The Fray Theory: Resonance Page 5

  As Isaac’s listless body topples over, his startled crew release Romer and begin to disperse.

  Drowning in warm crimson, Romer shudders next to Isaac’s corpse.

  His mind wants to shut down. To stop feeling this excruciating anguish. But he clings onto every breath and fights the darkness closing in, by counting the precious seconds ticking by.

  σ

  Stop… Romer pleads with whatever God there is, but the shop’s machinery continue to groan, growl, and shriek, demanding to be heard.

  Demanding that Romer remembers, always, who he is, and what he’s done.

  “Stop,” he demands, but his voice is barely audible over the cacophony. “I said stop,” he asserts louder, “Stop! STOOOOP!”

  BLACKOUT.

  Romer stares into darkness as the noise from the machinery tapers off. But even after silence has once again befallen his dwelling, chaos continues to wreak havoc inside him. Because it doesn’t matter whether he accepts or denies his circumstances.

  He’d have to be mad to do either.

  Chapter 6

  Exhibition

  Twilight. Cool hues of navy and blue drape over the city, complimenting the warmth of nightlife. And nowhere in Vancouver is livelier than Gastown when the day paves the way for its darker side.

  At the heart of the neighborhood, a bright gallery lures the curious with the promise of novelty. And inside, friends and strangers alike weave through one another like colorful fish in an aquarium.

  Suffocating in her scarlet dress, Neve navigates through the crowd with a tray in her hand. A smile, a wider smile, a ‘heeeeey, thanks for coming!’ and she crosses the threshold into the dingy staging area.

  She plops onto a wooden crate, cursing the entire family tree of whoever invented high heels. But then again, she should’ve known better than to wear five inch stilettos on a night like this.

  Stretching out her legs, she pulls her phone from her waist-belt, and scrolls through a string of texts from people who won’t be able to make it.

  No big deal. The place is already packed. But what she can’t get over is that—despite being shamelessly late—Elliot hasn’t even bothered to reach out.

  With her lips tightly pressed together, she shakes her head and dials him. It’s one thing to leave her hanging when she needed a fake emergency call at the café… but missing the event she’s been beaming about for months?

  Voicemail.

  “Elli! You better be stuck in traffic, you jackass. You were supposed to be here two hours ago. I had to serve everything without crackers.”

  Leaning over to sneak a peek at the refreshments table, her gaze lands onto Romer, looking deliciously dashing with his hair slicked back, donning a black leather jacket and a powder-blue shirt.

  Neve watches him scan the dwindling selection of edibles, shrug, and then pop a cube of cheese into his mouth. And it isn’t till someone blocks him from her view that Neve remembers still being on the phone.

  “Elli—I know this is the last thing you want to do right now. I get it. But it’s just me, and I really really need you. So just come, okay?”

  Her hopes of Elliot actually showing up perish the instant she ends the call. But maybe it’s for the best. He’d probably be miserable, anyway.

  She glances in Romer’s direction, then with an act of sheer will, rises back onto her throbbing feet. She runs her fingers through her wavy hair, takes a deep breath, and then ventures back into the main space.

  Where’d he go? She scans the gallery, but Romer is nowhere to be seen.

  Eager to stage a run-in before it’s too late, Neve heads straight for the entrance. But with her focus misplaced, she winds up bumping into someone. A very strong and sturdy someone who ends up saving her from a humiliating tumble.

  “Whoa—you alright?” he asks.

  “Oh God—I’m so sorry about that,” Neve forces a laugh to mask her embarrassment. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem,” he dashes a charming smile.

  She takes him in: early thirties, build of a rugby-player, crew haircut, and thick, expressive brows. In his slick bomber, white shirt, and dark jeans, he is the ‘everybody’s type’ kind of handsome.

  “Are you a friend of Elliot’s?” Neve asks to fill the silence, and immediately imagines him responding with: ‘Yeah, I use him as a toothbrush’.

