How could she not believe me? Then again, she never believes me. She didn’t when I told her that Ryan was hitting me. Or when I told her that I was being chased. Or just now when I told her Ryan blackmailed me with that sex tape. And on top of all that, she had sex with Ben. My whole world is spinning, probably with a little help from all that wine. But right now, the wine is going to give me the courage that I need to run after her and tell her how I feel.

I jump up from the couch and out my front door, which she left open when she stormed out. To my surprise, Rowan is laying on the ground, trying to pick herself up. The wine may have given me courage but it gave her something completely different. I rush over to her, grabbing her arm and hoisting her into a standing position. She leans against me, hard, and I can see by the look on her face that she’s not okay.

Her forearms and elbows are skinned, small spots of blood pooling at the surface. That clingy outfit didn’t offer much protection, but damn, did it look good on her. Even now. I look down at her knees, also skinned. The palms of her hands too. She looks at me, tears welling in her eyes, and I can’t help but feel bad. I mean, I know I didn’t do anything wrong and she’s the one that doesn’t believe me but knowing that she’s so vulnerable right now; it makes my heart hurt.

I lead her inside, determined to clear her up and get her to bed. This wouldn’t be the first time that she’s slept over at my apartment so there was no doubt that she would be comfortable. I also don’t have a car to drive her home and I probably shouldn’t be driving anyway. I would call her a cab but you never know with those weird cab drivers. Anything could happen. So I slowly walk Rowan up the steps of my apartment and sit her down at one of the tables in the kitchen. There’s no way I’m letting her get blood on my couch.

The first aid kit is under the kitchen sink, waiting to be used. I’ve never needed it until now. I remove a few alcohol wipes from their individual packages and wipe the blood clean. I use a cotton swab to rub antibacterial cream on each of the cuts and throw a few bandaids on. Done. Rowan sits almost perfectly still, not having said a word the entire time. I can’t tell if she’s doing it out of spite or if she’s just lost in drunk thought.

She plops down on the couch and I throw my favorite couch blanket on top of her. It’s a little small for sleeping but I don’t think she’ll mind. I feel completely sober now, even after drinking as much as I did. Someone getting hurt is the kind of thing that makes you clear-headed all of a sudden. I take one last look at Rowan before I turn off the lights and head to the bedroom. Just as I climb into bed, I remember that I didn’t lock the door on my way back in. I throw the covers to the side and make my way through the living room.

“Harper?”

Her voice scares the shit out of me and even makes me jump. I put my hand over my heart, as if to stop it from beating so hard.

“Yeah?” I reply.

“Thanks.”

I think about it for a moment, wondering where this is coming from. She was so angry with me before, that a “thank you” was the last thing that I expected to hear. I wanted to ask her so many questions at that moment, but I decided to reply with, “You’re welcome.” And I locked the door and went to bed.

…..

When I woke up, she was already gone. She had grabbed her coat from off the kitchen chair. She refolded the blanket and replaced it on the back of the couch. She even cleaned up last night’s mess. I wonder if this was her way of thanking me. For cleaning her wounds. I check my phone, wondering if I would have a text from her, maybe some sort of explanation. Nothing. I decide to give Rowan some space. After all, the ball is kinda in her court after last night. So instead of texting her, I text Ben.

“Hey. Call me when you can. I need to talk to you about something.”

I hit send and put down my phone, determined not to look at it, at least until I’ve had some coffee. On a more positive note, it’s Sunday, my favorite day of the week. By now, I’m sure this week’s issue of the Bugle is sitting on my doorstep, waiting for me to grab it. Reading the newspaper always has a way of transporting me away from everything. Every article, each of a different topic, throws me into the world of the writer. Seeing it from their perspective is my favorite thing about it. Without their point of view, the world would never know what the topic looks like through their eyes.

