Chapter Text
The therapist slides a notebook across the table like it’s nothing. Soft leather cover, the kind that probably costs twenty bucks at a bookstore with twinkle lights in the window. Natalie blinks at it like it might explode.
“I thought maybe writing about her would help,” the therapist says, voice smooth, practiced, like she’s trying not to spook a deer. “You bring her up a lot.”
Natalie doesn’t pick it up. Just stares at the soft pink cover, the way the light from the office window pools along the spine. It’s stupid, but it looks like something Jackie would’ve owned. Something she’d tuck into her school bag next to her color-coded planner and that fancy pen she never let anyone borrow.
The therapist waits.
Natalie doesn’t say no. She doesn’t say anything. But when the session ends, the journal is in her coat pocket.
-
It wasn’t like this was supposed to be the plan.
After the rescue, she was supposed to be the tragic one. The cautionary tale. The miracle survivor with hollow cheeks and a thousand-yard stare. America loved those. And they did love her—for about six days. Until she got caught stealing a bottle of whiskey and a pair of sunglasses from a Walgreens, her hands shaking, her voice too loud, like someone had turned up the static inside her head.
Not jail. She looked too breakable. Too much of a girl.
Community service. Therapy. A public offender who used words like deep trauma and unprocessed survival guilt. Natalie stopped listening after the first hearing. She just showed up when they told her to, counting the hours like it was all one long time-out.
The community service ended. The therapy didn’t.
She kept showing up, even after the hours were up. Even after the court stopped caring. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because the therapist never asked the worst questions. Not directly.
She never said: What really did happen out there?
Never said: What did you do to make it back?
Didn’t press when Natalie looked away, or went quiet for entire sessions, fingers picking at her sleeve until the threads frayed.
Instead, she asked gentler things. Things Natalie could almost pretend weren’t loaded.
Like: Who do you miss most?
And Natalie always said Jackie like it was a confession.
Jackie, who froze. Jackie, whose bones she left resting on the plane. Jackie, who everyone seemed to pretend was ancient history.
Jackie, who kept showing up anyway.
-
She refused the prescription meds. No matter how gently they were offered, no matter how small the doses. Said she didn’t want to be a zombie. Said she didn’t want to rely on anything.
Really, it was control.
She wanted to feel. Even if it was bad. Especially if it was bad.
Drugs were out. Or that’s what she told herself. What she meant was pills. The ones with labels. The ones that made her feel chemically clean, weightless in a way that made her panic. She’d tried. Once. Hated how absurdly quiet it got inside her head.
So she drank instead. Cheap stuff. Vodka that tasted like antiseptic. Sometimes whiskey, if she decided she could buy it. Told herself it was the “less dangerous” option. That it didn’t count if it helped her sleep. That it was better than sitting still.
Self-meditation. The American way.
-
The walk home takes seventeen minutes.
Natalie knows because she’s timed it. She always knows how long things take now. How long a person can last without food. How long it takes for blood to freeze. How long it’s been since she last spoke to someone without needing a cigarette after.
She counts the cracks in the pavement to keep herself steady. Not because she’s anxious—but because her brain needs something to do. Needs a task. Something silent, something measurable. Her boots scuff against the sidewalk, and the world around her is loud in the wrong ways—too sharp, too chaotic, too alive.
A car alarm goes off somewhere behind her, and she doesn’t even flinch. A dog snarls behind a leaning chain-link fence, and her body still catalogues the sound, marks the direction. Two streets over, someone slams a door. A voice rises in argument, muffled but angry. Somewhere nearby, ceramic breaks.
Natalie doesn’t look. She doesn’t need to. She keeps her head down, but her ears track everything.
It’s not fear—it’s reflex. Muscle memory. A leftover instinct from the woods. Out there, she was the hunter. Sharp-eyed. Fast. Always listening.
She still listens.
Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever stop.
-
Her car is parked four blocks away, but she doesn’t drive unless she has to. It’s a shitty sedan she bought secondhand with what was left of the settlement money. It works. Mostly. The gas tank’s nearly empty, and she doesn’t feel like filling it. The thought of the gas station lights buzzing above her like flies makes her stomach twist.
She tells herself walking helps. Fresh air. Movement. Grounding.
Lies the therapist would like.
Wiskayok hasn’t changed, but she has. That’s the problem. Everything looks the same—cracked sidewalks, wide streets with sagging power lines, the occasional brick shopfront with chipped paint—but nothing sounds right anymore. Everything’s too close. Too loud. Too alive.
Her apartment’s on the edge of town, tucked above a boarded-up ice cream parlor that still has faded flavor decals in the window. Two floors, weird layout, and somehow still cheaper than a studio. Something about the previous tenant dying or mold or both—Natalie didn’t ask. She took it.
Too much space for one person. The kind of place that echoes when she coughs. She only really uses the downstairs anyway: couch, kitchen, bathroom. The upstairs bedroom stays mostly untouched, aside from the closet she dumps things in when the mess downstairs gets too bad.
She reaches her building by instinct. Second floor of a two-story walk-up, nestled between a deli and a small store with flickering signage. The hallway always smells like burnt toast and weed, no matter the hour. The floor creaks in the same three places.
She knows which ones to avoid.
Her keys jangle as she fits them into the lock. When the door creaks open, the air inside is still and stale, like no one’s breathed in it for weeks. It smells like her: smoke, cheap liquor, old sweat. No food. Just the particular scent of someone who stopped trying.
The apartment is chaos, but not the kind that comes from living. It’s the kind that comes from giving up.
Takeout containers slouched open on the counter. Bottles on the windowsill—empty, some tipped over, some upright like they’re still pretending to be useful. Cigarette ash grinds under her heel as she steps through the mess. The floor’s a map of bad habits.
Band posters peel from the walls, the corners curling like dead leaves. A cracked frame above the couch holds a print of some 70s punk album she used to love. One of the kitchen chairs is missing a leg. She never replaced it.
Her coat drops to the floor before the door even shuts. She steps over a pile of laundry that might be clean, shoves a balled-up hoodie off the couch, and drops into the cushions like gravity’s won again.
There’s no light on. Just the gray afternoon squeezing through the blinds, making everything look submerged.
She sits in it. The quiet. The weight of her own skin. The tension in her spine that never leaves.
She doesn’t mean to start thinking about Jackie.
It just happens.
It always does.
She can go days without speaking her name out loud, but she never really leaves. Jackie’s in the way the light hits the wall. In the clink of glass bottles. In the memory of heatless winters and pink shivering skin. In the shape her guilt takes when she tries to sleep.
Natalie’s haunted, but not by ghosts.