  “No, I was just walking by and noticed the line up. Thought I’d check it out,” he shrugs and looks about the gallery. “Are these all yours?” he spins his index finger in the air.

  Neve’s face lights up. “They sure are.”

  He nods impressively. “Well done.”

  “Thanks,” her smile broadens as she pulls her hair behind her ear. “I’m Neve, by the way,” she extends her hand for a shake.

  He reaches out and takes Neve’s hand, but his face suddenly goes blank. “I’m—” his pauses, staring at Neve as though he’s trying to remember something important. “Victor,” he says. “Victor Young.”

  His grip is too firm all of a sudden, and what little emotion is registered on his face feels… hostile?

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Victor,” Neve smiles, trying to conceal her unease over his sudden shift in demeanor. “Well, I’m going to make a round—” she indicates the gallery, then looks down at her hand.

  Realizing he’s still firmly gripping it, he lets go.

  “Right,” he nods, and then wanders back into the heart of the gallery.

  Neve’s brows knit, having no idea what to think. He seemed so personable at first. What happened?

  “Macking on the commoners, I see,” Romer’s voice by her ear snaps her to attention.

  He’s still here… Neve feels a fluttering in her chest. “Done gorging on cheese, I see,” she crosses her arms and turns to face him.

  “Been watching me, have you?” he sips from his plastic cup and leans against the column.

  His playfulness feels so out of character. This is, after all, the same guy who just yesterday made Neve feel as sexy as a dustpan.

  “Yeah, well—it’s on me to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

  “Oh please… I saw you eyeing me from your little hideout in the back.”

  What! When? Shit!

  “Well—it’s not my fault you stick out like a sore thumb. A powder-blue shirt? I mean, we get it, you have blue eyes.”

  She waits for him to retort with a witty comeback. But instead, he just looks at her, taking in the details of her face—like the freckle on the rim of her upper lip. “And I wasn’t macking. I was introducing myself.”

  “Mmm hmm. And I’m sure ‘bumping into him’ was totally unintentional,” Romer takes another sip from his drink with a lingering smirk on his lips.

  Is he flirting with her? Was his hostility yesterday just an isolated incident?

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she counters.

  With a gulp of his drink still in his mouth, his lips form into an even tighter smirk. He shakes his head and swallows. “Jealousy’s not my color.”

  Blue, Neve thinks, and realizes she’s staring again. “So, um—thank you. The setup looks amazing.”

  Romer looks down and swirls the drink in his cup. “Is Dylan coming tonight?”

  His question jars her. “I don’t, um—” she tries to play it cool. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Busy?”

  “I didn’t invite him,” she looks away, scanning the crowd for a boy she knows she will not find.

  “How come?”

  And Neve finds herself tongue-tied. She can’t tell whether Romer is trying to put her on the spot, or if he actually doesn’t know.

  “You’re mad at him,” he squints, then nods with a knowing smile. “It’s all over your face.”

  Neve scoffs, tongue in cheek. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why don’t you just call him if you want to see him so bad?”

  “Who says I want to see him?”
>
  “It’s all over your face.”

  His smile broadens. He goes to say something, but instead just glides his tongue over his lower teeth.

  Gotcha. Neve flicks up her brows.

  “So..?” she coaxes, but Romer just shrugs it off and averts his gaze. “What?”

  “It’s a long story,” he shakes his head and downs the remainder of his drink. “Thanks for the brew,” he crushes his cup and starts looking around at knee-level. He spots the bin next to the refreshments table and makes his way over.

  “Are you taking off?” Neve follows.

  “Been a long day,” he throws the cup into the bin.

  “Why don’t you just call him?” she asks.

  “I don’t have his new number.”

  “It’s the same number,” Neve says, knowing damn well his excuse is bullshit.

  “I got an early day tomorrow,” he tries to squeeze past her. “Good luck with everything.”

