Counterfactual

10 | poltergeist

CHAPTER TEN

POLTERGEIST

( — a ghost or spirit supposed to manifest its presence by noises, knockings, etc. )

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          JASPER STOPS IN HER TRACKS WHEN THEIR EYES MEET. Isla, brows knitted together, turns around on her seat, with an arm resting on the back of her chair, to see what caught his eye, while Rowan can't think of a worse way to run into Jasper. It's not even like he's trying to make her jealous, as she knows the hold she still has on him, and jealousy had never been a factor in their relationship. Besides, he wouldn't use Isla like that, but he's determined to keep her away from that side of his life.

           His life in the US has to stay there. Canada was supposed to give him a clean slate during his stay instead of mixing it all together like a cake recipe, but he never has any luck with these things, much like how no one ever lets him move on from the disgrace that was his last relationship.

           Nevertheless, during the mere twenty seconds it takes for Jasper to cross the aisle, walking towards their booth, he can't help but wonder if she has changed and, if she did, how much. It wouldn't change anything, as they both damaged each other almost to the point of no return, so figuring things out would only be for the innocent sake of closure.

          At least that's what Rowan is trying to convince himself of. The dryness of his throat and the quickening of his pulse, unfortunately, tell him otherwise. She knows it, of course she does, because her lips stretch into a grin when she comes to a halt, with Isla still wishing she understood what the hell is going on.

          Rowan wants to tell her everything, as there's no way they'll work together if she doesn't know one of the things that hold him back the most—besides the slow decay of his cognitive functions, which he really wishes he could solve or, at the very least, understand—but he simply can't. It's too personal, almost horribly so, that it would feel like having a limb be ripped off—no comparisons to nearly losing his leg thanks to Chase and his baseball bat needed, thank you very much.

          That's why they told him and reminded him several times of how unhealthy it was. He didn't know how to function without her, which was why he needed a therapist instead of sweeping it under the rug like he and Jasper always did, but he brushed those concerns away. He did it because he knew they were right, deep down, and refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing anyone else help him get over it.

          It's not like it did much to help him on the long run, but, at the time, all he wanted was to get out of bed instead of drowning in alcoholic beverages and long nights with people he met at bars, men and women, and disappearing once morning came. Before the sun could rise, he was already out of the door, vanishing into the shadows.

          "Jasper," he repeats, praying to everything he doesn't really believe in that his voice remains as steady as possible. Her hair is soaking wet, but, somehow, she makes it look good, whereas he looks more like a wet dog whenever he tries to mimic the look. "Hi."

          "Hi," she greets, fixing her bag's strap over her shoulder. "You called?"

          He narrows his eyes. "Did I?"

          The scowl Jasper's red lips twist into is hard to miss. "Uh . . . yes? Around four in the morning, saying you couldn't sleep because someone has been messing with your head. I have receipts." Jasper tries to hand him her phone, but he merely shakes his head. Though she has always been pretty great at manipulating people, she has never been a liar, even if he can't remember having called her last night. He can't remember anything he did after Isla hung up the phone, speaking of which. "Oh, I'm sorry." She turns to Isla, who doesn't blink. "Jasper—"