"Are you trying to restock a shelf that's already full?"
Mr. Hamilton's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade, sharp and annoyed, with that particular edge of irritation he reserves for employees he considers incompetent.
I look down at my hands. At the box of cornflakes I'm holding, its bright yellow packaging suddenly garish under the fluorescent lights. At the shelf in front of me that is, in fact, completely and meticulously stocked. Every box lined up with military precision. No gaps. No spaces. Nothing that needs filling.
"Sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
The apology comes out automatic, practiced from years of making myself smaller for men who demand deference without earning it.
"Clearly." He shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, the gesture theatrical in its contempt. Walks away muttering about useless employees who can't handle basic tasks, his voice carrying just loud enough for me to hear every word.
I set the box down on the metal cart with a soft thud. Take a breath that tastes like cardboard and industrial cleaning solution. Chastise myself for daydreaming again when I should be focused. When I should be present in this fluorescent-lit reality instead of lost in memories that felt too real to be lies.
I'm lucky Mr. Hamilton gave me my old job back at the grocery store.
This will have to do until I can find something better. Until I can save enough money to get off Jess's couch and into my own place again. Until I can rebuild some version of the life I had before.
Mr. Hamilton is mean in that casual, everyday way that some people are mean. Ungrateful for effort that goes unnoticed. The kind of boss who sees employees as replaceable parts in a machine instead of actual human beings with lives and feelings and limitations.
I think back to my conversation with Jess last night. About survivor's guilt. About how I give too much to people who don't deserve it. About patterns I repeat without examining why.
She's right. I hate that she's right, but she is.
I did feel guilty when I was succeeding in my culinary career while Henry was struggling with his gambling addiction,watching him spiral while I got offers and opportunities. I am overgiving in this job, making myself smaller than I need to be, working harder than necessary for someone who barely acknowledges my existence beyond criticism.
But right now, I need this job. Need the money however meager. Need the routine that keeps me moving through days that otherwise feel too empty. Need something to fill the hours so I don't spend them all thinking about three men I'm supposed to be staying away from.
Except I keep messing up the simplest things. Tasks I could do in my sleep when I worked here before. Restocking shelves. Running the register. Organizing inventory.
Because my mind is elsewhere. My heart is elsewhere. My entire being feels split between the person standing in this grocery store wearing an ugly green vest and the person who fell in love with dangerous men.
I know it was them who attacked Marcus. What are the odds that other Albanian mafia men would have a beef with my former boss?
I just don't know when they found out about him. When they learned what he'd done. How they knew to connect him to me.
I must be losing my mind because part of me, some dark shameful part I don't want to examine too closely, thinks cutting off Marcus's thumbs is romantic. Like those spicy romance books I read where the dangerously protective hero says "touchher and you die" and then actually follows through with lethal precision.
I laugh at myself quietly, the sound bitter and slightly unhinged even to my own ears.
Life isn't a book. Violence isn't romantic when it's real, when there's actual blood and actual consequences that ripple out into the world. This isn't fantasy where everything works out and the morally gray actions are justified by true love.
But still.
The thought persists despite my attempts to dismiss it.
They must feel something for me to do a thing like that. To commit violence on my behalf without being asked. To exact revenge for discomfort I barely acknowledged to myself. To care enough about my dignity that they'd destroy a man's livelihood to protect it.
I'm struggling with these ambivalent feelings, trying to sort through the tangle of horror and gratitude and fear and something dangerously close to pleasure, when I hear my name.
"Lily."
The single word freezes me in place.
I'm facing a shelf of cereal boxes, my hand still resting on a box of granola. Too afraid to turn around. Too afraid to confirm what my body already knows with absolute certainty.
Because I recognize that voice. Would recognize it anywhere, in any crowd, after any amount of time.
Artan.