  “Okay, hang on—” she rests her hand on his arm, and to her surprise, he actually stops—like he wants to be talked into talking.

  “I just…” Neve struggles to finesse what she really wants to ask him. “I’m just a little confused.”

  “About?”

  About why you’re acting like Dylan is a complete stranger? “Well—aren’t you guys best friends?”

  “No,” he says firmly. Terminally. “We’re definitely not that.”

  Chapter 7

  Calamity

  Home sweet hole. Neve collapses onto her bed, her arm and leg dangling over the side like a starfish. With her face buried in her sheets, she kicks off her shoes and relishes the soothing sensation of cool air on her aching feet. Her entire body is so sore that it feels like she’s fallen down a flight of stairs.

  Months of tedious planning, thirty-six paintings, stress, sweat, and tears, and she barely managed to break even with her expenses. Elliot never showed. Her mom’s brief visit was really more of a critique of Neve’s life choices than actual support. And chatting with Romer just wound up raising more questions.

  For some reason, she keeps thinking back to four Christmases ago. Back to that gloomy afternoon she was waiting for Dylan by the escalators of the movie theater, holding two cups of hot chocolate.

  A matinee on a snowy day. Perfection.

  She remembers spotting Dylan as he walked past the windows of the lobby, his rosy cheeks peeking from beneath his navy scarf. And although his mouth was concealed, she remembers him smiling.

  It must’ve been in his eyes.

  And she remembers how as Dylan reached for the door, a boy suddenly appeared from behind the wall, running towards him at full speed. And how when he leaped onto Dylan’s back, his momentum propelled them both onto a pile of snow.

  And she remembers beaming with envy as ‘Ro’— the boy she often heard of, but rarely saw—shoved handfuls of snow into Dylan’s mouth, their laughter audible even through the thick windows.

  It was little more than a moment in time, and yet it instantly became one of Neve’s favorite memories. Because that was the kind of friendship she’d kill for.

  Neve finds herself inside the university’s Aquatic Centre, standing on the higher of two diving boards. The water beneath her is as still as glass. The humidity is suffocating, and the smell of chlorine is strong enough to be tasted.

  Scanning the vast open space, she tries to pinpoint the source of dripping water. There’s an eeriness creeping about, but it eludes her with much finesse.

  I thought I was afraid of heights…

  She looks down to find herself fully clothed. But what’s even more peculiar is that she is clutching a heavy steel anchor.

  Makes sense, she thinks. Without it I would float right back up.

  With that thought, Neve steps off the board and plummets towards her reflection.

  Like missing the final step going down the stairs, Neve kicks awake in her bed. Her heart is pounding, and her skin is glazed with a thin layer of cold sweat.

  She can’t seem to shake the sensation of falling, so she just lies there and waits for her nerves to calm.

  It’s still dark outside, so she slips her hand under her pillow, grabs her phone, and checks the time.

  6:12 a.m.

  She groans. It feels blasphemous to be up so early on a Sunday.

  With the exhibition now behind her, Neve realizes she’s made no concrete plans for the summer—none besides hanging out with Elliot. And with most of her exhaustion now stripped away, she’s starting to feel really raw about him.

  He didn’t even bother to send her a quick text. At least then Neve wouldn’t have spent the whole night alternating between checking her phone and staring out the gallery’s windows.

  But worse than being mad at Elliot is how badly Neve wishes she could just call Dylan to talk about it. About anything, really. And to be fair, she still hasn’t heard Dylan’s side of things. So reaching out to him wouldn’t be pathetic… right? It’d be the mature thing to do.

  She huffs a sharp breath and pulls up his number.

  She stares at it, expecting to come to her senses. But for the first time in a long while, her mind and heart don’t seem to be at odds. So she swallows the tension in her throat, licks her lips, breathes in the courage she desperately needs, and calls him.

  It rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and, “Hey, you’ve reached—”

  She hangs up.