By potential.
Jackie didn’t haunt her because they were close—they weren’t. Not really. They barely liked each other. Jackie rolled her eyes every time Nat spoke, and Natalie called her a bitch behind her back. Or to her face, if the mood struck.
But Jackie had something.
Something that made people lean in. That made them follow. Made them expect something from her. Something beautiful, clean, permanent.
And when she died, it wasn’t just the girl that vanished.
It was the idea of a world where they’d all make it back untouched. The idea that this could somehow end with them still intact. That they would return to homework and dances and pep rallies. That they could still be girls.
Jackie died, and that illusion rotted with her.
Nat thinks about walking in her shoes sometimes.
Not just metaphorically. Literally. Strappy sandals. Sneakers. Heels that would sink in the mud if you even thought about taking them near the woods. She imagines her toes squished into Jackie’s size six shoes, her own feet blistering from the tightness. A bad fit. Always was.
But she lived it. Jackie’s story.
She got the cold nights. The empty belly. The rot. The noise in the trees that wasn’t quite wind. She lived it and kept going.
And Jackie didn’t.
She should feel grateful. She should feel chosen. But all she feels is wrong.
Like she cheated. Like she swapped places with someone else in the final moments and walked out wearing a name that didn’t belong to her.
It doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like theft.
Jackie should’ve made it. If this were a movie, Jackie would’ve been the one who came home. The pretty one. The popular one. The beloved one. She would’ve been good on TV. Would’ve been a symbol people could understand.
Natalie knows what people think when they see her now. She’s too sharp, too strange. All raw edges and broken wiring. People don’t like their miracles that way. They like softness. They like stories that wrap up neatly.
Jackie would’ve been that story.
So maybe she was the smart one, after all.
Maybe not surviving was the smartest choice any of them could’ve made.
-
The room smelled like mold and liquor. She hadn’t opened a window in days.
Somewhere in the fridge, a bag of pre-washed spinach was turning to liquid.
There was a voicemail from her boss. Third one this week. He used to be understanding, back when she still replied with some version of “rough day.” But these days she didn’t even bother with excuses. She just let the guilt settle like dust and kept her eyes on the floor.
The wilderness had never really left her.
It clung to her skin like smoke. Filled the gaps between her ribs. Sat in her mouth like a warning. She tried to write it out—to make it linear, maybe even legible. But every time she started, she just ended up here. In this damn chair. At this sticky desk. With her fingers aching around a pen and her eyes dragging back to the same name every time.
Jackie,
‘I’m supposed to be writing about the wilderness.
I mean, not officially. No one’s making me. But that had been the original idea behind this journal—that I’d start unpacking what happened out there. That I’d finally talk about it. Whatever it means.
But I don’t want to. I’m not Shauna. I can’t sit down and trace out the edges of our suffering like it’s some brave confession. I can’t relieve every splinter and scream and everything else in the name of healing or whatever. I lived it once. That should’ve been enough.
So instead… I write about Jackie. That’s the simple solution: write about her.
Jackie.
I didn’t know her, not really. Not in the way people think. Not like Shauna did. Jackie was always hers. I only saw her through the distance—filtered through gossip and cafeteria glances and whatever version of herself she wore like a second skin. Popular girl, team captain, best friend, someone you weren’t supposed to look too long at.
But I do now. I look at her all the time, in here.
I write—think—about her because she became something else. A symbol, maybe. Of what was lost. Or of who I’m not. I keep circling back to her like she’s the missing piece, the thing that might make it all make sense.
I’ll never know the real Jackie. She’s gone, and whatever pieces of her are left live inside people I don’t want to talk to. Shauna would be able to tell me, probably—what Jackie was really like. But I won’t ask. I don’t care about her version. I want mine.
I want to think about what it would be like if things had been different. If we hadn’t all been consumed by darkness. If we had gone to Nationals and won. If there had been an ending where we could’ve been happy.
After winning Nationals, I would have stayed near the bar, of course. I always did. That would have been my post—half out of place, half trying to look like I wasn’t. Everyone else would have been high on it: victory, validation, cheap champagne. Screaming the lyrics playing over blown speakers, wrapping each other up in mascara-smudged hugs, tripping over their cleats and their own excitement. I would’ve been off to the side pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending it hadn’t meant anything to me at all.
But I would’ve smiled. Just for a second. I would have let myself watch them—Tai leaping into Van’s arms, Lottie shrieking with laughter—and I would have smiled at the way their faces lit up like they hadn’t known darkness. I would have smiled because I’d never seen anything that felt that close to happy.
And Jackie… Jackie would’ve seen it.
She would’ve clocked it instantly—the curl of my mouth, the way I wiped it off as soon as I noticed her looking. She would have walked over without the usual theatrics, no perfect posture or cutting little grin. Just… her, maybe. Whatever that meant.
She would’ve smiled at me, or tried to. I would have known it wasn’t easy for her—that she didn’t do that kind of smile often, the unguarded kind. But she would have done it anyway. For me.
Her eyes would have landed on my drink—whatever it was, something sharp and ugly—and she would have raised that eyebrow the way only she could. “You’re soloing the open bar. How surprising.”
I would’ve rolled my eyes, but not walked away. That’s how she’d know it was fine to stay. That she wasn’t unwelcome. That this was a kind of peace.
“Unlike some people,” I would have said. “I try to live a little.”
And she would’ve laughed. Or smirked. Or tilted her head like she was trying to see deeper. And maybe, just maybe, she would’ve leaned in and said something real. Not a barb. Not a line. Just…something. About the game. Or the night. Or me.
And I would have let her.
That’s the part that gets me, I think.
I would have let her.
I would have let her say something real. Would’ve said something back. Would’ve stood there and let the noise of the party fade while I looked at her like maybe I was seeing her for the first time—because in a way, maybe I would’ve been. Not the Jackie everyone else saw. Just… her.
And after that—god. I would’ve let it keep happening.
We would’ve started spending more time together. Not on purpose. Just out of convenience, I think, at first. After coming back from Nationals, I would’ve noticed her at the bus stop, standing there with her arms crossed like she thought she was better than public transportation but couldn’t bring herself to admit it. And I would’ve said something snarky. And she would’ve rolled her eyes. And gotten on the bus anyway. And sat beside me.
It would’ve been like that for a while. Me with my headphones in, pretending I didn’t care if she talked or not. Her not saying anything but not moving either. And then one day, she would’ve shown up with a second pair of airbuds—stolen from her dad, maybe—and passed one to me without a word.
