The Fray Theory: Resonance (12 page)

“It sure as fuck looks like it,
given that’s all you’ve done since you got here.”

Dylan’s shoulders slacken, his
chest deflating. He looks like someone who’s playing his final hand. “It was either
military school, or a psych ward.”

“Bullshit.
BULLSHIT
! Your
dad has enough pull to do whatever the fuck he wants!”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell
you! Alex thought I needed round-the-clock care, but dad wouldn’t have it. Come
on
you know
what he’s like!”

“And you just went along with all
of it.”

“I told you, I don’t remember
anything before I woke up in the infirmary. The drugs must’ve—”

“I DON’T CARE! YOU
LEFT
! And
you didn’t even bother to look back!”

“Christ—you make it sound like I
was at a resort! Romer, when I woke up, my phone and wallet were gone. I had no
way of reaching you. I had no way of reaching
anyone
! My hands were tied—”

“
Your
hands were tied,” Romer
starts laughing.

Dylan shuts his eyes and lowers
his face into his hand. He presses down on his eyes with the length of his
thumb and index finger. “The second I found out what happened to you—”

“What
happened
to me?” Romer
interjects. “Don’t you mean what I
did
?”

Dylan looks up, utterly gutted by
what Romer just said. “Ro... it was an accident.”

“Right. Well, that makes it okay
then.”

Silence.

Romer shakes his head. “You think
you
wanted to die?” he starts to well up. “You have
no
idea what it’s like
to live with this—with what I have to live with for the rest of my fucking
life.”

“I—”

“And do you know what the worst
part of it was? Waiting for
you
to show. For you to tell me I’m not a
monster for what I did. That I can survive this,” he tilts his head back to
keep his tears from falling.

Dylan holds his stare, not
uttering a sound.

“And I
needed
that. I
needed
something
to hang onto so I wouldn’t drive myself insane.” His breaths
become rapid and shallow. “I counted
every
minute of
every
day,
thinking any second they’ll call out my name. That I was just a short walk in
shackles away from hearing your voice through a fucking bullet-proof window.”

“I called—” Dylan’s voice breaks.
“Romer, I called the prison a million times, but they wouldn’t patch me
through. So I flew back the first chance I got. I flew back four times, Ro, and
every time
they refused to let me see you. Telling me you’re in solitary
and don’t get visitations. Or some other bullshit about you being dangerous… or
unstable.”

Romer’s hardened shell cracks. He
was
in and out of the SHU over the years. But what are the odds of every one of
those instances coinciding with Dylan’s visits?

“Dad swore to me he’d get you the
best lawyer money can buy. They tried every avenue they could think of. But in
the end, the best they could do was getting your sentence reduced.”

“I was there,” Romer says, remembering
the cold, condemning stares of the jury piercing through him. Judging every
inch of him as if he’s a worthless piece of trash. A rabid dog that ought to be
put down.

Twelve years
.

Twelve years is what would have
been the length of his sentence without Dylan’s dad’s help.

Would that have been fair? A year
of confinement for each year Mason Bradley spent on this earth?

No
.

Fair would have been getting
locked up for all the years that kid had coming to him. Fair would’ve been the
length of the future that was robbed of him.

“Ro, I’m sorry if my efforts
didn’t reach you, but I swear to God, I really did try.”

Romer says nothing. There’s
nothing left to say.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.
I don’t. But you need to know that even if
I’ve
changed in your eyes,
you haven’t changed in mine.”

Hard truth
.

“Because of you,” Romer swallows
the painful pill in his throat, “I’ve changed in
everyone’s
eyes.”

“Ro—”

“Get the hell out of my shop.”

Neve stands before an
enormous map of an ancient city. Black and white, beautifully meticulous, and rendered
by the skilled hands of someone long gone.

It’s like looking at history itself.

Although she doesn’t recognize the city the map belongs to, there
is something strikingly familiar about it. The oddly-angled streets and
pathways, the wide, snaky river…

It feels like she’s been there before.

Beneath the map, the amber light of an antique
banker’s lamp has set the surface of a large desk ablaze. And basking in its
warmth is a leather-bound book.

Neve approaches the desk, cutting through the thick
smell of opium. She reaches into the sweltering light, her hand casting a
shadow over the book. She gently strokes the velvety texture where the title
would be, and then succumbs to her curiosity and opens the book to a random
page.

At the bottom of the left page, the number ‘6’
is stamped, which Neve finds odd given how far into the book she is.

She skims over the content, but can’t seem to understand
any of it. Though the letters are familiar, it’s almost like she’s trying to make
sense of a dead language, like Latin.

She leans in to inspect the text more closely.

The ink bleeding around some of the more
complex letters makes her realize the book was typed using a classic
type-writer.

