Chapter 2: An Honest Fact in Fluorescent Light
The fluorescents hummed. That ugly, trapped-insect buzz that had been drilling into her skull since she walked through the door. Riley let it wash over her, let it fill the space where her heartbeat should have been, because she needed something to focus on that wasn't the way Dominic Hayes was looking at her.
Or not looking at her.
That was the thing. He wasn't looking at her at all. His eyes were fixed on some point just past her left shoulder, somewhere in the middle distance, like she was a piece of furniture he was waiting to move out of his way.
It made her want to scream.
"Riley." Maya's voice, sharp and low, cutting through the fog. "Seriously. Let's go."
Riley turned her head just enough to catch Maya's expression—wide eyes, tight jaw, the kind of look that said I will physically drag you out of here if I have to. Jess stood behind her, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.
Kat was already drifting toward the door, clearly not wanting any part of whatever was about to happen.
Riley looked back at Dominic.
He still hadn't moved. Still hadn't spoken. His partner, though—the guy at the table, with the baby face and the coffee-stained tie—was staring at her like she'd just sprouted a second head.
"Your probation officer?" the partner said, his voice cracking on the last word. "Like, your probation probation officer?"
Riley smiled. That sweet, glitter-smeared smile she'd been perfecting since she was fifteen and realized that looking innocent got you out of more trouble than looking sorry ever did.
"The one and only."
The partner looked at Dominic. Dominic looked at his coffee cup.
"I'm not doing anything illegal," Riley said, turning back to Maya, keeping her voice light, almost sing-song. "We're walking, not driving. I'm not drunk in public—well, okay, maybe a little, but this is a gas station, not a courthouse. And I'm simply stating an honest fact about him in his uniform."
She looked back at Dominic.
Let her gaze slide down his badge. Slow. Deliberate. Like she was reading it for the first time, even though she'd memorized every letter, every number, every ridge of the metal years ago.
"He looks really good in it."
The partner choked.
Coffee splattered across the table, dark droplets staining the cheap laminate. He coughed, sputtered, grabbed a napkin and started dabbing at his tie like he could undo the damage.
Dominic set his cup down.
The movement was careful. Controlled. He didn't slam it. Didn't throw it. Just placed it on the table with a soft click that somehow echoed louder than any crash.
Then he stood up.
He was taller than she remembered. Or maybe she'd just forgotten what it felt like to stand this close to him without a desk between them. Without a clipboard. Without the weight of his authority pressing down on her shoulders.
Without the rules that had kept them in their neat little boxes for three years.
"Riley," he said.
Just her name. Just that.
But it landed differently this time. No Ms. Vance. No formal distance. Just her name in that low, measured voice, and the way he said it made her stomach flip.
She tilted her head.
"Dominic."
The word felt strange in her mouth. New. She'd never called him that before. Never even thought it, really, not until he'd said it himself that day in his office. But now it was out there, floating between them, and she couldn't take it back even if she wanted to.
Behind her, Maya made a sound—something between a groan and a sigh—and grabbed her arm.
"We're leaving now."
"Maya—"
"Now, Riley." Maya's fingers dug into her elbow, her grip firm enough to leave marks. "You can make terrible decisions tomorrow. Tonight, we're going home."
Riley opened her mouth to argue. Closed it.
Maya was right. Maya was always right. That was the annoying thing about her.
"Fine," she said, letting herself be pulled toward the door. "But I'm not happy about it."
"You'll thank me in the morning."
"I won't."
"You will."
They were almost at the exit when his voice stopped her.
"Riley."
She turned.
Dominic stood by the table, his partner forgotten, his coffee growing cold. The fluorescent lights carved shadows under his eyes, made his jaw look sharper, harder, like something carved out of stone.
He didn't say anything else. Just looked at her.
And for the first time in three years, the silence between them wasn't a rule.
It was a question.
She smiled.
"See you around, Officer."
Then she was through the door, out into the cold night air, the bell above the entrance jingling its farewell behind her.
Maya didn't say anything until they were halfway down the block. Jess had peeled off somewhere, mumbling something about needing to call her boyfriend, and Kat had disappeared entirely—maybe she'd never been there in the first place.
The street was quiet. The kind of quiet that only existed between two and four in the morning, when even the city seemed to hold its breath.