I would’ve played something I thought she’d like. Probably The Cranberries or Mazzy Star. Maybe even Fleetwood Mac or Roxy Music if I was feeling bold. Something softer than what I usually listened to. Something pretty. She would’ve blinked a little, surprised maybe, but she wouldn’t have complained. She would’ve just tucked the earbud in and leaned against the window like she wasn’t trying to listen too closely but actually was.
And we would’ve done that every morning. Every afternoon. Just sitting together at the back of the bus, passing the Walkman back and forth, saying nothing. Or saying everything, sometimes. The rhythm would’ve built slow. Poking and prodding. That’s how we worked. It always started as a jab, some sarcastic aside I couldn’t help throwing out—and Jackie firing back with the perfect tone, like she’d been waiting for me to give her an opening.
Except one day, it would’ve felt different. Softer. We would’ve been teasing each other the same way we always did, but this time I would’ve said something dumb, and she would’ve just smiled—not the too-wide pageant one, not the smug smirk either. Just this real, tiny, crooked thing. One side of her mouth tugged up. A dimple so deep it made me forget what I’d just said. And she would’ve looked at me like she actually liked me. Not just tolerated. Not just found me interesting in a “why are you like this” way. But liked me.
That would’ve been the start of it.
And I would’ve told myself not to get used to it. That she was probably just lonely after everything with Shauna and Jeff. That I was just the closest option. But I still would’ve sat next to her the next day. And the one after that. And I would’ve kept making tapes that I thought she’d like. And she would’ve kept listening. Even when we didn’t talk, the quiet would’ve been good. Comfortable.
She would’ve asked what the song was when she really liked one. I think she would’ve liked ‘ Just Like Heaven.’ I think she would’ve said it was stupid and romantic and then asked me to rewind it so she could hear it again.
And maybe—maybe—we would’ve stayed like that for a while. Friends. Close enough that Shauna would’ve noticed. And she would’ve been pissed, because she always needed to be the center of Jackie’s world. And Jackie would’ve told her to go to hell. Said she was tired of pretending things could go back to the way they were before Jeff. Before the lie. Before the betrayal. Maybe they would’ve screamed at each other in the hallway one day, loud enough that people turned to look. I imagine Jackie crying, shaking with it, mascara under her eyes, voice cracking when she said, “You were supposed to be my best friend.”
And I wouldn’t have said anything. Just stood there after, with my Walkman in my pocket and a fresh tape I made for her in my hand. Something with Mazzy Sta r on it. Something gentle. And I would’ve handed it to her without a word.
And we wouldn’t have talked about what any of it meant. Not right away. Just kept riding the bus. Just kept listening. Just kept finding each other in these quiet, in-between places.
Like maybe—just maybe—there could’ve been a version of us that made sense.
And if there had been—if we’d let it happen—Jackie wouldn’t have gone off to Rutgers thinking she’d be alone. I think she would’ve known I was still there. That I wasn’t going anywhere.
She would’ve called me from her dorm late at night, whispering like her roommate was asleep. Told me about the classes she was taking, how weird it felt to not be the smartest or the most interesting person in the room anymore. How this girl from Delaware kept leaving passive-aggressive Post-its on her side of the desk. How much she missed home, even though she’d never admit it out loud to anyone else.
And I would’ve listened. Really listened. The way I always had, even when I acted like I wasn’t. I would’ve asked some stupid questions to hear her talk more. “What’s your professor like?” “Did you write your name in the textbooks yet?” “What’s the food like there? Still surviving on granola bars and Diet Coke?”
And she would’ve laughed—quiet and real. The kind of laugh that made me feel like I’d done something right for once.
She would’ve said something like. “God, I must sound so boring,” and I would’ve said, “Nah. You sound like you.”
And maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe that would’ve kept her calling.
I would’ve kept picking up. Every time.
Because even when she wasn’t saying much—just pacing her dorm or sighing into the phone—I think I would’ve liked the sound of her voice. The way it softened when she was tired. The way it curled around my name.’
-
Natalie stares at the page for a long time. The words don’t really register anymore. Not in the way they should. They just sit there—flat and heavy and hers.
She takes a long sip of her drink. Bitter. Too warm now. Doesn’t care. She swallows anyway.
Then, with a small breath—almost a sigh—she closes the journal.
Not gently. Not harshly. Just enough to say, That’s enough.
The cover shuts with a quiet thud , and for a second, she stares at it like it might open again on it’s own. Like it might keep talking even if she’s done listening.
Her fingers hover over it—just a second longer—then pull back.
Ashamed? Maybe. A little. Not just about what she wrote. But about how long she sat here reliving it. Imaging something that never happened like it could’ve been real. Like it was real, somehow, just never acted on.
She lets the silence settle.
Then takes another drink. A bigger one.
And doesn’t open the journal again.
Not tonight.
-
The bell above the diner door jingles as Natalie steps inside. Same place. Same booths. Same cracked Formica tables and scent of burnt coffee and fries soaked in yesterday’s grease. The jukebox is different—glossier, newer—but it’s not playing.
Some things stay frozen.
Van’s already there, wedged into a booth near the back, a half-drained coke in front of her and a straw wrapper twisted into a spiral on the table. She looks up when Nat approaches and grins like it doesn’t hurt.
“Jesus,” Van says, “you still smoke those shitty menthols?”
Nat slides into the booth. “They still kill you the same.”
Van snorts. “Charming. You still do that thing where you cut the filter off, or have you evolved?
Natalie shrugs. “Not really in the market for evolving.”
A beat passes. The silence doesn’t feel awkward—not quite. Just worn in.
“You order yet?” Nat asks.
“Only the important stuff. Milkshake and fries. You want in?”
“Obviously.”
Van flags the waitress with the same practiced gesture from high school, like no time’s passed at all. Natalie watches her for a second, wondering if she’s doing the same. If she sees the changes. If she’s pretending not to.
When the food comes, they eat in comfortable bursts. Fries between comments. A shared milkshake that neither of them acknowledges sharing.
Van’s the one who breaks first. “So? What’s up? This isn’t just a nostalgia trip. You don’t do those.”
Natalie hesitates. Her fingers toy with a fry, breaking it in half. “I’ve been writing.”
Van arches a brow. “Like… therapy writing?”
Nat shakes her head. “Not exactly. It started as something I had to do. This… journal thing. About the wilderness. I couldn’t do it. So I started writing about Jackie instead.”
Van blinks hard, like she’s sure she misheard. “J-Jackie? Jackie Taylor? ”
“Yeah.”
Van leans back a little, arms folding. “Huh. Okay… that’s… unexpected. You guys barely talked before the crash. I mean—” She pauses, tilts her head. “You two could barely be in the same room without trying to verbally set each other on fire.”
