft thud when he's far enough. A pang of guilt punctures through his heart when he does it, briefly glancing down at her, as she looks so damn peaceful like this, and it's almost easy to forget about all the horrible things and the toxicity they put each other through.

          They turned a relationship into a pile of nuclear waste. That's not something they can simply get over and no amount of couples counseling sessions would ever make it even the slightest bit better.

          The board is exactly how he left it since the last time he landed eyes on it, twenty-four hours ago. The note he ripped out of it has been smothered into a ball, resting on the floor, and he picks it up to throw it out, almost banging his head against the board itself as he straightens himself. The noise, followed by the curses he mutters under his breath, is what wakes Jasper up.

          "Rowan?" she calls, in a slurred voice, and, for a split moment, they're okay. When he blinks and the air gets clearer, the shadows vanishing from the corners of his vision, it all disappears. Like that ship. Like Taylor. "What's going on?"

          "Can't sleep," he replies, throwing out the note. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

          She shakes her blonde head, sitting up and clutching the sheets close to her chest. "Are you okay?"

          "I'll be. Don't worry about me."

          With a small sigh, she swiftly rolls out of bed and slides her arms inside a cardigan he left behind, reminding him of old times, and his chest tightens. There's something bitterly nostalgic about seeing her wear his clothes, and it only gets stronger when she carefully makes her way towards him, as if she was walking on eggshells.

          He doesn't need to be babied or treated like a porcelain doll, which is what he feels like both Jasper and Isla are doing to him. Truth be told, he almost misses Jasper's old tough love ways—much like Chase seems to show his own affection towards people, with or without that damn baseball bat—as everything about this seems so unlike her, making him wonder when she's going to break and return to her old ways. If anything, Jasper has always been predictable.

          Nevertheless, when she's close enough, Rowan is pretty sure he's not breathing and something inside him shatters, around his rib cage. Something inside his brain disconnects.

          "Hey," she whispers, fingertips gently grazing against his cheek, feeling the outline of his cheekbone and jaw. He finally allows himself to exhale. "What's going on with you? What has this place done to you?"

          "I don't know," he admits, keeping his voice as low as hers. One of her redeeming qualities, one of his personal favorites, is how she, somehow, always manages to stay a little bit optimistic, even while everything is falling apart—like now, for example. "I don't know, J. I have no idea what I'm doing or what they're doing to me. I've thought about setting up surveillance cameras, but . . ."

          "I guess you're proving me wrong, then." She chews down on her bottom lip, already lipstick-free—the rest of her face is equally bare from any makeup, as she always carries a packet of makeup removing wipes with her wherever she goes—and he dares to raise his own hand to interlace his fingers with hers. Tonight, her skin is uncharacteristically warm. "You've really changed, huh? This wouldn't have happened years ago."

          "Don't remind me."

          "No. I'm sorry."

          He knows she isn't. If there's anything she won't apologize for, that's for having gotten that book deal instead of him and choosing to prioritize herself and her career. Rowan knows it because he would have done the exact same thing if it had happened to him, but perhaps he would have been slightly more delicate than she was back then. There was no need to break his heart the way she did, two years ago.

          He nearly lost himself that year, but it was nothing like this. At least he could name a specific cause when they broke up, but, right now, he's as lost as he had never been before.

          When he doesn't answer, Jasper merely takes a step forward, looping her arms around his neck and threading her slender fingers through his hair. Rowan inhales her cologne as he returns the hug and the smell is so sweet it tickles his nose and makes his airways catch fire, but he brushes it off. Loving her hurt, but so did being without her.

          At the moment, Rowan doesn't know which of them is worse.

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          ROWAN DOESN'T RETURN TO CROWCREST—AT LEAST NOT DURING THE ADJACENT DAYS. He waits until the dust settles, trying to not think about the surveillance cameras, and, when he finally gains enough courage to return to that forsaken place, he finds he regrets it. A low voice in the back of his head tells him he's just being paranoid and surveillance cameras wouldn't solve anything, as people, somehow, were smart enough to use his laptop and delete several pages of the manuscript.