I retrieve the paper from my front step and place it on the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. In the meantime, it’s been a while since I checked the mail. I grab my keys and head down to the cluster of post office boxes close to the center of my neighborhood. As I approach the paved area, I spot another resident looking through their mail, tossing junk letters into a nearby trash can. It’s a young man, about 5’7, with sandy blonde hair and a wiry frame. He seems to be in his teens, standing with most of his weight on his left leg. His hip is sticking out, baggy shorts almost falling off his waist. I unlock my box and the door practically busts open, filled to the brim with mail. I guess it’s been more than a while since I checked it. Haha. I pull everything out and juggle it into a comfortable position, getting ready to return to my apartment. The boy turns to me, watching in amusement as I struggle to carry it all.

“Need some help?”
I make eye contact with him and try to read his intentions. Is he just being a helpful kid or is there something else? This whole “being chased thing” is making me paranoid. He seems honest, though.

“Haha. Yeah, I guess I do. Would you mind locking my mailbox for me?”

He nods as I hand him the key and I run an alternate scenario in my head. One where he sprints off with my keys and I never see him again. While he locks the box, I make a little squinty face at myself. I shift the mail around again, trying to balance everything as my arms start to get tired. He gives the keys back and I look at him once more.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Any time.”
He walks in the direction of the neighborhood playground and I walk the opposite way, towards my apartment. When I finally get back, I dump the mail onto the table, scattering letters everywhere, a few of them falling onto the floor. I look at the coffee pot, which isn’t quite finished brewing, and then return my attention back to the pile of mail. Most of it is junk. I spy offers for car insurance, envelopes with pre-approved credit lines inside and a few notices from my dentist, reminding me to come in for a cleaning. I rip up the junk, place the note from my dentist on my fridge and pick up the few letters that fell on the floor.

The non-junk mail consists of three pieces. First, a bill from Capital One, letting me know that my minimum payment is due by the 1st. Second, a bank statement, also from Capital One, outlining my spending over the last month. And lastly, a letter from someone named Jim Campbell, which I’m still not convinced isn’t junk mail. The front of it features jagged, but somehow neat, handwriting. It slightly piques my interest and I make a note to look at it later but I wait six days every week for the newspaper. The letter can wait. I turn my attention back to the paper, lying folded on my cheap, particle board table. Next to it, the Capital One bill and statement are nagging me, begging to be put away. I hate clutter.

I put the Capital One correspondence in a box of documents that I keep hidden in the back of my closet. Right next to my new box of cash. Usually I love being organized, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to go through ten years of bills and statements. I head back into the kitchen and just as I’m about to open the mysterious letter, the coffee maker beeps. Finally. I pour myself a cup, add the necessary accoutrements, and sit down. I unfold the black and white tabloid, laying out each of the different pages, which I love to read in sequential order. On the front page sits my article about the mayor. Josh did say that he loved it. I read through my own writing, but not to view it from my own perspective. After all, I’m the one that wrote it. But I’m searching for mistakes, as I always do when I read my own work. Lucky for me, Josh is an amazing editor and I, an amazing writer, so there are no mistakes. Haha.

I read every passage of every article and study every picture, hoping to gain some insight from an inside perspective. I’m almost finished, but I always save the best for last. My favorite writer to read every Sunday. The Raven. They’re a silent contributor for the paper. I’m told that there are quite a few. Usually their articles rotate, one week will be one writer and the next week a different one. But the only one that remains a constant is The Raven. I’ve been reading their work for years, even before I started work at the paper. They have been my inspiration throughout my work as a writer. I have to admit that their writing is almost the sole reason that I am subscribed to the paper. It’s absolutely fascinating and wonderfully written. Their submissions are typically related to art, whether it’s reviews of local plays or visiting a new art exhibit downtown. No matter what they write about, they always make connections to the world’s most well-renowned works of art. Hemingway. Picasso. Thoreau. Michelangelo. Shakespeare. Poe.

