Don't Tell Ellie | Complete | Open Novella Contest

Chapter Eight: Late Shift

"Jack, it's Ellie. I'm working the late shift tonight, stop by if you can." This is the third message I've left Jack since I got home. I gave up on texting him half an hour ago, but he's even ignoring my phone calls.

I'm standing in my kitchen with the black and white photograph of the table and flowers in my hand, I'm squinting but I don't need to in order to see the mark. Like a painter who signs their finished product, Marlow had a way of signing her paper flowers. Each outer petal of the roses was creased, dog-eared like a page in a book, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for it, but I was, and on the inside of each folded petal was a tiny inked M.

I'd watched Marlow do this day after day, folding and inking as if she were signing autographs for fans. When I asked her why her response confused me, she'd said, "It's the creator's burden to leave a mark."

I walk toward my garbage bin and stop, glancing down at the bouquet cautiously. Do I even want to know? I pluck a single rose from the shredded brown paper and twist it in my fingers.

"Fuck." Is all I can say as the tiny black M stares back at me.

I've got to be losing my mind, maybe I'm the one that should be in Bellevue. That feeling the Xanax was supposed to help with, that paranoia threaded with anxiety is bubbling up somewhere inside of me and I suddenly feel like someone is watching me. Like this is some sort of new reality show called Let's Fuck with Ellie.

Something touches me and I jump, dropping the rose and nearly trampling Lagertha as she dashes away from my feet with a hiss.

"Sorry, girl. I'm a little out of it."

My phone chimes and I grab it to read the text message scrawled across the screen. It's Viv, most likely hating the fact that she has to text instead of call.

"Let's make plans for the 7th, I'd like to see u. Hope u say yes. Xo Viv."

The 7th is this Friday and I don't have any plans that I can think of, maybe I can get more information out of her because the feeling that there's something she's not telling me is fierce.

"Sure, see you then." I text back.

When I'm ready for work I decide to call an Uber instead of walking, my nerves are shot and I'm not interested in checking over my shoulder every step of the way to the bar.

My Uber driver is a young kid who looks like he's barely old enough to drive. But he doesn't say much except, "Hey," and "See ya," when he drops me off in front of Thermal.

I tighten my ponytail and tug on my shirt to expose the perfect amount of cleavage, most people tip better if you give them something nice to look at. It's Wednesday, so the bar won't be packed, but I can still hope to make at least one hundred and fifty dollars in tips.

"You're early," my boss, Rachel says as I step behind the bar. She's about a foot shorter than me and built like a prepubescent boy, but even the bouncers are afraid of her.

"Am I?"

"It's 9:30," she says sliding two beers to a pair of guys, "I guess you can start your shift, it's pretty slow tonight."

"Cool beans."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Rachel is looking at me like I've just insulted her, "Who the hell says cool beans?"

Not me, that's for sure, "Sorry, my mind was somewhere else."

"Alright, well get it together, I don't have time to hold hands tonight."

"I got it, don't worry."

Rachel rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar to refill drinks.