Buy cat food.
Cat food.
I glance at Gordo, who’s stretched out across the marble like a beached pumpkin. He snores once, tail flicking like he’s dreaming of tuna.
“Essie said two cans a day,” I mutter. “And all I’ve got is leftover chicken. Which makes me a terrible person, apparently.”
The smart thing would be to text Anton. Ask permission like a good little captive. But my phone shows no response to my earlier messages, and something about asking a man with a gun if I can buy Fancy Feast makes my skin crawl.
It’s cat food. A ten-minute trip to the corner store. What’s the worst that could happen?
I move to the window where Boris arranged my plants. The basil looks droopy, leaves curling at the edges. The rosemary’s fine—it always is—but my little tomato plant looks stressed, probably from the move. I touch a yellowing leaf, and it crumbles between my fingers.
I look around the penthouse again, too clean for me to even pretend I’m useful. No laundry. No dust. Even the windows sparkle. The only things that feel like mine are those plants and the rotund feline drooling on Anton’s countertop.
And my books.
The thought sneaks up out of nowhere. My stack of novels is still on my nightstand back at the apartment.The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo—page twelve.The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue—untouched.Pride and Prejudice—highlighted to death.
I could grab them. Cat food.
My keys are on the kitchen counter where I left them. My wallet’s in my purse. The elevator works fine.
I’m not a prisoner.
Am I?
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over Anton’s name. Then I remember the way he looked at me this morning—like I was some kind of problem without a solution.
And I’m sitting here asking permission to buy cat food.
I type:
Going to get cat food. Back soon.
Send.
The dots don’t appear.
No reply.
I wait thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing.
Of course not. He’s busy being terrifying somewhere.
Still, something in me pinches. The way he brushed me off at lunch, like I was offering poison instead of dinner. That look that said,“No time, no space, not for you.”It shouldn’t matter. He’s not supposed to matter. But it feels too familiar. Like all the other times someone made it clear I wasn’t worth sittingdown for. My dad skipping meals. Evan forgetting birthdays. A hundred little rejections stacked until they feel like my spine.
The thought squeezes my chest, sharp enough that I let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. Pathetic. I slap my palms over my face, drag them down hard.
“Jesus, Mary. You’re not twelve. You don’t need Daddy to clap because you made lasagna.”
The kitchen swallows the words. I take one of those deep, too-loud breaths meant to reset myself, but it only rattles in my throat.
Gordo opens one eye, studies me for a moment, then goes back to sleep. Even he thinks I’m overthinking this.
Fuck this.