I think for a moment about their unique signature, The Raven. Most of the silent contributors have signatures, such as this one, that usually relate to their genre of work. It keeps their identity hidden but gives people something to remember them by. The Raven is definitely fitting for them, as they love to talk about Edgar Allen Poe. It must be one of their favorites. This week’s article, though, is a review of a ballet that premiered last week at the local theater. The Black Swan. The way that they compare the play to the book is an incredible display of their knowledge of literature. This wasn’t a person that read the book in anticipation of the review, but someone that has read it more than once and knows it on a personal level.

I’ve imagined on more than one occasion that I would meet The Raven. After reading their articles every Sunday, I feel an almost personal connection to them. Their writing is so complex and descriptive that it’s as if I’ve known them for most of my life. This is someone that you can have an intellectual and challenging conversation with. Someone that I share interests with. Someone that I long to know. I find myself comparing a friendship with this faceless person to the relationships that I currently have in my life. Or should I say, the dwindling relationships. As much as I love talking to Rowan, she doesn’t exactly have a passion for the arts. I daydream about debating with someone like The Raven, about the controversies of 19th century literature. I guess I just long to be intellectually challenged.

My phone buzzes from the couch, where I threw it after I texted Ben, and as I jump out of my seat to grab it, the mysterious letter slides off the table and onto the floor. Lost in thought about who could be calling my phone, I disregard it and rush over to the living room. It's a number that I don’t recognize but it has a Washington area code so I answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Torres. It’s Josh. Did you read the paper yet?”

“Oh, hey Josh. I forgot to program the office number into my contacts so I didn’t know it was you. I’m actually reading the paper right now. Is everything okay with my article? I mean, you printed it but do you have some sort of correction or something I should work on for next week?”
“No, your article is perfect, actually. I wanted to let you know that I received a phone call from another paper this morning, asking for your contact information.”
“Oh, really? Who?”

“The Post.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I got a call around 8:30 from a rep for The Washington Post.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe it! Well, what did they say?”
“They just asked for your phone number. Of course, I gave it to them, but just remember where your loyalties lie, Torres.”
I sense the sarcasm in his voice and we share a laugh. I can’t believe that The Washington Post called about my article. That’s amazing news! I almost can’t contain my excitement but I bottle it up. I wouldn’t want to make Josh feel bad.

“Well, I just called to congratulate you and let you know that they’ll be calling soon. Oh, and I found your laptop. It looks like someone moved it onto one of the supply shelves and some papers got stacked on top of it. But we have it here.”
“Thank God. I’ve been looking for it everywhere. Thank you so much, Josh.”
“You’re welcome, Torres. And congrats, again.”
I hang up the phone and do an actual happy dance. The Post asked for my contact information. That’s insane! As amazing as the news is, though, it dawns on me that I have absolutely no one to share it with. I haven’t checked my phone since I texted Ben this morning. Nothing yet. I decide to search through my contacts, wanting someone, anyone, to share the good news with. I pass by old friends and coworkers, long-lost cousins and aunts that never call. I see my mom’s phone number, the one that she’s had since she first got a cell phone. I consider calling her but she never really supported my being a writer anyway. There isn’t one person that I actually want to speak to. Except Rowan, that is. But I’m trying to give her space.

I reach the “N”’s and there’s his name. Nick. The guy who brought back my debit card. I think, for a while, about calling. I also consider sending him a text. But I’m not the kind of person to ask a guy out. I’m not exactly Ms. Confident or anything. Then again, he doesn’t have my number, so if I ever want to see him again, I have to call him.

I spend the next twenty minutes going back and forth before I decide to paint my feelings instead. I make my way over to my easel, a fresh cup of water in my hand. I set it down on a small end table that I use for my supplies. I take down the canvas that boasts Rowan’s gorgeous face. I didn’t even get to show it to her. I turn the painting to face the wall and let it lean there, taunting me from just a few inches away. I try to block the image out of my brain, try to forget the feeling of passion with which I drew that painting. I grab a fresh canvas and place it on the easel, eager to paint my emotions, for lack of a better option.