          In fact, he regrets it almost instantly, as this is no place for someone like him, especially during such a crucial period of his life. With the manuscript simply not coming together as he wanted it to, he was forced to schedule a meeting with Gabriel so the two of them would figure things out together, considering the man knows a lot more about the Vofield lore than he does.

          It was one of the rare times he ever scheduled a meeting through the phone instead of simply emailing the guy and something immediately rubbed him off the wrong way. Gabriel, who had always seemed so calm and collected, not to mention so confident it was almost intimidating, had his voice break several times throughout the phone-call, and it's something Rowan hasn't been able to forget it. There's always something terrifying about witnessing supposedly strong people break, even though they can't be like superheroes all the time, but that's a man Rowan truly respected.

          He still does, mind you. It just threw him off to find out something had managed to get to that man's head as much as it did, but he supposes it's normal; after all, Rowan heard Taylor Morris was seen the last time leaving the Crowcrest University library before disappearing off the face of the Earth.

          Rowan really doesn't want to admit it, but he's awfully nervous as he steps through the iron gates protecting the campus. Though they're tall, surrounded by heavy, hard walls, they didn't do much to protect Taylor, even if she went missing on the outskirts of the university; regardless, Rowan thinks that's no excuse. They should protect their students from whoever wishes to cause them harm, especially when she must not have gone too far, which is what pisses him off the most.

          It's been almost a month. The police should have already found her, instead of letting the media exploit her family and harass them at every chance they get, just to get their channel or company more views and better ratings.

          That's why he has been trying to not watch the news. It's better that way, even if it can hinder the writing process—there's a life on the line and, to him, that means infinitely times more than a stupid book, even if the latter is what weighs down in his bank account at the end of the day.

          It has already snowed, covering the campus in white mountains, and there are barely any students brave enough to face the frigid day, especially when compared to the insane amount of people Rowan saw outside on his first days in this place. His combat boots sink into the deeper snow and he risks a brief glance towards the frozen lake, remembering just how much Jasper loved figure skating. He was terrible at it, though, but it made her laugh and there were plenty of things he did just to see her throw him the most discreet hint of a smile.

          Now that Jasper is gone, Rowan still hasn't had the courage to talk to Isla, feeling like he backstabbed her by running back to Jasper as soon as he possibly could have. They owe nothing to one another, to be honest, but they still had some sort of commitment to each other, whatever it was, even if it was just for the investigation, and he feels like he threw it all away by ditching her.

          Though she doesn't seem like the type of person to hold long grudges, as it hasn't even been a week since the last time he talked to her—not to mention she was the one who came looking for him after the incident at the cafeteria, choosing to drive all the way to his apartment just to talk to him—he doesn't want to push his luck or her buttons. Nice people can be dangerous, especially nice people with short fuses and those who carry cans of pepper spray with them.

          This place will never cease to surprise him, though. As he makes his way towards the building where the main offices are located—praying he still remembers the way there and that he won't slip and fall over the snow or the icy ground—a voice he had never heard before resonates in his ears, calling his name.

          When he turns around, following the source of the sound, he sees her. With dark hair falling freely down her back, without a single wave, and black clothes contrasting perfectly against all the white around them, Rhiannon What's-Her-Last-Name remarkably stands out. He didn't even know she knew his name, though she has probably heard it from Isla and was in the waiting room on his first day here and heard his name be called; that much he remembers.

          "You're talking to me?" he asks, and Rhiannon slowly nods, with a shoulder leaning against the brick wall of one of the various buildings and the wind blowing her long hair to the side. Even while having her arms firmly crossed in front of her chest and with shoulders as stiff as iron boards, her silhouette is still elegant, almost model-like. "Am I supposed to walk over there?"

          She doesn't answer verbally, but she doesn't smile either. Truthfully, Rowan doesn't think he has ever seen her do it. Nevertheless, he still huffs and gives in, making his way towards the girl.

          "Hi," she greets, hands hidden inside the pockets of her long coat, once he stops in front of her. She's even taller when she's this close, and the freckles speckling her nose are almost imperceptible. "I have something you might need for your book."