no turning back

• eight •

gladys

The shrill ding of a text notification blasted through my earbuds. I gasped, my heart leaping out of my skin.

I looked around and realized I had walked out of the neighborhood and down the street already. My mind had been on auto-pilot since the last text conversation I shared with Elijah.

I debated whether or not to check the message. My defenses were crumbling with each passing day.

The tension and anticipation hovering over me intensified. My stalker would make his move eventually.

Knowing I had to check in case it was Ben, I snatched the device from my scrub pocket and checked the notification.

JESSE: could you please bring me some coffee again? i am absolutely dragging after this weekend

I wet my lips and drew a deep breath into my nostrils. She was my friend. I shouldn't allow Elijah's games to get between us.

In fact, he was just using her. Maybe she realized that this weekend.

Pain seared through my chest. He hadn't texted me again all weekend. I hadn't felt watched either.

I had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Or who he was doing.

Fuck, stop. I squeezed my eyes shut to gather myself. Quit being a little bitch. Shake it off and be a decent friend. She has no idea what's going on.

I sucked in a large gulp of air and tapped out a response I would have sent her before seeing Cyrus—AKA Elijah—talk to her.

GWEN: sure thing! hope everything went okay?

Fortunately, I hadn't passed the coffee shop yet and I had plenty of time before the clinic opened. I quickened my pace to get our coffees in a reasonable amount of time.

My phone pinged again.

JESSE: oh yeah. more than okay 😏 tell you all abt it at work

I took a fortifying breath and shoved my phone into my pocket. Smoothing a hand over my hair, I pushed open the cafe door and stepped inside.

The building embraced me warmly, like a hug. The pleasing smell of freshly ground coffee beans and sweet aromas of baked bread lingered in the air. With the soft music playing and the dim, golden cafe lighting, a sense of peace settled over me.

I joined the short line in front of the register and read over the menu. I knew what I wanted, but I liked to consider other options.

When I stepped up to the counter, my eyes locked with a familiar pair of golden-browns. He was the same barista from last week.

His mahogany brown hair was on the longer side but framed his chiseled jaw and nose, giving him some Roman god appeal. But his eyes weren't cocky—they were gentle and kind.

He flashed me a smile and I realized I was staring blatantly at him in shock. My face turned bright red.

"Hey," he said. "What can I get for you?"