Natalie shrugs. “Guess I had more to say than I thought.”
Van watches her for another beat, still skeptical but curious. Natalie reaches into her bag and pulls out the journal—pink and bright, a sharp contrast to everything about her. Her fingers hover over it for a second, like she’s not sure if she’s actually going to do this.
Then she slides it across the table.
Van takes it slowly, as if it might bite. She glances up at Natalie once more before actually flipping it open.
At first she just skims, but then her eyes start tracking slower. Her brow furrows, then lifts. Then she lets out a soft huff and leans back into the booth, still holding it open.
“This is really good,” she says, surprise threading through her voice. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Nat rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“I mean it. Shauna would claw her eyes out with envy.”
Nat leans forward, suddenly sharp. “You can’t fucking tell her.”
Van holds up both hands. “Please. Do you think I have a death wish? I won’t tell anyone. I don’t even know why you’d choose to deal with shit by doing this , but whatever, man. I’m just saying, you write really well.”
Natalie sinks back. “Thanks, I guess.”
Van flips another page. “I would’ve laughed at your face if you told me something like this back then.”
Nat snorts. “What, that I’d become a writer?”
Van grins. “No. That you could go both ways.”
Natalie freezes for half a second. “Jesus, Van.”
“What? I meant you. That you and Jackie…” She squints, mock-theatrical. “You guys were always at each other’s throats. There was tension there.”
“There was hatred.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Van says, patting her hand. “That’s how it always starts.”
Nat groans. “Shut up.”
Van just smiles, flipping one last page before gently closing the journal. “You and Jackie. Huh. I can’t believe I didn’t see the possibilities before.”
Natalie looks out the window, watching cars pass under a sky turning slowly to dusk. She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t really have to.
Van doesn’t push. Just nudges the journal back across the table, quiet again.
“Okay, real talk: do you remember the weird guy who used to hang out outside this place? Wore, like, five watches?”
Natalie lifts her head, squints. “You mean Lenny? Yeah. He said time was a capitalist illusion.”
Van cackles. “Oh my God, yes . And he once tried to sell me a pigeon feather for five bucks. Said it was blessed by ‘pre-government air’.”
Nat smirks. “Maybe he had a point.”
“Don’t go full tinfoil on me, Scatorccio. I already have one conspiracy theorist in my life.”
“Really?”
Van just raises her brows. They both laugh.
It’s brief. Fragile. The kind of laugh that feels like it might crack under its own weight, but it holds, for a second.
Van leans her cheek into her palm. “You remember when we tried to sneak that bottle of peach schnapps out of Lottie’s parents’ liquor cabinet and it exploded in my backpack?”
“Oh my god. Your entire algebra book smelled like sticky fruit for the rest of the year.”
“You licked the side of my calculator.”
“Don’t make it sound weirder than it was.”
“It was so weird.”
Natalie is smiling without thinking now. Almost soft. Then she glances at the clock above the counter, and it’s like something shutters back into place.
“I should go,” she says.
Van nods. She doesn’t press. “Hey, seriously—your stuff’s good. I’m not just saying that because you made me split fries with you.”
“I paid in trauma.”
Van grins. “That you did.”
Natalie slides out of the booth and shoulders her bag. She hesitates for a second, then gives Van a two-finger salute. “Later.”
“Later!”
The sun’s dipping when Natalie leaves the diner. She lights a cigarette the second she’s outside, the first drag curling heat through her chest.
The streets of Wiskayok feel different at this hour. Quieter, but not empty. Car doors slamming somewhere far off, the low hum of a lawnmower, a dog barking two blocks over. She catalogs it all without thinking—still the hunter, even here. The kind of thing that doesn’t just go away.
She walks with her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, eyes flicking forward every rustle in the trees or shadow that moves wrong. It’s instinct now, not paranoia. She doesn’t even question it.
Her boots scuff the pavement, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe. She knows exactly how many steps from the diner to her apartment if she takes the long way.
Van’s face keeps coming back to her—half laughing, half startled—when she said Jackie’s name. It’s not like Van was wrong. Before the crash, she and Jackie weren’t friends. Not even close. They were teammates because they had to be, classmates because the school system said so. She was the burnout winger with too much edge and a bad attitude; Jackie was the golden captain, perfectly polished, always in the center of the frame.
And Jackie was Shauna’s. Always.
Natalie never questioned that. Shauna orbited Jackie like it was gravity, and Jackie kept her close, maybe tighter than she even wanted to admit. Nat knew her place off to the side, with Kevyn, or Van, or whoever didn’t mind a little chaos in their company. Jackie never asked her for anything. Never let her in. Not really.
Until the wilderness.
She’d been the hunter. The one who left camp at first light, gun over her shoulder, tuned in to movements no one else could hear. Jackie wanted no part of that world—wouldn’t even if she could. She hated the cold, the blood, the way the smell of a kill clung to you no matter how much water you scrubbed into your skin. Mostly, she stayed in the cabin, wrapped in a blanket like she could will herself somewhere else.
Natalie resented her for it. For not helping. For sitting it out while the rest of them starved and fought tooth and nail to survive. But resentment didn’t stop her from noticing.
She’d still catch glimpses of her in the mornings—moving slow, dragging a brush through her hair with this stubborn, almost pointless care. Like the act alone might anchor her to the world she had already given up on. And Natalie… couldn’t decide if she hated her more for it, or if she envied her for holding on to something that fragile in a place built to crush it.
Maybe that was the closest they ever came to knowing each other—Natalie watching her try to keep the old world alive, Jackie watching her willingly walk into the new one.
And then Jackie was gone.
Natalie’s jaw tightens. She exhales smoke slowly through her nose. She still remembers how Shauna looked afterward. Hollowed out. Jackie’s absence ripped something out of her and left it raw.
That’s the thing—Jackie will always be Shauna’s first. Even now, even in Natalie’s head. Nat can rewrite every memory, invent a hundred new ones where Jackie smiles only at her, leans only toward her, calls her late at night from some Rutgers dorm room. But the truth is, the Jackie she's writing about isn’t the real one. It’s the version she never got.
She walks past the corner store, glances at the flickering fluorescent sign. The guy behind the counter looks like he’s been there since ‘85. She doesn’t go in.
By the time she reaches her block, the streetlights have blinked on. The air smells faintly of rain, though the pavement is dry. She glances over her shoulder once, twice. Nothing there. Still, she keeps the cigarette between her fingers until she’s at her door.
Inside, it’s the same mess she left it—bottles, takeout containers, ash on the carpet. The journal’s still in her bag, pressing against her side like a reminder she can’t shake.