  σ

  Neve wipes the bathroom mirror with her towel, and steps out of the steamy cocoon wearing a white tank top and black and white striped pajama shorts. She grabs her phone off the bed and checks it, saddened to not have a single text, notification, or missed call.

  Well, I did call him at the crack of dawn…

  She drops her phone back down and walks over to her mini-fridge. Minus a few condiments, it’s more or less empty. With finals and the exhibition keeping her occupied, she’s been surviving on frozen dinners and instant noodles.

  Mulling over her limited options, a faint dial-tone reaches her ears.

  Neve looks towards her phone and sees that the screen is lit up. She walks over and grabs it, realizing it’s making an outgoing call to Elliot.

  Thinking she dialed him by mistake, she taps and ends the call. And then her eyes widen at the sight of a string of outgoing calls—all to Elliot—and all of which were made while Neve was in the shower.

  She stares with knitted brows.

  Software bug?

  Without being prompted, her phone begins to dial Elliot again. This time, Neve finds herself starting at it, not wanting to end the call.

  She might have always been a bit of a malfunction magnet, but this feels different. Darker. The kind of feeling you get when you’re watching a horror movie all by yourself.

  An incoming call makes her jump out of her skin.

  It’s from a blocked number.

  With zero guesses as to whom it could be, Neve clears her throat and receives the call. “Hello?”

  “Is this Miss Knightly?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

  σ

  Neve’s damp locks lash against her skin as she bursts into the hospital’s emergency ward. And right before a fresh onslaught of panic cripples her, she notices a young girl behind a small reception desk.

  There is a ‘VOLUNTEER’ tag clipped to her shirt.

  “Can I help you with something?” she chirps with an excessively chipper voice.

  Neve goes to speak, but a police officer at the end of the hall beckons her attention.

  Is he the one who called her?

  Neve swallows the tension in her throat, and with gravity clawing at her feet, sets out in his direction.

  Her steps become smaller and smaller, and then she is just standing still, waiting for him to meet her halfway.

  “Miss Knightly?” he approaches.

  “How is he?” Neve asks with a whisper-soft voice.

  “Can I see your ID, please?”

  “Oh. Yes.” With
her eyes struggling to focus, Neve rummages through her bag until she finds her wallet. She pulls out her driver’s licence and hands it to him. “I’m not family,” she says as the officer checks her ID. “His family lives in Toronto.”

  “We’re in the process of getting a hold of them as well. We called you because you’re listed as his local emergency contact.”

  Neve nods, barely registering his words. “So, what happened?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been updated on his status. But the doctor should be out soon.”

  “Okay, but what happened? You said you would explain once I got here.”

  “Well—” he drops his gaze and rubs his stubble. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but so far it looks like attempted suicide.”

  Suicide.

  She’s underwater. She can no longer hear a word he’s saying. The world is fading to black, and all she sees is Elliot dangling from a rope in his dorm room. Or lying in a pool of his own blood with slit wrists resting face up on the rim of his bathtub.

  “Did you have any knowledge of this?” the officer asks, redrawing Neve’s wavering focus.

  Her frown deepens, and she shakes her head, ‘no’.

  “Because we found eighteen missed calls from the same number we reached you at.”

  The calls, Neve’s heart drops.

  “My phone was—um… I was supposed to see him last night, but he didn’t show,” she starts to well up.

  “I’m sure he’s going to be fine.”

  “How did he—” Neve chokes on the words, hoping he’ll spare her the gruesome details.

  “It looks like he was trying to drown himself.”

  Confusion taints Neve’s expression. “What..?”

  “Apparently, the custodian kept hearing a phone ring, and figured someone had lost it. And when he turned the corner, he saw Mr. Wilder jump, and dove in after him.”

  Dove? Custodian?

  Off Neve’s expression, “into the pool,” the officer clarifies. “At UBC’s Aquatic Center.”

  She can’t breathe. She can’t think. The heavy pain in her gut is threatening to drop her to her knees.