Unfinished Business
1640 Words
CALLA
“Voss! Where the hell did you come from?”
Coach Miller was staring at me like I’d just dropped from the sky. I was breathing hard, my chest heaving, but I wasn't nearly as tired as I should have been after a full-field sprint.
“Syracuse,” I panted, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I told you that during check-in, Coach.”
“I don’t care if you came from Mars,” she said, looking down at her stopwatch and then back at me. “You just ran a sub-five-minute mile in full gear, and then you put three balls in the top corner while being double-teamed. Do you realize you’re faster than my senior captain?”
I looked at my stick.
“You’re on the starting lineup,” Miller said, scribbling on her clipboard. “Don’t make me regret it. Practice is at six tomorrow. Be there at five-thirty.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
I walked off the field, feeling the eyes of the other girls on my back. I should have felt nervous, but I just felt powerful.
By the time I got back to the dorm, Wren was already waiting for me, sitting on her bed with a bag of chips.
“So?” she asked, popping a chip into her mouth. “Did you kill them? Did you leave a trail of broken spirits behind you?”
“I made the starting lineup,” I said, dropping my bag by the door.
“Duh,” Wren said. “I saw you running toward the fields earlier. You looked like a literal blur. Are you sure you’re not a robot? Or maybe a super-soldier?”
“Just lucky,” I said, sitting on my bed.
I looked at the desk drawer. I’d been telling myself for three days that the envelope was just a prank. Some stupid hazing thing for the new scholarship kids. It had to be.
“Wren, do you think the students here do… weird stuff?” I asked.
“What kind of weird stuff?”
“Like, leaving creepy notes for freshmen? ‘Welcome home’ kind of stuff?”
Wren snorted. “Calla, this is a school for people who own yachts. They don't have time for creepy notes. They’re too busy comparing their trust funds. Why? Did someone leave you a love letter?”
“Something like that,” I said. “Probably just a prank.”
“Exactly. Probably some frat boy who thinks he’s mysterious,” Wren said, standing up and stretching. “Anyway, stop worrying. There’s a bonfire tonight at the North Shore. Everyone is going. You are going. Put on something that isn't covered in grass stains.”
“I don’t know, Wren. I’m pretty tired.”
“Liars go to hell, Calla. You aren't tired. You look like you could run to Canada and back. Change your shirt. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
An hour later, I was standing at the edge of a massive fire. The heat was orange and loud, popping and hissing in the dark. I held a red plastic cup filled with lukewarm soda, watching the flames.
Wren had already vanished into the crowd, probably trying to convince someone that her plants could feel pain. I was alone, and despite the hundreds of people around me, I felt like I was standing in a bubble of silence.
I felt the weight of the book under my arm. I’d grabbed it without thinking when we left the room. My mother’s journal. I felt like I needed it, like a shield.
“That’s a lot of reading for a party,” a voice said.
I jumped, nearly spilling my drink.
A guy was standing there. He was… perfect. That was the only word for it. He had messy blond hair that looked like it cost a thousand dollars to maintain, and blue eyes that were the color of a shallow ocean. He wore a simple sweater that probably cost more than my car.
“It’s not for class,” I said, clutching the book tighter.
“I figured,” he said. He stepped closer, leaning against a log. “I’m Declan.”
“I know,” I said, then immediately felt stupid. “I mean, I’ve seen your name on the library. And the gym. And the… everything.”
He laughed, and it was a warm, easy sound. “Yeah, my family likes to put their name on things. It’s a bit much, honestly. And you’re Calla. The girl who broke the land speed record at tryouts today.”
“Word travels fast,” I said.
“In a place like this? It’s the only thing that does,” Declan said. He pointed to the journal. “What’s the story? You don't seem like the type to carry a diary to a bonfire.”
I looked at the worn leather cover. I don't know why, but the words just came out.
“It was my mom’s,” I said. “She died three years ago. She went here, but she never talked about it. I found out she was an alum only after I got the scholarship. I came here to find out why she was so scared of this place.”
I expected him to say he was sorry. I expected the awkward silence that usually follows when I mention she’s dead.
He didn't do that. He just nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on mine.
“Unfinished business,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Your mother. Coming here. It sounds like you’re finishing something she started,” Declan said. “I understand unfinished business. My family has a lot of it. It’s heavy, isn't it? Carrying someone else’s history?”
“Yeah,” I said, and a lump formed in my throat. “It is.”
“Can I see?” he asked, nodding toward the book.
I should have said no. It was private. It was hers. But my hand moved on its own. I handed it to him.
He flipped to the last page. He read the shaky handwriting, the warnings, the fear. He didn't look shocked. He just looked… understanding.
“She loved you,” he said, handing the book back. “You can see it in how she wrote your name. She was trying to protect you.”
“From what?” I asked.
Declan stepped a little closer. The scent of him hit me—pine, rain, and something wild. It made my head swim. My brain was telling me he was a stranger, a rich kid, someone I should be wary of. But my body was leaning toward him. I felt safe. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
“Sometimes people are afraid of what they don’t understand,” Declan said. “But you don't look like someone who’s afraid of much, Calla Voss.”
“I’m not,” I said, and for a second, I really believed it.
We talked for hours. The fire burned down to glowing coals, and the crowd started to thin out, but I didn't notice. He told me about growing up at Ashford, about the weight of his name, and about the secret spots in the woods where the stars looked the brightest. I told him about Syracuse, about lacrosse, and about how much I missed my mom’s bad cooking.
I felt a pull toward him. It wasn't just a crush. It was a physical force, like gravity.
“I should get you back,” he said eventually. The moon was high now, casting a silver light over the quad. “Coach Miller will have my head if her star player is too tired to run tomorrow.”
“I’m not tired,” I said, and I meant it.
He walked me all the way to the door of Ravenwood. He didn't try to kiss me. He didn't even ask for my number. He just stood there, looking at me with those ocean-blue eyes.
“I’ll see you around, Calla Voss,” he said.
“Goodnight, Declan,” I said.
I watched him walk away until he disappeared into the shadows of the trees. I felt warm. Not the kind of warm you get from a fire.
I went upstairs, moving quietly so I wouldn't wake Wren. She was already out, snoring softly under her pile of blankets.
I pulled my shirt over my head, ready to crash into bed. But as I passed the mirror on the back of the door, I stopped.
I leaned in closer, squinting in the dim light of the fairy lights.
There, just below my left collarbone, was a mark.
I reached up and touched it. It was a bruise, dark and purple-red. It was a perfect circle, about the size of a mouth.
“What the…” I whispered.
I tried to remember tryouts. Had I taken a hit? No. I’d been clear of every defender. Had I bumped into a door? No.
I pressed my finger against it. Usually, a bruise that dark would throb with pain. But this didn't hurt.
It pulsed.
A slow, steady rhythm that matched the beating of my heart. It felt hot under my skin, like a small coal was tucked under my flesh.
I stared at it for a long time, the warmth from the mark spreading up my neck and down my arm.
I put my shirt back on, my hands trembling, got into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.
Outside, the forest was quiet, but as I closed my eyes, I didn't sleep for a long time. I just lay there, feeling the mark on my chest beat like a second heart.
- Writer