Jackie was always Shauna’s. But on the page, she could be Natalie’s.
-
We would have graduated together.
It would have been sunny—one of those obnoxiously perfect days that felt staged, like somebody’s idea of a postcard. The bleachers would’ve been full, the air thick with bug spray and perfume. I would have been pretending not to sweat in the gown.
She would have looked perfect, of course. Not a hair out of place under that dumb cap. She would have smiled at everyone like she actually knew them, and they would have smiled back because that’s just what you did when Jackie Taylor was in front of you.
After the ceremony, we would have ended up at the same party. I would have stayed in the kitchen nursing a warm beer, watching people get drunk on cheap vodka and nostalgia. And she would’ve found me there, said she needed air and I would’ve said I knew a place.
We would have slipped out, walked down to the park behind the school. The grass would have been damp but not enough to stop us from lying down. She would have kicked off her heels and groaned about her feet. I would have teased her about not being able to handle real life if a pair of shoes could take her out. She would have shoved me lightly in the shoulder and told me to shut up.
We would have stayed there until the music from the party turned into a low thump in the distance. She would have started talking—about Rutgers, about leaving, about how she didn’t know if she actually wanted any of it. I would have told her she didn’t have to go if she didn’t want to. She would have laughed like I was the only person dumb enough to think she had a choice.
We would have hung out that summer. Maybe gone to the lake. She would have worn a sundress just to make fun of me for staring, and I would have denied it badly enough for her to know I was lying.
She would have called me late one night, just to talk. And I would have stayed on the phone with her until my neck hurt from holding it too long. We would have talked about nothing, the kind of nothing that felt heavier than anything.
She would have left for Rutgers in September. We would have hugged goodbye. I would have pretended it didn’t mean anything.
And then I would have thought about it every single day after.
Natalie stares at the last line on the page.
And then I would have thought about it every single day after.
Her pen hovers like maybe she’s going to keep going, but instead, she just… stops. The page suddenly feels heavier than it has any right to be. She flips the journal shut, the soft thud of it landing on the coffee table too final.
The sweetness curdles almost instantly.
What the hell was she doing? Writing like Jackie had been hers. Like they’d had all these stolen moments and long summers and quiet, knowing glances. Like she hadn’t barely spoken to her before everything went to hell. Like she hadn’t mostly just resented her—resented her for sitting out the hard parts, for keeping her hands clean while everyone else bled for another day.
Her jaw clenches. She digs her fingers into her hair until her scalp aches. She’s not writing the truth. She’s writing some fantasy version of a dead girl, like that’s going to mean something. Like it’s going to fix anything.
Her gaze shifts toward the kitchen. The bottles that had been on the counter a week ago are gone—either drunk dry or tossed in a moment of clarity she already regrets. She checks the fridge anyway. Nothing. Not even a warm beer hiding behind the mustard.
Her chest feels tight. She wants something—something to burn going down, something to take the edge off this gnawing mix of shame and longing and the itch in her chest that won’t let her sit still.
She grabs her jacket. Keys in pocket. Wallet in the other. The apartment smells stale and empty behind her when she locks the door.
Out on the street, the air hits her face like a dare. The liquor store is only a few blocks away. She walks fast, boots striking pavement sharp and steady, eyes already scanning the street like it matters. Like she’s still tracking something.
By the time she reaches the storefront, the neon OPEN sign buzzing faintly in the window, her heartbeat has steadied into something like relief.
It’s not the wilderness. It’s not survival. But it’s something.
The bell over the door gives a tired jingle when she pushes it open. The place smells faintly of floor cleaner and cardboard. Cool air wraps around her arms, cutting through the leftover heat from the walk.
Her eyes sweep the store automatically. Not just a glance—an assessment. Two men near the beer fridge, talking low. The cashier leaning against the counter, flipping through a magazine, pen tucked behind his ear. A display of cheap whiskey set too close to the door, probably hoping someone impulsive will grab it.
Natalie moves down the first aisle, past the wine racks. She could take her time, pretend she’s deciding. But she knows exactly what she came for. A bottle of Jameson, maybe. Or something even cheaper. Doesn’t matter—burn is burn.
She turns into the whiskey section. Her fingers brush the labels without really looking, but she’s listening—always listening. The hum of the cooler, the muffled bassline from a passing car outside, the squeak of the floor under someone’s boots two aisles over.
There’s a rhythm to it. Always has been. The wilderness taught her that if you break the rhythm—if a sound’s too close or too sharp—you’d better pay attention.
Nothing’s off. Not here. Just the low static of people trying to live their lives.
She takes a bottle, cradling it under her arm. On the way to the counter, she grabs a pack of cigarettes from the display, setting them down with a muted thud.
The cashier rings her up without looking at her much. “You need a bag?”
“No,” she says. Her voice comes out flatter than she means it to.
She pays in cash. The change clinks against her palm, and she stuffs it in her pocket without counting it.
When she pushes the door open again, the air outside feels heavier, more humid. She adjusts the bottle in her grip, the paper neck crinkling softly, and starts the walk back.
The city’s quieter now. Or maybe she’s just tuning it out.
By the time she gets back to the apartment, the quiet feels like it’s been waiting for her. She kicks the door shut with her boot, the sound echoing flat against the still air. The bottle hits the counter with a muted thunk, and she shrugs out of her jacket, letting it fall wherever it wants.
The journal is still where she left it, face-down on the coffee table like it’s sulking. She looks at it for a moment, jaw working.
She doesn’t sit right away. Instead, she digs out a glass from the sink—dirty, lip ringed faintly with whatever she’d last drunk from it. She doesn’t bother to wash it. The whiskey glugs into the glass in a long, heavy pour.
The first swallow burns so hard it makes her eyes water. She exhales slowly, steadying herself, then tips back another. This one goes down easier. The warmth blooms in her stomach and starts its slow creep outward, loosening her shoulders. She pours again, because she can.
On the second glass, she leans against the counter and stares at nothing in particular. The blinds are half-closed, letting in only enough light to make everything look a little gray. She thinks she hears the faint rumble of a truck outside, but it fades quickly. The place smells like it always does: old smoke, stale liquor, the faint damp of laundry that never fully dried.
She takes a third swallow, smaller this time, letting it sit in her mouth for a beat before swallowing. Her head feels warm now, the edges of her thoughts softening. The hum in her ears isn’t unpleasant.
She carries the glass into the living room, setting it down beside the journal. The whiskey has left her chest loose but her fingers restless. She flips the journal over, smoothing her hand across the cover.