"So," Maya said.
"So."
"You want to tell me what the fuck that was?"
Riley kicked a loose piece of gravel. Watched it skitter across the sidewalk and disappear into a storm drain.
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I mean—" She stopped. Pressed her palms against her eyes. The glitter on her fingers smeared across her face, and she could feel it, the sticky texture, the tiny shards of plastic catching on her skin. "I don't know, okay? I just saw him and I—"
"You couldn't help yourself."
"No."
Maya let out a breath. Long. Slow. The kind of breath that came from somewhere deep in your chest, the kind you took when you were trying really hard not to strangle someone.
"Riley. That man has been your probation officer for three years."
"I know."
"He had the power to send you back to jail. He could have violated you for half the shit you said to him."
"I know."
"Then why—" Maya threw her hands up. "Why would you keep poking the bear? You're free. You're finally, finally free, and the first thing you do is walk up to him in a fucking gas station and call him Officer Hottie like nothing's changed?"
Riley laughed.
It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the kind of laugh that came out of you when you had absolutely nothing else to do with your mouth, when the alternative was crying and you'd already cried enough for a lifetime.
"Because everything's changed," she said. "That's the whole point. I don't have to be good anymore."
Maya stared at her.
"What?"
"I spent three years being good." Riley started walking again, her heels clicking against the pavement, the sound sharp and uneven. "Three years of following every rule, showing up to every appointment, keeping my head down and my mouth shut and never, ever doing anything that could get me sent back. Three years of pretending I was someone I'm not."
"That's not pretending. That's surviving."
"Maybe." Riley stopped at the corner, waiting for a light that didn't matter because there were no cars in sight. "But I don't have to survive anymore. I can just—" She made a vague gesture with her hands. "Live. Make mistakes. Be an idiot. Do whatever the hell I want."
"And what you want is to keep flirting with your ex-probation officer?"
Riley went quiet.
The light changed. Green. She didn't move.
"I don't know what I want," she said finally. "But I know I'm tired of pretending I don't want him."
The words hung in the air, heavy and honest and terrifying.
Maya didn't say anything. Just stood there, watching her, the way she always had. Like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she knew there was more to the story than Riley was telling.
There was.
There always was.
"Okay," Maya said. "Okay."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not going to judge you." She stepped closer, looped her arm through Riley's, started steering them both across the street. "But I am going to remind you that he still has some power here. Not legally. Not anymore. But he knows things about you that you might not want him to know."
Riley frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means he's read your file. He knows about Jacob. He knows about the arrest, the court dates, the counseling. He knows the version of you that you don't show people."
That land. Hard. Right in the middle of her chest.
"So what?"
"So be careful." Maya's voice was soft now, all the earlier frustration gone. "I'm not telling you not to go after him. I'm telling you to remember that you're not the only one who's been playing a role for three years."
Riley stopped walking.
Maya stopped with her.
They stood there, on the corner of a street with no name, the streetlights buzzing overhead, the world still and quiet and waiting.
"What do you mean?"
Maya shrugged. "I mean, he's a probation officer. He's got rules too. Probably more rules than you. And the way he looked at you tonight—"
"What way?"
"Like he was trying really hard not to."
Riley's heart did something complicated. Somersaulted. Skipped. Landed wrong.
"He's always like that."
"No." Maya shook her head. "He's not. I've seen him on the news. I've seen him at those community outreach things. He's always laughing, always joking, always putting people at ease. Tonight, he looked like he was carved out of wood."
Riley didn't know what to say to that.
So she didn't say anything.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, up three flights of stairs, down a hallway that smelled like old carpet and someone's leftover dinner. Maya's apartment was small but warm, cluttered but cozy, and the moment the door closed behind them, Riley felt something in her shoulders unclench.
She kicked off her heels. Collapsed onto the couch. Stared up at the ceiling.
"You're staying," Maya said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Want to drink about it?"
Riley turned her head. Maya was standing in the kitchen doorway, a bottle of something amber in her hand.
"I thought you were done drinking."
"I'm done drinking with you. This is for me. But I'll pour you a glass if you want."
Riley laughed. A real laugh this time, small but genuine.
"I'm good."
Maya shrugged, poured herself a glass, and came to sit on the other end of the couch. They didn't talk. Didn't need to. Just sat there in the quiet, two friends who'd seen each other through more shit than most people saw in a lifetime.