She flips to much further in the book and is
surprised yet again to find the page number boasting a single digit ‘6’.

But
this
page is filled with elegant sketches vaguely resembling
dry branches. And framing the page are dozens of formulas and cursive
annotations which Neve once again can’t seem to decipher.

The book suddenly begins to flip without being
prompted, landing abruptly on the very last page.

At the sight of the third ‘6’, a dark shadow crawls
onto the desk. Neve’s eyes seek the body it belongs to, and—

Neve jolts awake with a
gaping mouth, her wide gaze flung onto her white ceiling.

Him again
, her heart pounds.
Not him again
.

Stiff as petrified wood, she
scans her apartment, terrified that she may in fact not be alone. Neither
sitting, nor reclined, she waits for her mind to adjust to reality. For her
nerves to calm. But the longer she waits, the more anxious she feels.

This is now the third time
she has dreamt about him. Their fourth overall encounter in under a week, all
of which trailed after Elliot’s suicide.

Neve grabs her covers and yanks
them away. She inhales a deep breath, and then sits up and pulls her pillow against
the headrest. And then she just stares into space, wondering who this
mysterious stranger is, and why he has begun to plague her dreams.

Has the trauma of Elliot’s
suicide made her mind conjure some Grim Reaper as a coping mechanism?

No, that’s ridiculous. She
would have to be insane to do something so extreme. She might be confused,
lost, and undeniably scared… but she is
not
insane.

She grabs her sketchbook
off the nightstand, pulls her pencil from the coil binding, flips to the next blank
page, and starts to draw him.

His features are so deeply
engraved in her mind that it’s almost like tracing an invisible portrait. She cascades
her pencil downwards, capturing the waves draping onto his broad shoulders. She
shades in his blade-like brows resting low above his wild eyes. And with
diagonal strokes, she adds depth to the curves and contours of his chiseled
face.

Even in Neve’s artistic rendition,
his essence feels venomous.

Neve holds up her rough sketch
and stares at it, then shuts her sketchbook and drops it by the foot of her
bed. She pulls up her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, feeling like
her depiction of him has somehow validated his existence. Made him real.

Her recurrent nightmares,
the incident at Galen’s office, Elliot’s death…

Something is going on
, Neve thinks to herself, her eyes staring blankly
ahead. The dots are in place. She just needs to connect them.

Even if it involves taking
Galen up on his offer.

σ

Galen’s
home is something else. From the moment he welcomed Neve in, she has been
utterly captivated by every inch of it. By the exposed brick walls, aged to
perfection. By the eighteen-foot windows flooding the living space with diffuse
light. By the softly-aged leather furniture, and by virtually every color and
texture her senses come to encounter.

His loft is lavish. But
unlike his pretentious office, everything in his home is imbued with
authenticity.

She’d stay here forever if
she could. She’d happily sleep right here, on his incredibly comfortable couch
if he’d let her. It would be like sleeping on a giant marshmallow.

Directly across, there’s a
colossal library mounted to the wall. Thousands of weathered books shy away
from her, exposing their spines. And directly behind her, narrow bookshelves
span from floor to ceiling, wedged between the slender windows, silhouetted.
The entire wall looks like black and white stripes. A contrast of light and
enlightenment.

Rich, and resonant.

A high-pitched hiss draws
her focus towards the kitchen in the back, blending with the clattering of
spoons. The rich aroma of espresso is filling the loft, making Neve feel right
at home.

“And how do you like your
coffee, my dear?” his voice travels from the depths of the kitchen.

Heavy cream, two
tablespoons of honey, and zero calories.
“Black is fine, thank you!”

Smiling in his direction, Neve
notices an exquisite spiral staircase leading up to the mezzanine. To what she
assumes to be his bedroom.

What a lovely view it must
have from up there.

She’s glad she came. It
would’ve been a shame to miss this opportunity. To miss becoming acquainted
with Galen’s far more appealing private persona. The side of him Neve doubts he
shares with just anyone.

“Here we are,” Galen emerges
with a wooden tray topped with a pair of semi-circle mugs, a cute little
creamer, and a small sugar bowl, all porcelain white.  There’s also a matching
vase hosting a single pastel-pink peony.

The man knows how to
impress.

“Smells wonderful,” Neve
says.

“So—” Galen bends slightly
at the waist to extend the tray. “How have you been doing?”

Neve takes the mug closer
to her.

“It’s been a hectic couple
of days,” she admits, and then sinks into deep thought. How is she going to
bring up the cemetery? Or her recurring nightmares?

“You might want to give it
a minute,” Galen nods at Neve’s mug. “It’s probably scalding hot.”

“Right. Thanks,” Neve
smiles and lowers her mug as Galen rests the tray down on the coffee table and
takes a seat across from her.