The air feels thicker in here, heavy with old cigarettes and that same clinging smell of spilled booze worked into the carpet. She traces the edge of the journal with her thumb, just holding it for a moment. She isn’t sure if she wants to write or throw it out the window.
Another drink. Just enough to push her into that sweet, slow-motion headspace where the pen starts moving before she can second-guess herself.
She picks it up.
Her pen hits the paper before she can think better of it.
-
We would’ve ended up on the couch that night—the one with the stupid plaid cushions that scratched at bare skin. She would have kicked her shoes off and thrown herself sideways so her head was in my lap, just to annoy me, because she knew I hated playing pillow. She would’ve pretended she was too tired to move, and I would’ve threatened to dump her on the floor, but I wouldn’t have. I never would have.
We would have ordered burgers from that greasy place she swore had “character,” even though it smelled like fryer oil and regret. They would’ve come in paper bags so thin the grease bled right through, staining the couch arm. She would have stolen fries off my plate, and I would have pretended to be mad about it, but it would’ve made me stupidly happy—watching her lick the salt off her fingers like she owned the whole night.
And maybe she would have put on some movie she didn’t even care about—something just to fill the space. I would have half-watched it while she talked over the dialogue, making fun of the actors, tossing her hair like she was the star anyway. If I’d had the nerve, I would have told her to shut up just so I could kiss her.
-
She stops mid-sentence. The pen hovers over the page, ink gathering into a tiny dark pool. Her stomach knots like she’s caught herself in a lie—no, not a lie, but something worse. Something soft. Something indulgent.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” she mutters, shoving the journal shut so hard the spine complains. Her throat burns—not from the whiskey this time, but from that sour mix of shame and longing that always seems to come after she gets too sweet about Jackie Taylor.
Nat stands, glass in hand, the tips of her ears hot. She drains the rest of the whiskey in one go and heads for the bathroom, figuring she’ll splash some water on her face, maybe shake it off before she does something pathetic.
She stops in the doorway.
On the sink: a pink disposable razor. Beside it, a toothbrush the exact same shade, still in its flimsy plastic sleeve.
They weren’t there this morning.
Nat stares at them for a long moment, her tipsy brain fumbling for explanations she doesn’t have. “Okay. Sure. Whatever the fuck this is.” She grabs the edge of the counter and laughs under her breath, humorless.
When she comes back out, she pours herself another drink without even bothering with the glass this time. The journal is still there, waiting, and after one long swallow, she picks up the pen again.
-
And maybe she would have put on some movie she didn’t even care about—something just to fill the space. I would have half-watched it while she talked over the dialogue, making fun of the actors, tossing her hair like she was the star anyway. If I’d had the nerve, I would have told her to shut up just so I could kiss her.
She would have gone still for half a beat, eyes flicking to mine, her mouth curving like she’d been waiting for me to say that. And then she would have kissed me—soft at first, testing me, until I caught her bottom lip between my teeth and she made that sound in the back of her throat that makes your stomach drop.
I would have grabbed her hips, dragged her into my lap until I could feel the press of her through her jeans. She’d grind down, slow, like she knew exactly how to make me lose focus. My hands would have been under her shirt before I could think, fingertips skimming up her ribs until I could cup her. No bra. Warm, heavy in my palms. She’d shiver when I brushed my thumbs over her nipples, and I’d do it again just to hear her catch her breath.
We would’ve kissed like that until my neck ached from the angle, until her hair was falling in my face and she was tugging at my shirt, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over my head. I’d push her back on the couch, crawl over her, mouth on her stomach, then lower—pressing kisses against the waistband of her jeans until she was pushing them down herself, impatient.
I would’ve gotten between her thighs, spread her open, and tasted her—slow, teasing laps until she was swearing at me, hips jerking, one hand in my hair holding me there. I’d take her in deep, tongue and lips and fingers until her whole body tightened under me, her legs trembling around my shoulders.
She would’ve come with my name in her mouth, muffled against the back of her hand. And I would’ve kept going, because I wouldn’t have wanted to stop.
Then, when she was too weak to hold herself up, I would have pulled her close, carried her up the creaky stairs to my bedroom—the place I always thought of as a mess, but that night would have felt like home.
The bed would have swallowed us whole. I’d let her lie back, tracing the curve of her collarbone, the sharp line of her jaw. She’d catch my hand, fingers lacing through mine like she was scared I’d disappear if she didn’t hold on tight.
We wouldn’t have needed words—just the sound of her breath, quick and soft, and the feel of skin against skin.
I would have kissed every inch of her until she was arching into me, like we were the only two people left in the world.
Maybe she’d have whispered my name, maybe I’d have whispered hers. Maybe I’d have told her things I never said aloud—the kind of things you only say when you’re holding someone like they’re the last thing you’ll ever touch.
And maybe, just maybe, that night would have been the start of something real.
-
The pen slipped from her fingers as her chest rose and fell unevenly, a heat blooming low in her belly that wouldn’t quit. She closed the journal with a sharp snap, heart hammering. What the fuck was she doing, fantasizing about someone she barely even knew? Someone who wasn’t real anymore?
But the ache under her skin was real enough.
She pushed back from the table, legs heavy and trembling. Instead of the couch, for the first time in forever, she went to her bedroom. The dark felt tight around her, shadows folding over her like a weight she wasn't ready to shake.
Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of her shirt, then the zipper of her jeans, peeling off the clothes like shedding a second skin. The cold air brushed her bare skin, making her shiver.
She sank onto the rumpled sheets, rough and threadbare beneath her, and spread out, restless.
Her hands roamed her body—over her ribs, down her thighs, tracing the curve of her hip, fingers slipping lower, between her legs where the heat was raw and impatient. The thought of Jackie, of that imagined kiss and touch, was fire lighting up every nerve ending.
Her fingers teased her folds, slick and slicker with each stroke, the rhythm slow and desperate. She bit her lip, breath hitching as her body arched into her own touch.
She pictured Jackie’s mouth on her skin, hands gripping her waist, the way she’d taste—salty, warm, a little rough, just like she’d imagined.
Her hips bucked, fingers curling inside her as her breath hitched higher and higher.
The world blurred into moans and sharp gasps, the bed creaking beneath her like it was the only thing holding her together.
She came hard, trembling and raw, the thigh coil inside snapping loose in waves that left her breathless.
When she finally lay back, chest heaving, her skin flushed and slick, the room felt smaller but quieter—like she’d exorcised some of the loneliness.
Sleep came slow, but it came.
-
Natalie woke with her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth, the taste of old beer and ash stuck there like it had been painted on. Her head throbbed in sharp, pulsing flashes—behind her eyes, in her temples, in the tender hinge of her jaw. For a second she thought she might puke, but her stomach was too dry for that.