After a while, Riley's phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Three more times in quick succession.
She pulled it out of her pocket.
Unknown number.
Four messages.
She opened them.
I shouldn't be doing this.
Another buzz. Another message.
You can't keep showing up like that.
Buzz.
But I'm glad you're okay.
Buzz.
Delete this number.
Riley stared at the screen. Her heart hammered. Her fingers trembled. She should delete it. She knew she should. One tap, and it would be gone. One tap, and the door would stay closed. One tap, and she could go back to pretending.
She didn't delete it.
Instead, she typed a single word.
No.
Then she locked the phone, shoved it under a couch cushion, and closed her eyes.
The fluorescent lights of the gas station flickered on the backs of her eyelids. She could still smell the burnt coffee, still feel the cool air on her bare legs, still see the way Dominic's jaw had tightened when she said his name.
Tomorrow, she would figure out what it all meant.
Tonight, she just let herself breathe.
The phone buzzed beneath her, a soft vibration against the cushions. She didn't reach for it. Just smiled, small and private, into the dark.
The phone buzzed again beneath her, a muffled vibration against the couch cushions that spread through her hip like a second heartbeat.
She didn't reach for it. Didn't even open her eyes. Just lay there, breathing, listening to the soft clink of Maya's glass against the coffee table, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the way the apartment creaked like it was settling into old age.
"You're not going to check that?"
Riley opened one eye. Maya was watching her from the other end of the couch, glass balanced on her knee, eyebrow raised.
"It's nothing."
"That's the third time it's buzzed."
"I'm ignoring it."
Maya took a long sip of whatever was in her glass. The liquid caught the light from the streetlamp outside, glinting amber and gold through the window.
"Must be someone important," she said. "For you to be ignoring it this hard."
Riley closed her eye again.
Maya didn't push. That was the thing about her. She never pushed. She just sat there, patient as a cat, waiting for you to come to her. And you always did. Eventually. Because Maya had this way of making silence feel louder than any question.
The phone buzzed again.
"Okay." Riley sat up, grabbed the cushion, and yanked her phone out from underneath it. "Fine. I'm checking."
Four new messages.
I shouldn't have done that.
Buzz.
Forget I said anything.
Buzz.
Please.
Buzz.
I'm serious, Riley.
She stared at the screen. The words blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. She blinked. The clock at the top said 3:47 AM. She hadn't even realized that much time had passed.
"Who is it?"
Riley locked the phone. Tossed it onto the coffee table like it had burned her.
"No one."
Maya's eyebrow climbed higher.
"It's three in the morning and you're getting text messages from 'no one' who's telling you to forget something. That's not 'no one.' That's 'someone who fucked up and knows it.'"
Riley didn't answer.
She reached for her Cherry Coke instead. Grabbed it off the floor. Popped the tab. Took a long, burning drink that did nothing to settle the knot in her stomach.
"I need to go home."
"Now?"
"Yes."
Maya studied her for a long moment. Then she set her glass down and stood up.
"Okay. I'll drive you."
The car ride was quiet.
The streets were empty, the kind of empty that only happened in small cities after three in the morning, when even the insomniacs had finally given up. Streetlights flickered past the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded.
Riley pressed her forehead against the glass. Watched the world blur by.
Her phone sat in her lap. Silent now. Dark. She'd turned it off. Not because she was going to ignore him. But because she needed a minute to think. To figure out what she was actually going to do.
Because she wasn't going to delete his number.
She already knew that.
She wasn't going to pretend it never happened, either.
But she also couldn't just text him back. Not yet. Not until she figured out what the hell she wanted to say.
The car pulled up to her building. Maya put it in park.
"Here."
Riley looked at her. Maya's face was soft in the dashboard glow, tired but kind, the way she always looked when she was trying not to worry but worrying anyway.
"Thanks," Riley said.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
"No."
"Okay."
Riley opened the door. Paused. Looked back.
"I'm not going to do anything stupid."
Maya's lips twitched. "That's a lie."
"I mean it."
"You never mean it."
Riley laughed. Small. Tired.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"You'd better."
She closed the door. Watched Maya's car pull away. Then she turned, climbed the three flights of stairs to her apartment, and let herself in.
