I BLINK, TRYING to clear the gritty dryness that clings to my eyelids like sandpaper.“Great,” I mutter, a raspy croak.
My reflection winces back.Skin is ghostly pale.Shadows under my eyes are stubborn remnants of a sleepless night.I wrench my hair back, twisting it into a messy bun.The oversized tracksuit swamps my frame.My only option for shoes?The black stilettos from last night.
What a disaster.
The thought of putting my dress back on turns my stomach.It feels toxic.Its fabric is the betrayal I’m trying to outrun.
What now?
I search for answers in the dull eyes staring back in the mirror.
I have to get the ring.
Only then can I face James and be free.But he still holds that loan over my head like a guillotine.He can sell the café out from under me if I leave him.
A surge of nausea hits.I grip the edge of the sink, willing myself not to throw up.
I’ll come back to search for the damn thing later today.
Hopefully, when Matthew’s not home.
The sky outside the window is a dark canvas, with the faintest glimmer of dawn at the horizon.
Thank God for the darkness.
I shove my dress and wig into the handbag and ease the guest room door open.The hinges shriek.I cringe, peeking across the landing.
His door is closed.
He’s still asleep.
I exhale slowly.Tension eases from my shoulders.
Using the dim light from my phone, I creep down the stairs.Each step is a groan in the silent house.When I reach the bottom, a muffled thump from the basement makes me jump.
I pause, straining to hear.
Another thump.Followed by a heavy, rhythmic thud vibrating through the floor.
He’s awake.
Maybe he couldn’t sleep either.
I imagine him down there, fists beating against a punching bag.
Is this his daily ritual?Or is he releasing pent-up frustration?
It’s none of my business.
I shake the image away.
Time to go.
A run-in with Matthew is not something I can handle right now.
Once on the sidewalk, I rush across the street to the next intersection and hail a cab.The cool morning air stings my cheeks.I pull the oversized sweatshirt tighter, seeking a comfort it can’t provide.
A cab pulls up.I slide into the backseat, sinking into worn leather.“State Street, please,” I tell the driver, my morning voice rough with sleep.