She sat up from the bed—well, more like pushed herself up out of the twisted blanket heap she’d passed out in—and squinted toward the half-dead light bleeding in through the blinds. First thought: she needed a drink. Just something to take the edge off, to smooth out the buzzsaw scraping in her skull. She shuffled downstairs towards the kitchen, already picturing the bottle in the cupboard, the cheap whiskey in the freezer, something—anything—
Nothing. The memory hit before she got into the kitchen: she’d finished the last of it last night, sitting on her desk, writing. Shit. Okay. Fine. Corner store wasn’t far. She could grab another pack of smokes while she was at it.
She was halfway to the door, keys in hand, when movement flickered in her peripheral vision.
Natalie froze. There was someone in her kitchen.
Not just someone—Jackie. Standing like she belonged, holding a bowl like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Her stomach dropped. Every muscle in her body went tight all at once, a burst of cold adrenaline flooding her chest. No. No, no, no. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, but Jackie was still there.
“Hey, um, I didn’t know how you like your eggs but… I’m making you breakfast.”
The sound of her voice sliced straight through Nat’s hangover gaze. Her hand spasmed; the keys slipped from her grip and hit the floor with a metallic clatter.
Her skin went clammy. She couldn’t breathe right—like her ribs were shrinking inward, crushing her lungs.
This isn’t real. You’re still drunk. You’re still dreaming.
“Holy fuck,” she muttered, backing up until her shoulder hit the wall. She slid down it before she even registered the movement, curling in on herself at the base like she could make herself smaller, invisible. “I’m losing it. I’m completely fucking losing it.” The words came out in a tremor she couldn’t control.
“Natalie?” Jackie’s voice was softer now, careful.
Nat kept rocking, forehead pressed to her knees, whispering under her breath. She didn’t dare look up. “ Write about her , and now I’m seeing her. I’m going batshit—”
A hand touched her shoulder, and every nerve in her body jolted at once. She shot upright, her voice breaking into a raw yell before she even thought about it. “WHAT THE FUCK!?”
She bolted for the stairs, feet pounding the steps two at a time, her own breath loud in her ears.
“Nat, what’s wrong?” Jackie called after her, but Nat didn’t stop until her bedroom door was slammed shut behind her.
She leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. Her pulse was so loud she could barely hear the creak of the hinges when she cracked the door open again, just enough to peek.
Jackie was in the middle of the room downstairs, looking up.
The moment their eyes met, Nat felt the panic spike all over again.
“Oh fuck,” she whispered, and shut the door before Jackie could say another word.
She turned and that’s when she saw it.
The room wasn’t hers anymore.
Her own mess—clothes, empty bottles, the odd ashtray—was still there, but it had been invaded. A pair of strappy heels lay abandoned by the closet. Jackie’s letterman that hung over by the desk chair—all too familiar, she could still smell the smoke. Dresses she’d never wear were draped over her dresser like they were waiting to be steamed for a photoshoot.
Jackie had a presence here now. Not a trace. Not a hint. A whole orbit.
Nat stumbled backwards into the hallway, muttering something obscene to the air before bolting to the upstairs phone like it was a lifeline. She jabbed Van’s number so hard the plastic buttons squeaked.
“You have to come here right now,” she hissed the second Van picked up.
“Hello to you, too, Nat.” A pause, then: “Why?”
“Jackie is in my apartment.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Jackie. Jackie Taylor. In my kitchen. Making actual eggs:”
“Like…fried?”
“Like whisked. In a bowl. There’s salt involved, Van.”
There was a pause. Then the dry scrape of Van’s voice: “Yeah. The Jackie that we ate and then shat out is making eggs in your kitchen, sure.”
Nat’s stomach twisted. “Don’t say that, Van. I’m being serious.”
“So am I. Just because you’ve been talking about her for months like she’s your ghost roommate and because you’ve been writing about her like—like she’s some fucking type of… second coming doesn’t mean she’s right there.”
Nat gripped the phone tighter. “This isn’t— she’s here, Van. She’s in my kitchen.”
“Yeah, okay.” There’s a pause. “Listen, are you high? Because I think that—”
“This is serious, Van.”
“... I don’t have time for this,” Van’s tone sharpened, almost brittle. “You’re spiraling. Again. You need to talk to some—”
Nat slammed the receiver down before she could finish.
Okay. Fine. Cool. No backup. She could handle this. Totally fine.
Except—no, not fine.
She grabbed the phone again and punched in another number, this one to her therapist’s office. She listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. Then the tinny voice of the answering machine clicked on, offering her the soothing option to “ leave a message after the tone .”
The tone beeped.
Nat opened her mouth. “Uh—”
Then hung up again, pacing so fast she nearly tripped over one of Jackie’s heels.
Her eyes darted to the dresser, where the dresses had been draped like lazy debutantes waiting for their turn on a red carpet. A bottle of perfume glinted in the light from the window—something floral and expensive that didn’t belong to her. Beside it, a scattering of fancy makeup products: foundation bottles with gold caps, a lipstick the color of crime scenes, an eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood.
Nat bolted for the bathroom.
There it was—the pink toothbrush she’d clocked last night, grinning at her from the cup by the sink. The matching razor. And now, sitting smugly beside them like part of a matched set, a can of foamy, overly girly shaving cream.
She snatched them all up like they were evidence in some deeply personal crime, bolted out, and thundered down the stairs toward the kitchen—where Jackie was.
Jackie was at the counter, backlit by the window, a knife in one hand and an apple in the other, cutting slow slices like she had all the time in the world. Nat stopped in the doorway, pulse thudding in her ears.
“Jackie?” she started, voice weirdly tentative for how hard her heart was going.
Jackie turned instantly, brows knitting. “What’s wrong?” Her voice caught halfway through, came out softer than Nat expected, almost sad. And then, like it had been sitting there for days waiting to ambush her, Jackie asked, “Was this…us… a bad idea?”
“What? No,” Nat said—too fast, way too fast—her face scrunching in automatic offense. The relief on Jackie’s face was small but real, a tiny loosening in her shoulders.
Nat glanced down at the objects in her hands like they’d materialized there without her permission. “Are these, um…these are yours, right?”
Jackie’s mouth twitched into something between confusion and suspicion. “Who else would they belong to?”
That landed heavy. Nat’s stomach flipped. She stared at the toothbrush like maybe it would answer for her, then back up at Jackie. And God— Jackie’s expression was changing, the crease in her forehead deepening like she’d just connected a dot Nat didn’t even know existed.
