The bookstore’s quiet today—too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. I’m behind the counter, sorting returns, but my head’s not in it. Jamie’s visit yesterday keeps playing over—him standing there, desperate, shoving papers at me, saying Morgan and Riley set him up. “I don’t know,” I told him, and he walked out, broken. I’ve been chewing on it since—those emails Casey found, Morgan’s name, Riley tied in. It’s a lot, and I pushed it away, clung to the doubt that’s been eating me. But now, cracks are showing, and Riley’s the one making me look twice.
She’s been around too much lately—popping by, all soft smiles and worried eyes. At first, it felt good—someone checking in, caring, while the town’s kicking me down with inspections and legal threats. Morgan’s doing—Jamie said that too—and it’s drowning me. Riley’s been a lifeline, showing up with coffee, saying stuff like, “You don’t deserve this mess.” But today, she swings by again—third time this week—and it’s starting to feel off. She leans on the counter, too close, her voice low. “Heard Jamie’s still causing trouble,” she says, casual, like it’s nothing. “Harassing people, acting crazy.”
I frown, setting a book down. “Harassing who?” I ask, keeping my tone even. She’s been dropping these hints—little digs about Jamie—since he came by with those papers. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it’s nagging at me now.
She shrugs, picking at her nails. “Me, for one,” she says, soft, like she’s scared. “Banged on my dorm door, yelling about me ruining him. I told you—he’s losing it.” Her eyes flick up, watching me, and I nod, slow, but something’s not right. She called me that night, crying, saying the same thing—Jamie freaking out, threatening her. I bought it then—he’s been a mess, expelled, out of my place—but now, it’s sticking funny.
“Jamie doesn’t do that,” I say, quiet, testing her. “He’s not the type.” I look at her, waiting, and she shifts, just a little.
“He’s changed,” she says quick, her voice sharp. “You don’t see it—you’re too nice, Alex. He’s mad, blaming everyone. I’m just worried for you.” She smiles, small, like she’s helping, but it’s off—too smooth, too fast. My gut twists, and I don’t smile back. She’s been saying this stuff a lot—Jamie’s unhinged, Jamie’s trouble—and it’s piling up, feeling forced.
I turn away, stacking books, my hands moving slow. She keeps talking—something about Morgan, the town, how she’s here for me—but I’m half-listening, my mind drifting. Jamie’s face—tears, begging me to believe him—it’s stuck with me. He’s never lied to me, not in three years, not till this mess. Riley’s the one pushing, though—checking in too often, always with a new story about him. It’s too much, and I’m starting to see it—her words don’t fit, don’t add up.
She leaves after a bit, the bell jingling as she goes, and I’m alone again. The quiet settles, heavy, and I grab my phone, needing something—anything—to clear my head. I scroll old texts, random stuff, and stop on a chat with Riley from months back—before all this blew up. She’d said she couldn’t meet me for coffee—some class she had to finish, big project due. “Stuck till six,” she wrote, and I let it go. But now, I think back—Jamie was here that day, helping me shelve books, and he’d said something offhand. “Saw Riley at the park,” he’d mumbled, sketching in the corner. “Looked free to me.”
I stare at the screen, my thumb frozen. She lied—small, dumb lie, but it’s there. No class, no project—just an excuse, and I didn’t catch it then. My chest tightens, and I scroll more, looking for anything else. Little things pop up—times she said she was busy but showed up later, stories that shifted when I asked twice. They’re tiny, easy to miss, but they’re piling up now, and it’s hitting me—she’s been playing me, twisting things, maybe all along.
I set the phone down, my hands shaky, and lean on the counter. Riley’s call—Jamie harassing her—it’s loud in my head, but it’s wobbly now. Jamie’s not like that—he’s quiet, soft, not some yelling creep. And those papers—Morgan’s emails, Riley’s name—they’re real, Casey’s sure. I pushed Jamie out, doubted him, because of what? Cops? College? Riley’s tears? My gut’s churning—she’s been too close, too quick to point at him, and it’s not sitting right anymore.
The store’s dark now—sun’s gone, just the counter lamp glowing. I’m alone, the shelves looming, and my head’s a mess. Jamie’s voice—“Do you really think I could do this to you?”—it’s echoing, breaking me. I’ve been wrong before—trusted too easy, got burned—but what if it’s Riley this time? What if she’s the lie, not him? I rub my face, hard, trying to shake it off, but it’s stuck. She’s manipulating me—I feel it, slow and cold—but I’m not ready to flip on her, not yet. Too much doubt, too much noise.
I stand there, staring at nothing, my breath shaky. The quiet’s loud, pressing in, and I whisper to myself, soft, like a secret: “What if I was wrong?” The words hang, heavy, and I don’t know what to do with them.