Chapter 6- Venomous Shadows
1437 Words
Faye
I shift the strap of my backpack, the weight of my laptop and notebooks biting into my shoulder as I weave through the edge of the French Quarter toward Café Amour.
The New Orleans afternoon clings to me, humid and thick. Jasmine blooming somewhere nearby, mixing with the faint, briny scent of the river. My sneakers scuff the cracked sidewalk as I squint against the sun bouncing off wrought-iron balconies.
Vivienne’s text was all breezy: Meet me at Café Amour, 2 PM. Let’s chat, old friend.
But my stomach twists.
She’s never been my friend. Not after high school. This “catch-up” feels like walking into a trap.
The café’s pastel awning comes into view, tables spilling onto the sidewalk like lazy gossip.
And there she is.
Vivienne.
Lounging like she owns the place, her blonde hair glowing like some fake halo, her sundress somehow crisp in this heat. She’s scrolling on her phone, a smirk curling her lips like she already knows I’m dreading this.
I pause.
My fingers tighten on my strap. I could bail or ghost her, but she’d spin that into another way to cut me down.
No. I’m done running from her.
“Faye!”
Her voice drips sugar as I approach, her blue eyes flicking up.
“You made it. Sit, sit.” She waves at the wicker chair across from her, her manicured nails catching the light like little daggers.
I drop into the seat, my backpack thudding to the ground.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
The café buzzes around us, students laughing, a street musician strumming a lazy tune but Vivienne’s presence sharpens everything, like a knife hidden in velvet.
“God, it’s been forever,” she says, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “How’s college treating you? Fitting in okay?”
Her smile doesn’t touch her eyes, and I feel the jab.
Fitting in.
Like I didn’t spend high school on the edges, my confidence shredded by her and her clique.
“It’s fine,” I say, twisting the corner of the menu. “Busy. Classes. Writing program.”
I keep it vague. She doesn’t get more than that.
She tilts her head, her gaze slicing through me like I’m some bug she’s pinned.
“That’s cute. Still scribbling poems, huh? You always were… introspective.”
She sips her iced coffee, the ice clinking loudly.
“But let’s talk about something juicier. Ezra Locke “.
My chest tightens.
Of course.
She’s circling, marking her territory. Our English Lit group project must’ve pinged her radar.
“What about him?” I ask, forcing my voice steady, even as my pulse hammers.
She laughs, sharp and bright, like glass breaking.
“Oh, Faye. Don’t play coy. I’ve seen you two in class, all intense over your little project. But let’s be real, he’s out of your league. You’re a ghost, darling. High school didn’t teach you that?”
Her words sting.
Dragging up old wounds. Loser, nobody, invisible, whispered in hallways, scratched into lockers.
My jaw clenches.
Nails dig into my palms.
“I’m not chasing Ezra,” I say, low and firm. “It’s just a project.”
But the lie burns.
Not about chasing him, I’m not. But about his effect.
Those dark eyes. That quiet intensity. They’re already under my skin, stirring something I don’t want.
“Sure,” Vivienne says, her smirk growing. “But a friendly warning? Ezra’s got a past. He’s trouble, and not the fun kind. Stick to your poems, Faye. Leave the bad boys to girls who can handle them.”
She leans back, arms crossed, her sorority bracelet glinting in the sunlight. It’s a dismissal. A shove back to my place.
Anger flares, hot and sharp but I choke it down.
Fighting her now just feeds her ego.
“Thanks for the tip,” I say, standing and slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “I’ve got to go. Library.”
Her smile doesn’t budge.
“Smart move. Run along, ghost.”
I turn away, my heart pounding as I head for campus.
Ghost sticks to me, a shadow I can’t shake.
She hasn’t changed. Still the queen bee, wielding cruelty like a crown.
But I’m not that scared girl anymore.
I won’t let her win.
…….
The library’s cool air hits me like a balm, heavy with the scent of old books and magnolias sneaking through open windows. I claim a table on the second floor, near a stained-glass window that spills color across the wooden floor like confetti.
I spread out my notes for our Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre project, trying to focus.
But Vivienne’s voice loops in my head.
Ghost. Out of your league.
The chair across from me scrapes.
I glance up.
Ezra.
My breath catches.
He drops into the seat, his leather jacket creaking, dark hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back, and his gaze hits me, intense, almost heavy making my pulse jump.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Ready to tackle this?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at my notebook to hide the heat creeping up my neck.
Why does he do this? Just sitting there, he fills the space.
That cedar-and-smoke cologne makes me too aware of him.
“I’ve got ideas for the thesis,” I say. “Power dynamics in relationships, maybe?”
He nods, leaning forward.
“Heathcliff and Cathy’s toxic mess versus Jane and Rochester’s… redemption arc?”
His lips quirk. Not a full smile, but enough to make my stomach flip.
“Something like that,” I say, scribbling to cover my flush.
We dive into the work. Our voices hushed to dodge the librarian’s glare. His insights surprise me, sharp, passionate and I relax a little.
The tension eases as we argue over character motives.
But then he pauses.
His eyes catch on me, my hands, my lips and the air shifts.
Charged.
It’s like his gaze brushes my skin, warm and unsettling. My body tingles with a heat I don’t want.
Reaching for a book, our fingers graze.
A spark shoots through me, electric. I jerk back, cheeks burning, and meet his eyes. Ddark, unreadable, but not cruel.
It’s too much. Like he sees me. Really sees me.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Vivienne’s warning echoes, trouble, and I shove the feeling down.
“Faye,” he says, voice softer now. “You okay? You seem… off.”
I stiffen.
Ghost. Ringing in my ears.
“I’m fine,” I snap. Too fast. “Just focused.”
I flip a page, avoiding his stare. But I feel it. Searching. Stirring a mess of confusion I don’t need.
We work another hour. The library empties out around us.
His knee bumps mine under the table. He doesn’t move it.
The contact sends another spark. I shift away, my resolve hardening.
He’s trouble.
I won’t let him pull me in.
“I’ve got to head out,” I say, gathering my notes. “We’ll finish next time?”
“Yeah,” he says, standing. His height looms. “Text me if you want to meet sooner.”
His voice holds a question, but I just nod and slip away, my heart racing.
……
Back in my dorm, I dump my backpack on the bed and pull out my notes.
My stomach drops.
Half the pages are gone, replaced by torn scraps.
I dig through, panic rising until a folded note falls out.
The handwriting is sharp. Vicious.
Stay gone.
My blood chills.
Vivienne.
My hands shake as I grab my phone and text Mom:
College is tough. Miss you.
I hit send and sink onto my bed, the note crumpled in my fist.
I saw Vivienne’s sorority sisters near the library.
Giggling as they passed.
They must’ve followed me. Trashed my notes while I was with Ezra.
The violation burns.
But my anger is hotter.
I pace my tiny room, the New Orleans night humming outside jazz drifting from a bar, cicadas buzzing from the trees.
Vivienne thinks she can break me. Scare me off.
She’s wrong.
I’m not a ghost.
I’ll fight back, starting with this project.
With Ezra.
With my writing.
She can tear my notes.
But not me.
I open my laptop, a blank document staring back at me.
My fingers hesitate.
Then they fly.
Pouring out a poem, raw, fierce, about shadows and survival.
Each word a rebellion. A vow.
Vivienne’s venom. Ezra’s pull. Whatever’s next.
I’m not running.
Not anymore.
- Writer
