His possessiveness should mean he won’t show anyone. But my breath still catches when I finally press send.
I briefly close my eyes, then escape the bathroom and scurry back to my laptop, face in danger of bursting into flames.
My muscles remain tense for the rest of the hour, eyes stinging when I pack away my laptop. The bus ride home takes forever, each jolt mimicking the uncomfortable lurch in my stomach.
My phone remains stubbornly silent.
Arriving home, I trudge upstairs to my room, and strip off my blouse and kilt. There’s a clean t-shirt in my hand when an impulse draws me towards the mirror. I twist my torso from side to side, examining my reflection.
I’m not model or porn star perfect, but I don’t look too bad. “And why do you care if he doesn’t like your photo? Idiot.”
I drag the shirt over my head, and grab my dirty blouse, heading downstairs. I’ve just reached the landing when the front doorbell rings, a startling noise in the still house. I pause near the bathroom—mostly it’s charities, Witnesses, or Mormons who come to our door—but I throw my top into the hamper and jog for the front door, opening it on the chain.
A large man stands there, a huge gut overflowing his belt, eyes like raisins baked into dough.
“Hello?”
He stares at me with a slight frown, then his gaze crawls up and down my body until I scoot farther behind the door.
“Bryan here?”
“No, sorry. He’s out at work.” I swing the door and he stops it with one meaty hand, pushing it until the chain pulls taut.
“Just a second, love.” He fishes in his back pocket, pulling out a crumpled envelope and smoothing it flat against his thigh. “Give him this, would you?”
“Sure.” I pull at the end, but the man holds tight. After a tussle he lets it go, his wet lips spreading into a wide grin.
“Thank y—”
I slam the door, flicking the dead bolt and racing into the kitchen, cowering in the darkness until his footsteps head away. Only then do I turn on the light, turning the envelope over.
There’s nothing written either side, and I leave it on the end of the counter, right beside a stack of invoices, all red-stamped.
A quick glance through their contents shows they’re all overdue, the amounts with delinquent fees totalling in the thousands. I have the uncomfortable feeling Bryan left them out on purpose.
Was the guy tonight some kind of loan shark? The next time he comes back, will he bring a weapon far more threatening than whatever’s in the envelope?
I don’t know, but the entire incident leaves me unsettled.
For the past week or two, I’ve ignored Bryan’s entreaties to call my mother, but my continued refusal when he might be in danger suddenly seems ungrateful in the extreme.
I bring up Mum’s profile, dialling her number. It’s been well over a year since I last saw her, outside of her filtered updates on social media. Almost as long since we talked.
My pulse beats loud in my ears. The phone clicks. “Ophelia?”
My mother’s voice is bright enough to hear her smile, and I collapse into a dining chair hard enough my teeth snap together.
Stinging tears fill my eyes, my voice barely a whisper. “Mum?”
“Oh my god. I was wondering when you’d finally break down and call. You are the most stubborn child ever, I swear.”
“Break down—Mum! You left me with a stranger and waltzed overseas.”
“A stranger,” she scoffs. “How is Brandon, anyway?”
“His name’s Bryan.” I bite my lip, inhale through my nose. “We’re not doing well, Mum. Money’s really tight, and I had to replace my glasses unexpectedly, I was…” My voice breaks and I swallow, then try again. “I wondered if you could send some extra money this week?”
“Money.” The brightness in her voice is gone. “That’s the reason you’re calling? Not because you miss me.”
