Pieces of You

Chapter Seven

Blaire | Before

The clock tower rings seven, echoing in the stagnant air of our town.

Darkness slowly takes over the parking lot, shadows stretching their crooked fingers across the grey tarmac as the sun finishes its descent. Above me, streetlights – a buzzy orange-yellow colour – flicker on and off from their metal posts.

If I listen carefully, I can hear water rushing across its riverbed in the nearby woods. It's a quiet noise, muted by the hum of engines rolling across the streets. It calms me somehow as I stand alone, shuffling my feet and rubbing at my bear arms.

Berewood River, notorious for flooding even during the height summer, slithers through our suburban town like a python. The sound of water follows you no matter where you go, a hushed backtrack following our every whisper and word.

It's colder than I thought it would be tonight, and the coming season is evident in the way fog passes through my glossed lips. It's only mid-September, but the trees are already nearly bare, their leaves piling on the ground and slowly rotting into the soil. It won't be long until the annual bonfires start, creating smoke that rises in threads to the stars.

I take a deep breath, withholding a sigh. Nate was supposed to arrive half an hour ago. If tonight went as planned, we'd already be sitting at our table in the restaurant. The waitress would be arriving with our food – a pizza for Nate, pasta salad for me – as we sipped through the straws of our soda, the smell of freshly cooked Italian enveloping us like a warm blanket.

But, no. That's not what's happened.

Instead, I'm still here. Waiting.

If he arrives now, we won't even be able to eat our food in time before the movie starts and it'll be popcorn for dinner.

How much longer does he expect me to wait?

Better yet, how much longer should I wait?

The Blaire Olsen my mother raised doesn't wait for anyone – not even for boys whose eyes you can't stop staring at. If it were Anna or Megan, I'd have already left. But it's not. It's Nate. Nate, who texted me at quarter to seven telling me he'd be late after I'd already been waiting fifteen minutes. As if I didn't already realize.

I look at the bright screen on my phone – no new messages – and shake my head, blonde hair whipping against a gust of wind. This is the worst thing Nathan could have done. It's moments like this, on cold nights when I'm on my own, that my mind drifts into places it shouldn't.

Like those cold hands wrapped around my neck – squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

I won't lie and say the dream didn't ruin my day.

I was jittery, standing on the edge of an invisible cliff whilst the rocks crumbled beneath me, and nobody noticed but me. Honestly, it might be the reason why I was so impatient with Anna and the team.

When I was younger, I'd have bad dreams all the time. I have no idea what – or who – started them, and apparently neither do my parents. I guess the only good thing about growing up is learning that nobody's watching you in the shadows of your room, that the real monsters are the people around you – and at least you can control them, right?

I shiver. To say today's been bad is the understatement of the century – and that's not even considering the message left in my locker.

I found the first one at the end of the last school year, crinkled at the bottom of my bag. I thought it was just rubbish, but then I saw the words in red marker, reading: I know what you did last summer.