The place was exactly how she'd left it. Small. Messy. Lived-in. Dishes in the sink. Clothes on the floor. A copy of some true-crime paperback she'd bought at a thrift store months ago and never opened.
She didn't turn on the lights. Just went to her bedroom, collapsed onto her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
The phone stayed off all night.
She slept eventually.
Not well. Not deep. Just a restless, half-conscious drift that left her feeling like she hadn't slept at all.
When she woke, the sun was already high, cutting through the thin curtains in pale yellow bars. Her mouth tasted like copper and regret. Her head throbbed with a dull ache that reminded her exactly how much she'd drunk the night before.
She grabbed her phone. Turned it on.
The screen lit up. The messages were still there, waiting like they had all the time in the world.
I shouldn't have done that.
Forget I said anything.
Please.
I'm serious, Riley.
She stared at them for a long moment. Then she set the phone down on her nightstand and went to take a shower.
The water was hot enough to scald. She stood under it for a long time, letting it burn away the glitter and the sweat and the lingering haze of the night before.
When she got out, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, she sat on the edge of her bed and picked up the phone again.
She typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted.
This was stupid. She knew it was stupid. She should just delete the messages. Delete the number. Pretend the whole thing never happened. He'd said it himself—delete this number. He knew what he was doing. He knew it was wrong.
But she didn't want to pretend.
So she typed.
I won't tell a soul, Officer Hottie.
She paused. Read it back. Her thumb hovered over the send button.
Then she added:
But um.
And then:
I'm glad you texted.
She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.
The message delivered. Gray checkmarks turned blue.
She sat there, phone in her hands, heart doing that thing again, that complicated, skipping, wrong-landing thing that only seemed to happen when he was involved.
A minute passed. Then two.
Her phone buzzed.
Three dots. Then gone. Then three dots again.
She held her breath.
The dots disappeared.
She waited.
Nothing.
Riley let out a breath. A long, slow exhale that was half-laugh and half-something else. Something that felt like hope.
He didn't reply. Not right away.
But the dots had been there. He'd seen it. He'd started to type something.
And then he'd stopped.
Maybe he was trying to be careful. Maybe he was trying to be professional. Maybe he was staring at his phone right now, arguing with himself the same way she'd been arguing with herself all morning.
She set the phone down. Stood up. Grabbed a t-shirt from the floor—the old Nirvana one, the one he'd seen her in a million times.
She pulled it on over her head. Let it hang off her shoulder the way it always did.
Then she went to work.
The gas station was quiet that afternoon.
She stood behind the counter, ringing up lottery tickets and thirty-packs of Pabst, watching people come and go, their faces blurred with the sameness of strangers who'd never know each other.
Her phone stayed in her pocket. Silent.
She didn't check it. Not once. Not even when the shifts changed and she had a break. Not even when a customer asked her if she was okay, because she seemed distracted.
She just nodded. Smiled. Said she was fine.
And she was.
Sort of.
Because for the first time in three years, she didn't have to pretend.
She could just wait.
And see what happened next.
And see what happened next.
The shift dragged. Each customer blurred into the next—a man with a scratch-off ticket and a cough that rattled, a teenager buying energy drinks with crumpled ones, a woman who paid in pennies and didn't apologize. Riley rang them up on autopilot, her body moving through the motions while her brain stayed somewhere else entirely.
The phone in her pocket stayed quiet.
She checked it during her break. Nothing. Just the ghost of those three dots from earlier, burned into her memory like an afterimage. He'd typed something. He'd stopped. And now there was only silence, thick and heavy and impossible to read.
By the time her shift ended, the sun was already sinking low, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that looked almost fake. Like someone had cranked up the saturation on a photo. She walked home with her headphones in, some old Fiona Apple song playing, matching the rhythm of her boots against the cracked sidewalk.
The apartment was exactly how she'd left it. Dishes in the sink. Clothes on the floor. That same damn book she still hadn't opened.
She stood in the doorway for a minute, just looking at it. At the mess. At the evidence of a life lived in fragments, pieces of herself scattered across every surface.
Then she started cleaning.
Not because she had to. Not because anyone was coming. Just because she wanted to. Because for the first time in three years, she could do something without it being part of a checklist, a requirement, a condition of her freedom.
