Literature has its merits II

Back in my little but cozy apartment, I put the novels on the coffee table and sank on the couch. The city lights shine through the window, creating long shadows throughout the room. I stare at the books, my mind still jumbled from the day.

Why did the elderly woman believe I would be beneficial for her grandson? Did she truly see something in me, or was it simply the desperation of a woman who cares too much for someone who has strayed too far? And why does Alexander, of all people, keep appearing in my life in this way, as if fate or some cosmic joke is tossing him in my path?

I groan and pick up The Stranger, flipping it open. The opening lines draw me in, and the narrator's gloomy detachment is surprisingly reassuring in its simplicity. It's very different from Wuthering Heights—no wild moors or stormy desire, just stark honesty and the weight of existence. It feels like the kind of book Alexander would carry, a reflection of his entitled, guarded demeanor.

But then I think of how he stared at me in the bookstore. His playful smirk softened into something more peaceful. Maybe he's more than just the nasty stranger in the café, or the arrogant grandson of a kind woman. Perhaps there's a tale beneath the surface, one he's daring me to discover.

The concept intrigues and frightens me.

I close the book and put it down, my heart burdened with unanswered questions. Whatever this is—this strange draw towards him, this abrupt change in my carefully crafted world—it feels like the start of something. Something I haven't completely named yet.

I remember the café, the intensity of his comments, and how he set up walls without hesitation. He appeared so confident of himself back then, so untouchable. However, there were cracks at Harris' Dinner Cracks, although small ones. He'd observe me across the counter, his eyes heavy with something unspoken. He almost smiled, as if he was trying whether I would notice.

And now his grandmother, with her quiet certainty, insists that we are intended to connect. It's ridiculous. Yet, a part of me wonders: what if she is correct? What if there is something here worth untangling?

Perhaps it's not just him; my thumb brushes across the cover. Maybe it's also about me. About the questions I've been avoiding, and the decisions I've been afraid to make. About moving out of my father's shadow and creating my own path, no matter how uncertain it may feel.

The thought scares me. Yet, it also excites me, as the first step into darkness often does.

I look out the window at the big and indifferent city that spreads out before me. It's strange how this area can make you feel both little and infinite at once. Anything can be done if you're brave enough to go for it.

For the first time in a long time, I sense a push—a quiet, irrefutable want to move forward. Stop running from what tomorrow will bring. But tonight, in the serenity of the moment, I can make a decision.

And for the first time in a long time, I am not terrified to see what happens next.

...

The buzz of my phone cuts through the silence like a razor. I pause for a time, looking at the screen. The term Father flashes back at me.

My gut twists, and a knot forms as I swipe to unlock it. As usual, the message is brief, chilly, and straight to the point.

- Come home tomorrow at 6 p.m. We'll discuss your marriage.-

The words landed like a punch in the chest. Marriage. There it is, exposed. There's no pretense, no softening the punch. Just an order with a few strong words. My heart races in my ears as I read it again and again, as if repetition will somehow alter the message.

Marriage. The underlying threat has hung over me since the Mayfield dinner. I thought I had enough time to figure out how to deal with this, how to navigate the ridiculous expectations my father kept putting on me. But now it is here. Imminent.

And it's not a discussion; it's a verdict.

My palm trembled slightly as I laid the phone on the coffee table. The warm glow of the city outside feels distant and unreal, as if it were a backdrop for someone else's drama. The stillness that felt so peaceful moments ago now feels suffocating, as if it is crushing in on me from every angle.

My mind races. Who? This is the first question that comes to mind. Carter? The Mayfields had clearly expressed their desire, hadn't they? Their subtle grins and direct questions regarding my future. Every time I went off script, my father gave me a stern look across the table. Carter stood between me and Evan during the whole thing, as if securing his claim.

However, there is another possibility. My chest tightens as a name unexpectedly rises to the top. Evan Mayfield. Could it be him?

The idea seems absurd. Impossible. Carter is the only choice that my father would agree to. But I don't want to be his little puppet with strings, a piece in his chest game. I don't want to be held hostage in the cage that my father has skillfully built over the years.

I stand up abruptly and pace the length of my small flat, feeling as if the walls are closing in. The city outside fades as my vision tunnels, and my thoughts revolve around the word marriage. His statements have a finality to them, and I've seen how far he'll go to enforce them.

However, this is not about Carter, Evan, or anyone else. It's all about control. It has always been. The man who demands that I be flawless, polished, and patient, will not stop until I comply to his ideal of who I should be. And now he's made his move, a calculated strike to remind me who controls the situation.

Not this time.