One second of time turned me into a neutral shade, and it will be my color forever. I’ve come to accept that. It’s one of the reasons I decided to run. Well, that and the other thing. The thing that will always have me looking over my shoulder.
“Good luck, Ms.—”
“Brynn,” I say quickly, not wanting Geoff to say my last name again, in case one more passage of it through his lips prompts it to stay in his mind longer than necessary.
Already I regret not using a fake name. My middle name seemed like enough of a deviation, but I’m not so sure now. Last week this was all just an idea in my head. I received his most recent hate mail, and after I placed it alongside his other letters, thoughtI should skip town.From that one tiny thought came big choices. I began searching for places to rent in northern Arizona, and when I found a place ready for immediate move-in, I snapped it up. Ginger, the owner of the eleven hundred square foot cabin, was chasing her dream of backpacking through Europe, and would be gone for six months.
Perfect, I told her. What I didn’t tell her was that I’ll be long gone by the time she comes home. Three months of wages is all I need. Just enough to pad what my parents will give me when their season is finished. I arranged a property manager for my place, packed my bags, gathered all my important documents, and Elizabeth Brynn Montgomery dropped the Elizabeth. I did not pass Go, I did not collect two hundred dollars.
I ordered a car and had it pick me up two blocks from my condo. Now that car is driving away, and I’m here in Brighton—a town dwarfed by sprawling, sunny Phoenix—standing on the sidewalk, and staring at the small home in front of me. The yard is neat, the grass a deep green and trimmed. Three stairs connect the front walkway to the porch, and each step is buffered by a small pot of geraniums. On either side of the front door hang two rustic lights that resemble lanterns.
“Here we go,” I mutter, andbump bump bumpmy rolling suitcase along the cracks in the short driveway. Ginger said the house key would be under a pot of flowers. I lift one after the other, and on my fourth try I find one gold key on a silver key ring.
The inside of the home looks much like the outside. Tidy, modest, and sparsely decorated. Ginger must have a thing for apples. The curtains are blue and white gingham with red apples lining the bottom and top. A large, framed picture of apples hangs on the wall in the living room. Fake apples are piled in a basket on top of the fridge.
It takes only a few minutes to walk through the place. In the hallway I find a locked closet and assume that’s where Ginger has stored her personal items. There are no photographs in the place, no books, or anything that tells me even a morsel about Ginger as a person. They all must be in that closet, and it strikes me as sad that these things can mean enough to take up space in our homes but can so easily be locked away.
Is that the way it is for everything? Are things only as important as we make them?
The thought depresses me, but the feeling isn’t new.
I won’t take those pills the therapist gave me. At the request of my parents, I went to see someone. She kept calling what happenedthe accident, but I argued it wasn’t an accident. The therapist said she understood that, but for my sake, they would call it an accident because, from my standpoint, it was one.
I rub my eyes, an attempt at banishing the thoughts. Thinking them won’t help anything. What’s done is done. It can never be undone.
Instead, I search the place. Open every cabinet, sift through every drawer, until I’m certain I know every inch. After that, I dump my suitcase on the bed and put everything in its proper place. The master bedroom is large, Ginger said, because she’d knocked out the wall between the two bedrooms.
“When you’re single, one large is better than two small,” she’d explained, then asked me if I was single.
“Yes,” I answered her quickly. “And I plan to keep it that way.”
Besides, nobody will want me now.
Not after what I’ve done.
* * *
I don’t remember fallingasleep. Or what woke me up.
Rolling over, I place a hand over my eyes and take a deep breath. I know what I’ll see when I open my eyes, but I’m not ready to see it. The unfamiliar walls, the furniture that isn’t mine.
Tap tap tap tap tap.
I sit up, my heart banging in my chest. Instinctively, I know it’s not him. He wouldn’t knock. Standing, I glance in the mirror above the dresser and swipe my fingers under my eyes. The mascara streaks don’t budge. Another knock drifts to me, this one soft and out of cadence. Turning away from my reflection, I hurry to the door and peer through the peephole.
A woman.
My lips twist, thoughts rushing through my head. Meeting people is unavoidable, but so soon? I planned to hide out as long as possible, living off the protein bars I brought with me, until I felt ready to venture out. Grocery shopping and finding a job have to happen soon, but I wanted a couple days to hole up and absorb what I’ve left behind.
I gulp in a breath of air and open the door.
The young woman smiles and lifts a hand, waving. “Hi. I’m Cassidy Anders. I live next door.” Her thumb points to my left. “This is Brooklyn,” she adds, looking down.
A child. I hadn’t noticed a child. She stands only three feet tall, her head barely reaching her mother’s mid-thigh. Gripping the door handle, I try not to slam the door closed. I want to be away from these people. My therapist taught me what to do in these situations, when panic grips me, and I feel like my world has tilted off its axis. Breathe inone, two, three, fourand outone, two, three, four.
“Are you okay?” Cassidy asks, eyes squinting with concern.
“Yes,” I bark, wincing at the harshness in my voice.
