Chapter 18

Madison got home from class earlier than expected that afternoon, the drag of exhaustion settling over her like an unwelcome shadow, pulling at her every step.

The apartment felt tighter than ever, the walls crowding in the moment she stepped through the door, slinging her bag against the wall with a dull thud that echoed through the emptiness.

Last night had been hell—fitful and fragmented, jolted awake by those gut-wrenching flashes that left her drenched in sweat, her pulse racing as if she were still bolting from that hotel room. She felt hollowed out, eyelids drooping, body numb from a weariness that went deeper than bones, just this sour knot twisting in her gut, refusing to loosen.

She was doing a bit better, or at least she told herself that, shoving the memories aside like stubborn grit underfoot, even though it was futile right now; every push to forget only stirred the horror back up, that clammy revulsion clinging to her skin no matter how long she stood under the scalding water.

She drifted through the place aimlessly, pacing from the cramped kitchenette to the tiny living room, grabbing a glass of water she left forgotten on the counter, flipping channels on the TV without seeing a thing, just to drown out the stifling quiet. A pile of homework loomed on her desk—economic analyses to draft, chapters to cram for an exam creeping up like a silent predator—but the will to tackle it had evaporated, replaced by this sluggish haze that locked her limbs, pinning her to the couch like a limp ragdoll. Her phone buzzed, making her flinch hard, a raw instinct that clamped her throat tight. It was Larry, in the group chat: “So swing by whenever tonight! Pizza and beers on deck!” Madison let out a heavy sigh, the sound slipping from her chest like a quiet surrender, setting the phone on her thigh with a wince.

The thought of going out, faking smiles and laughs with the crew, turned her stomach. And that pulled her mind back to Alan—that name lingering in her head like a slow toxin, churning her insides without any clear reason she could pin down.

She had zero desire to see him again, not after everything; deep down, she was pinning the blame on him, as if he hadn’t been in her corner that night, as if he’d picked the madness over shielding her, ignoring—or burying—how wrecked the whole mess must have left him too, scarred in ways she didn’t want to picture. She swatted the idea away with a flick of her hand, like shooing off a phantom buzz ... except she hadn’t checked since yesterday. Phone still in her grip, she pulled up her banking app out of habit, scrolling idly to glance at her balance, which had been teetering on the edge of overdraft lately. And then it hit her like a gut punch: the money was there, that absurd amount glaring back at her from the screen like a fresh brand—twenty-one thousand dollars, a number that seared into her vision.

She stared at it for what felt like forever, breath shallow, the truth crashing over her that this had been orchestrated from the start; she’d walked right into it, accepting Rebecah’s invite despite the nagging doubts, the inner alarms she’d brushed off.

A bitter surge of regret clawed up her throat, making her queasy—she’d stepped into the trap with eyes wide open, all for this cash that now felt tainted, like a self-inflicted wound she couldn’t take back.

A little later that evening, as the light outside had shifted to a dusky gray, barely seeping through the curtains, another buzz yanked her from her daze. She’d shifted to the dishes to keep her hands busy, scrubbing plates under the lukewarm stream in a mindless routine, just something to fill the hollow ache inside. Alan’s name popped up on the screen, and it froze her in place, hands dripping, a chill snaking up her back despite the water’s warmth. Her pulse quickened, a sly dread clamping down on her chest, but curiosity—or maybe some buried urge to twist the knife—won out; she wiped her fingers on a crumpled dishtowel and tapped open the message. “I don’t get what you told Bella. We need to meet up, okay? She thinks we’re fighting...” He sounded baffled, a touch pissed off, like he couldn’t wrap his head around why she’d spun that whole story out of thin air. Madison stared at the words, a sour tang coating her tongue, unsure how to reply; an automatic “OK” shot from her fingers, curt and detached, like a reflex to shut it down without diving in. But before she could set the phone aside and get back to the sink, his reply pinged back almost instantly: “When?” That set her off, a raw surge of anger flushing her face—this pushiness, this casual tone like nothing had happened, like everything was fine, ordinary, while she felt like the only one drowning in this mess, stuck carrying it all alone, and he seemed ... untouched, or at least that’s what her worn-out mind whispered to fuel the simmering fury.

She jabbed out “Whenever,” tossed the phone onto the couch with a muffled thump, and dove back into the dishes, hands shaking just a bit, her thoughts churning against her will, the unease creeping in like a shadow she couldn’t shake off anymore. About half an hour later, bundled up in a worn blanket on the couch, knees tucked tight to her chest to curl into a makeshift shell, a knock at the door jolted her hard, like a bolt cracking through the room.

Madison instinctively turned down the TV volume, some pointless documentary droning in the background, and held still for a second, her heart hammering wildly. She wasn’t expecting anyone—fuck, she didn’t want to see anyone, not tonight, not with that heaviness still pressing on her lungs, leaving her raw and unguarded even in her own space. But a voice cut through the quiet, loud and familiar from the other side: “Madi? It’s me, Alan!” Right away, a wave of intense awkwardness hit her, like she was suddenly stripped bare, fully exposed, her face heating up even as an icy grip tightened in her veins. What? How? Why was he here, at this hour, without warning? Her mind spun in a frenzy, a storm of questions choking her up. She grabbed her phone with a trembling hand, the screen lighting up on an unread message: “OK, on my way.” Shit. She’d replied without thinking, and he ... he’d taken it literally, like an open door. A deep breath shuddered through her, bracing for what felt like an impossible confrontation, one she’d been dreading in her gut, and she called out in a strained, raspy voice: “Coming!” She was in pajamas—a snug pair of shorts clinging to her thighs, a tee ... too thin, only ramping up the discomfort. She jumped up clumsily and padded to the door on tiptoe, her heart pounding like a drum. She cracked it open at first, just a sliver, then wider when her eyes met Alan’s, him standing there with his usual vibe, a hint of impatience. “Finally—” he started, but he cut off sharp, picking up on the discomfort etched across her face, the drawn features, the averted gaze. His look softened, turning apologetic, almost guilty. “Wait ... you didn’t see my message, huh? Shit ... Bella told me I shouldn’t—whatever, forget it ... You ... gonna let me in?” Madison stood frozen for a beat, mortified, letting him ramble without cutting in, her eyes drifting down over him despite herself—his rumpled jacket, faded jeans, that familiar presence that now felt invasive, alien. She blanked on basic politeness, just planted there like a fool, her brain stalled in shock from the sudden intrusion. Shit, she snapped inwardly, shaking her head to clear the fog. She stepped aside at last, murmuring a barely audible “Come in,” and shut the door behind him with a click that echoed like a verdict. In the kitchen, rummaging through a cabinet to give herself something to do, she mustered the nerve to ask casually, even if her voice wavered: “What’s up...?” Alan, settled on the couch now, elbows on his knees, suddenly looked awkward too, dodging her eyes for a moment before replying in a low, hesitant tone: “It’s about Bella. We gotta get our stories straight so she stops bugging me about it. Tell her we’re good now, or something like that ... I don’t know, make up whatever, but it has to match.”