She did the dishes. Dumped the old coffee grounds. Wiped down the counters with a sponge that smelled like lemon and bleach.
She picked up the clothes. Sorted them into piles—clean, dirty, maybe. The maybe pile was the biggest.
She vacuumed. She didn't even know she owned a vacuum. It had been sitting in the hall closet since she moved in, still in the box, a housewarming gift from Maya that she'd never bothered to open.
Now seemed like a good time.
The living room looked almost presentable by the time she was done. Not perfect. Not magazine-ready. But better. Cleaner. Like someone actually lived there instead of just passing through.
She moved to the bedroom.
The bed was unmade, sheets tangled in a way that suggested she'd been sleeping badly for weeks. Which she had. She stripped the old linens, balled them up, shoved them in the laundry basket. Then she opened the closet and pulled out the good sheets—the ones she'd bought on a whim last year and never used because they felt too nice, too expensive, too much like something she didn't deserve.
Black cotton. Soft. Clean.
She made the bed with military precision, tucking the corners, smoothing the wrinkles, fluffing the pillows. Then she stood back and looked at it.
Fresh blankets. Fresh sheets. A bed that looked like it was waiting for something.
Someone.
She shook her head. Stupid. She was being stupid.
But she didn't stop.
She went to the bathroom. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Ran her fingers through her hair, trying to tame the tangles.
Then she went back to the bedroom and stood in front of the mirror.
The Nirvana shirt came off first. Then the leggings. Then the plain cotton underwear she'd worn to work, practical and boring and nothing like the person she wanted to be tonight.
She opened her dresser drawer.
Black and red lace boyshorts. New. Bought them two weeks ago, actually, on a day when she'd been feeling reckless and wanted to remind herself that she was still capable of wanting things. She'd never worn them. Never even taken the tags off.
She pulled them on now.
They sat low on her hips, the lace delicate against her skin, the red trim bright against the black. She looked at herself in the mirror. At the way the fabric hugged her curves. At the pale expanse of her stomach, the tattoo peeking out from her hip bone, the way her hair fell across her shoulders.
No bra.
She didn't need one. Not for this. Not for him.
She grabbed the Fleetwood Mac t-shirt from the back of her closet—the one that was three sizes too big, soft from years of wear, the fabric so thin she could almost see through it if the light hit it right. It hung past her thighs, nearly to her knees, swamping her in a way that felt intentional.
Rumours. The album cover was faded but still visible, the penguin, the witch, the weird sexual tension between Stevie and Lindsey that everyone pretended not to notice.
She pulled it over her head.
The mirror showed her something different now. Someone softer. Someone who wasn't trying so hard to be tough.
Someone who was waiting.
She sat on the edge of her freshly made bed, phone in her hand, heart in her throat.
The screen glowed. His number was still there. Still saved under the name she'd typed years ago—Officer Hottie—because she'd never bothered to change it, never thought she'd need to.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
She typed.
Hey.
Deleted it.
Too casual. Too little.
She typed again.
I'm not trying to get you in trouble.
Deleted it.
Too much. Too soon.
She set the phone down. Stood up. Paced to the window. Looked out at the street below, at the cars passing, at the couple walking their dog, at the world going on like nothing had changed.
But everything had changed. That was the point.
She picked up the phone again.
Her fingers moved before her brain could catch up.
You have my address, Officer Hottie.
She stared at the words. Her heart hammered so loud she could hear it in her ears.
She kept typing.
I'm not trying to get you into trouble. No one would know you came here.
She hit send before she could think. Before she could second-guess. Before she could do the smart thing and delete everything and pretend this night had never happened.
The message delivered.
Blue checkmarks.
She dropped the phone onto the bed like it was on fire. Then she laughed—a short, breathless sound that was half-panic and half-relief.
She was insane. She was actually insane.
But she didn't take it back.
She walked to the kitchen. Poured herself a glass of water. Drank it standing at the counter, her bare feet cold against the tile, the Fleetwood Mac shirt hanging off her frame like a dress.
Then she walked back to the bedroom.
She didn't look at the phone. Just climbed into bed, pulled the fresh blankets up to her chin, and stared at the ceiling.
The minutes ticked by.
Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Nothing.
She closed her eyes.
And then, from somewhere on the nightstand, her phone lit up.