The chair he sinks into is
almost identical to the one from his office, except for being maroon, leather,
and easily over fifty years old. The wooden armrests have lost their varnish along
the edges, and the well-worn hide has minor rips near the stitching.

It must be his favorite
chair.

Neve watches as he
carefully empties the creamer into his coffee, making the lightening blend rise
by about an inch. He then proceeds to put spoonfuls of brown sugar into the
brew. Six and a half teaspoons, to be exact.

It’s so endearing, Neve
can’t suppress her smirk. It’s like watching a child playing a grownup.

“If I were to be quite
honest, my intent for having you over today was rather, self-serving,” Galen
takes a sip from his drink and sinks back into his chair.

Neve finds his frankness
surprising. Was meeting him at his home the dumbest thing she’s ever done?

“How so?” she asks as
casually as she can manage, desperately hoping Galen isn’t about to allude to
any ‘favors’.

“I’m not sure if Dylan has
already briefed you on my background?”

Background
? “That you’re his godfather?”

Galen smiles. “That too,
but I was referring more to my academic background.”

“Well, he
did
mention your interest in philosophy. He said it’s what gives you an
unconventional edge.”

Galen nods appreciably and
places his mug on the side-table.

“Philosophy is indeed my one
true passion. I used to absolutely love teaching it, even if it was only one
class per week.”

“You don’t teach anymore?”

“It’s been years, I’m
afraid. It’s nearly impossible to make a living out of questioning the validity
of… well, everything!” he laughs.

“Yes,” Neve smiles. “I can
imagine.”

“And how about yourself?
What are you currently pursuing?”

A dark cloud casts its
shadow over her. “Cognitive Neuroscience,” she admits with zero enthusiam.

“A rather ambitious
subject,” Galen says, suddenly seeming far less relaxed. “Are you enjoying it?”

Oh great
.
Let’s talk more about it
.

“Honestly, it wasn’t what
I expected,” she says.

“How so?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I
think it’s fascinating. But it all just became so dry. And quantitative. It
just didn’t feel like I was learning about a person anymore.”

He nods.

“I don’t know,” Neve
shrugs it off. “I guess it just didn’t resonate with me.”

Galen stares. “Why did you
use that word?”

“Um—” Neve retraces her steps,
“
resonate
?”

“That’s right.”

An awkward smile creeps
onto her lips. “I don’t really know. It just came to me, I guess?”

All of a sudden it feels
like she needs to pore over every single word before it comes out of her mouth.

Guess this is a therapy
session, after all
.

“What attracted you to Cognitive
Neuroscience in the first place?”

“Well, I’ve always been curious
about the human mind. I figured it made more sense than Chemistry if my
ultimate goal was medical school.”

“And what intrigues you
the most when it comes to the workings of the mind?”

“I’m sorry—” Neve interjects
before they stray too far off topic. “I really don’t mean to be rude, but I was
under the impression that we were going to continue yesterday’s session.”

Galen smiles courteously, but
it’s obvious he isn’t too pleased. “Your dreams,” he acknowledges.

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. Let’s
dive right back in.”

She should not have interrupted
him. If she’d just let things take their course, maybe his ‘self-serving’
intentions would’ve naturally been brought to light.

But now that she has
changed the topic, she might as well stay the course.

“I need to understand how it
can be possible to dream about something before it happens,” she cuts right to
the chase. “Is there any scientific explanation that can account for something
like that?”

“My approach to
deciphering life’s mysteries has always been from a philosophical perspective.
And philosophy—as I’m sure you can imagine—is highly contested.”

“I would love to hear your
take,” she says.

Galen sinks into thought,
but not quite in the way someone would if they were pondering a question. He
seems torn. Like someone who’s faced with a big dilemma.

He clears his throat and leans
forward in his seat, locking eyes with her.

His gaze is soul-deep.

His focus is unwavering.

It makes Neve wonderfully
nervous, the way she would feel if she was about to open a treasure chest.

“What was it like when you
broke the couch in my office?” Galen asks.

Well that wasn’t random
.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d like you to explain as
precisely as possible the thoughts, sensations, and emotions you experienced
right before it broke under you.”

“What does that have to do
with my dreams?”

“It may not,” Galen
allows. “But I’d appreciate you explaining it to me anyway.”

“I… honestly don’t even know
where to begin.”

“Whatever comes to mind is
often the best place to start,” he smiles.

What it was like
… Neve clings onto the first thing that pops into
her head. “I start to feel numb, like when my leg falls asleep.”

“I remember you saying it
happens all the time?”

“Not
all
the time.
Not when things are good. But if I’m under a lot of stress, or scared, or
nervous… It usually happens when I’m having a panic attack.”