“Oh my God,” Jackie said slowly, like she was testing the words. “Are you… seeing someone?”
Nat’s mouth moved before she could think. “No!” It came out loud and sharp. “No, um— would you excuse me for a second?”
She didn’t wait for an answer—just pivoted on her heel, toothbrush, razor, and shaving cream still clutched like talismans, and bolted for the stairs.
The upstairs phone. She needed someone, and Van did say to talk to another person.
After a moment her fingers hovered over the dial like it might bite her. One last try.
Lisa’s number.
She had met her during community service—picking up trash on the side of Route 46 with a bunch of other reprobates. Lisa had been the only one not to crack a joke about how the trash bags smelled like “a raccoon funeral.” Not crash-related, not Van, not anyone else who might have Opinions about Jackie.
She dialed.
“Hello?”
“Lisa. Hey, It’s Natalie.”
A pause. “Oh… hey?” Like she was checking to make sure she remembered who Natalie was.
“Listen, I need—uh—do you wanna hang out? Coffee? Today?”
“Sure, I guess. What’s—”
“Like now.” Natalie pressed her palm to her forehead. “Now now. Please. I’m losing my mind. I just… I need this.”
“...Right. Okay. There’s that place on Bloomfield Ave—”
“Perfect. I’ll be there in fifteen.” She slammed the receiver down before Lisa could ask anything else.
Natalie grabbed her coat, avoiding eye contact with the letterman jacket like it might start talking to her.
Jackie was still in the kitchen when Nat came back down, fully dressed. She’d put herself back together—jeans, jacket, boots laced tight—like she was armoring up just to step outside.
Jackie glanced up from where she’d been fussing with something on the table. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” Nat said. Crisp. Useless.
Jackie blinked, “Out where?”
Nat bent to scoop her keys off the floor, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t know. Somewhere.”
The truth was she knew exactly where—Bloomfield Ave, coffee shop, Lisa—but saying it out loud felt like handing over evidence. She wasn’t about to explain that she needed to sit across from someone whose entire existence didn’t make her question her grip on reality.
Jackie tried again, “Can I come?” Her voice was soft, but Nat heard the plea in it.
“No.” The word came out low, almost guilty.
“Please?”
Nat exhaled, a slow hiss through her teeth. She didn’t trust herself to say no again—not without sounding cruel—so she just moved toward the door. Jackie, of course, followed.
–
The air outside bit at her face, sharp enough to cut through the hangover haze still clinging to her skull. She shoved her hands deep in her jacket pockets and kept walking. Jackie stayed close enough that Nat could feel her there, but far enough that she didn’t have to look at her.
“So… do you maybe wanna do something fun today?” Jackie asked, still clinging to whatever fragile thread they had between them.
Nat kept her eyes forward. “I’ll just be gone in a few minutes,” she muttered, half to herself. Self-conscious that someone might hear her.
“What?”
She didn’t repeat it.
Jackie’s voice tightened. “Can you just tell me where you’re actually going?”
Nat felt her mouth dry. “Gonna see a friend.”
“Which friend?”
Nat didn’t answer. Her focus narrowed to the crosswalk ahead, scanning faces and making sure no one familiar saw her like this.
Jackie pushed again. “What exactly am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
Nat gave a small shrug without slowing. “I don’t know. Whatever it is that you like to do, Jack. Shop around, I guess.”
Jackie stopped walking. Nat felt it more than saw it—the absence of footsteps behind her was like a sudden hole in the air. She didn’t turn until she was halfway down the block, and even then, it was just a quick glance over her shoulder before she kept moving. No reason to linger. Distance was the point.
Except apparently, her hallucination wasn’t going to stay back.
Nat could feel her shadow again, trailing her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She didn’t speed up, didn’t slow down, just kept her head down.
Bloomfield Ave. Coffee Shop. Umbrella tables. Salvation.
Lisa was there already, seated outside with a paper cup in front of her. She gave a quick smile when she saw Nat, like she had been expecting her. Nat slid into the chair across without thinking, without looking around. Just one normal conversation, that’s all she wanted.
They’d barely gotten two sentences in when Nat felt the shift—eyes on her from across the street. She didn’t have to check to know who.
Lisa leaned forward slightly, chin in her hand. “You wanna get out of here?”
Nat blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Hi,” came a voice, sharp enough to cut the air between them.
Nat froze.
Lisa tried again. “Do you… wanna get out of here?”
“Hi,” Jackie tried harder, and louder this time.
Nat kept her focus on Lisa. “It’s too loud in here,” she said, even though they were outside and the only background noise was the sound of the cars a block over.
Jackie moved in close enough that Nat could smell her perfume, the same one that had been all over her dresser this morning.“Hi!” she practically yelled at Lisa.
Lisa gave a baffled “Hi?” back.
Jackie’s smile was tight and wrong. “I’m Jackie. I’m Nat’s girlfriend.”
Nat’s head snapped towards her. Girlfriend? What the hell is happening? Is Lisa looking at Jackie or her?
Lisa didn’t take her hand. “I… think I should—”
“Wait.” Nat stood up so fast her chair scraped against the pavement. She jabbed a finger toward Jackie. “You can see her?”
Lisa’s eyes darted between them. “I—what?”
“You can actually see her?!” Nat’s voice came out louder than she meant, almost laughing at the absurdity and terror of it at the same time.
Lisa’s cheeks went red as she stared at Jackie. “I didn’t know, okay? I’m sorry.” She shot Nat a look like she’d just been conned. “Thanks a lot, Nat.” Then she was gone, fast.
“Who the fuck was that?!”
Nat ignored the question, her pulse was hammering. She turned to the nearest table. “Can you see her?” she asked the waitress, pointing at Jackie again.
“‘Can I see her’?” The woman frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”
That wasn’t enough. Nat started moving from table to table, dragging Jackie with her, demanding, “Do you see her? Do you see her?”
A guy with a baseball cap gave Jackie an appreciative once-over. “Yeah, I see her,” he said, smirking.
Jackie yanked her arm away, face hard. “You know what? Fuck you, Nat.”
Without warning, Jackie grabbed a glass of water from a nearby table. The cold liquid sloshed over the rim as she hauled it up and dumped it right across Nat’s face, droplets catching in the sunlight like little sparks.
Then, before Nat could even blink, Jackie spun on her heel and bolted—darting between the umbrella tables like she was running from more than just a conversation.
Nat just stood there, chest heaving, blinking through the sudden splash, staring at the empty spot where Jackie had been.
“Yup,” she muttered under her breath. “She’s here.”
She can’t do much else but run after her.
-