"Emma, don't?—"
"No, seriously. You've told me about the kids you've helped, the lives you've saved. What's the number for HR?"
"Don't!" The word comes out too sharp, too panicked. "I mean, don't. Please."
She pauses, frowning. "Why not? If this is some kind of discrimination or wrongful termination?—"
"It's not. They followed all the rules. Gave me severance. It's done." I'm talking too fast, desperation leaking through. "Just let it go.Please."
Emma studies me for a long moment. I can see her weighing what to push, what to let slide. Finally, she nods slowly.
"Okay. I won't call. But for the record, I think they're making a huge mistake."
"Yeah, well." I grab the dish towel and wipe down the counter even though it's already clean. "It is what it is."
"You can stay here as long as you need to. Seriously. The guest room is yours." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "We'll figure this out together, okay?"
The lump in my throat is back. "Thanks, Em."
Ethan chooses that moment to dump his entire cup of juice on the floor, and the conversation shifts to damage control. I'm grateful for the distraction, even if it means cleaning up apple juice while Ethan thinks it's the funniest thing in the world.
After breakfast, Emma announces we need groceries.
My stomach drops. "I can stay here if you and Ethan want to have some time together."
"I'd rather have the company. Besides, you know how he gets in the store. Extra hands are always good."
I can't say no without raising more questions I don't want to answer. So I nod and help clean Ethan up, wiping juice from his hands while he squirms and laughs.
The grocery store is twenty minutes away. Emma talks the whole drive about how exhausted she is, about whether the baby will look like Chase or more like her, about how Jackson's been weird lately. I make the right noises in the right places, but I'm too focused on keeping my hands from shaking to really listen.
I haven't been in a crowd since the rape. Not really. Going to the store with Jackson for Ethan's stuff doesn't count—he was there the whole time, acting like a buffer between me and everyone else. Plus, we bickered through the entire trip, which helped distract me from the fact that strangers surrounded me.
Other than that, it's been the courthouse for the police report and the hospital for the rape kit. Even driving here from Pinewood, I stuck to back roads and only stopped for gas when I absolutely had to.
The parking lot is packed when we arrive. Saturday morning shopping rush.
"Ready?" Emma asks, already unbuckling.
No.
"Yeah."
Getting Ethan out of his car seat takes both of us. He wants to walk instead of sitting in the cart, so Emma compromises and lets him hold onto the side while she pushes.
Inside, the lights are too bright. The store is full of people: families, couples, and solo shoppers weaving through aisles. The instrumental version of a pop song plays overhead. Everything's too loud, too close, too much.
"Produce first," Emma says, heading left.
I follow, keeping my eyes on Ethan. He's babbling about apples, pointing at everything red. Emma lets him pick out the ones he wants, praising his choices.
I'm doing fine until we turn down the cereal aisle.
A man reaches past me for a box on the top shelf. His arm brushes my shoulder.
And suddenly I'm back in the supply closet. Hands on me, breath caught in my throat, body frozen. The shelves press in on all sides, and the lights become the harsh overhead bulb from that night. I can smell the antiseptic, feel the cold metal digging into my back.
My chest tightens. Can't breathe. Can't think. The cereal boxes blur together, colors bleeding into each other.
