I think about how much research Sophia did for me. She must’ve spent hours preparing for today, teaching herself strategies to help me with the panic symptoms. My clear eyes focus on her long blonde hair and calm gaze.
“Soph?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re the fucking best,” I whisper into the quiet, my lip quivering with the words.
She squeezes my hand in support.
Five minutes go by slower than they ever have before, but when the timer finally sounds off on my phone, I’m overwhelmed by the pride coursing through my heart.
“You did it!” Soph exclaims, crushing me into a hug and toppling us out of the closet.
I did it.
A strong, wide smile stretches across my lips. The teeny tiny victory unlocks a long-forgotten door in my brain. Control.I’min control. The feeling swarms me like a revelation, rushing me like a drug.
I’m in control.
The grin is stillon my face when I arrive home, climbing the icy steps to my front door. I’m so lost in my head, I almost don’t notice the stack of grocery bags sitting on my porch until I nearly trip over them to reach the lock.
What the hell?
Inside lie layers of fresh groceries—meat still chilled from the store, fresh fruits and vegetables. In the last bag, a small bouquet of daisies and lavender is wrapped, and a note card is tied to the stems.
My Beautiful Menace.
Christ.
Ignoring the insane flutter in my chest at the kind gesture and sweet card, I drop the note back into the bag and carry on unlocking the door. Carefully stepping over the groceries, I slip inside and set down my bag. This is ridiculous. I know I should be more concerned than I am, given that he’s now blatantly ignoring my request to fuck off and leave me be.
Instead, curiosity gets the better of me.
I lean down, grasping the little bouquet. The fragrant lavender laces the air, taking me back to the days Mom and I would grow long trays of the plant on our window sills. I remember the soft soil between my fingers like it was yesterday. We watered all of our house plants with this old, red can. Mom liked to say I fed the carpet nearly as much as the flowers; she’d laugh as I heaved the can up into my little arms, water spilling freely over the basin’s lips as I waddled to the windows.
When Joe came into our lives, all of the herbs dried out. The flowers began to rot. Turns out we were incapable of caring for anything else after he got there.
For some reason, knowing that Mikhail has been growing this lavender himself makes something flutter in my stomach. I reach into the cabinet, retrieving a small mason jar to hold the bouquet. He doesn’t need to know. It can be just for me.
I pace near the kitchen window, searching the street for the increasingly familiar sight of the dark SUV assigned as my “guard.” It’s not hard to spot, still taking up residence on the other side of the street, directly in front of the entrance to my house. I’ve been trying to ignore the stalkerish presence that follows me every time I leave the house. I know it disappears at night, but every morning, rain or shine, it reappears as if it never left.
Shaking my head, I start dragging the bags inside.
Hey, I’m a debt-ridden college student. I’m not exactly in the position to throw out perfectly good groceries…even if they were left by an asshole who locked me in a holding cell.
I’ll reclaim my morals once I’m rich and comfortable.
Cassandra
Ican barely hear the harsh battering of rain against the roof through the sheer volume of my roommate’s screaming, which echoes with ease through each damaged board of our shared wall.
Veronica and her boyfriend have been at it for hours, fighting on the phone at a volume that would blow out a deaf man’s eardrums. I have no idea what topic they’re onto now, but I slide my “sound-proof” headphones back over my poor, abused ears.
They do little to hide the screams of frustration vibrating through the house.
I wander into the kitchen, hoping it will offer more of a reprieve than my bedroom (it doesn’t), and crack open the fridge, admiring my unusually stocked load of groceries. Something must be seriously wrong with me, because I have to fight the urge to open Mikhail’s contact and thank him for the gesture.
It probably means nothing to him, rich as he is from whatever nefarious “organization” he runs, but I came from a house where the fridge was always empty, and any viable food that my stepfather didn’t demolishwas dutifully counted and doled out. Once I got to college, I was able to budget food with my student loan disbursements, but I never bothered to get more than exactly what I needed.
