Joel, however, doesn’t bother dressing up his judgments in tact or civility; he simply tells me I’m crazy.
That’s fine. Let him think so. It’s certainly not the worst thing he’s called me.
I haven’t spoken to him anymore about the man watching me, but he feels too real to be a hallucination.
Whatever he is, he’s an enigma. An obsession.
Despite my precarious mental state, I know I’m not imagining him.I can’t be.
Even now, I search for him in the corner of my vision, hoping his presence will give me a flicker of excitement in the banality of my day, if only for a moment.
He’s been appearing more frequently lately, and I wonder if it means something.
The wheels of my cart shriek out a grating rhythm as they spin against the dirty white tiles of the grocery store floor, and the stark fluorescent lights only cause the tension in my head to wind tighter as they buzz in the background like the incessant drone of a mosquito.
I scrutinize my shopping list for what feels like the hundredth time, knowing that if I forget anything, Joel will make my life a living hell for the rest of the night. It’s one thing to forget something for our own dinners; it’s another toforget something when we’re feeding half a dozen other people.
The bag of potatoes I toss into the cart lands with a dull thud. I scratch them off my list before heading to the refrigerated section at the back of the store. Steaks are next on my list, and the price below the slabs of meat makes me cringe. Pretty soon, my allotted amount of cash for grocery trips won’t be enough. At least it’s notmymoney that I’m spending, but I’m sure Joel will still have something to say about it when I get home despite the fact that he insists on grilling steaks instead of burgers.
God forbid he tarnish his reputation by not impressing his coworkers with his fancy meals, pristine cookie-cutter house, and subservient wife. It’s domestic bliss for him, and suburban hell for me.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I pile up ribeyes in the cart and move on.
Spices are next on the list. I grab a couple bottles and bow my head, pretending to compare the labels as I dart my eyes to my left then my right. Aside from me, the aisle is empty. Perfect.
I drop one of the bottles into my purse that’s hanging from the crook of my elbow as I reach up to put the other back on the shelf. It’s a smooth movement—one that I’ve practiced too many times—and I easily alternate between putting spice bottles in the cart and in my purse.
My heart races at the small act of rebellion. I always choose something different to steal, but the outcome is the same: more money for me to hide away, and the tiny, fleeting spark of feeling alive, if only for a moment. It’s the thrill of doing something wrong and getting away with it, even though I know that getting caught would mean more severe consequences for me than for most other people.
But it’s these small rebellions that give me any sort of hope, as momentary as it may be. My secret stash of money grows each time I pocket the cash I was supposed to spend on food, and maybe one day, I’ll have enough to leave.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
But as the days pass, the thread of hope I’m clinging to becomes more frayed, ready to snap. Increasingly more often, I wonder if it’s even worth the effort. Because even if I do manage to leave, he’ll find me. Just like he did last time.
I’d rather die than go through that again. Joel’s anger is more unforgiving than a few months locked in a jail cell would ever be.
The cashier gives me an odd look as I place the groceries on the conveyor belt, and for a moment, I worry she caught me pocketing the spices until I realize she’s glancing at my long sleeve shirt.
I give her a tight-lipped smile but say nothing, because what excuse could I give to justify wearing long sleeves in the sweltering summer heat? Most of my bruises have healed by now, but I can’t take any chances. Too many people know Joel and therefore recognize me, and an investigation, no matter how well-intentioned, would only result in a slap on the wrist for him.
And I’d still be here, stuck in a cycle of hopelessness and despair, wishing I could leave him but knowing it’s near impossible.
Sometimes the desperation of my utter powerlessness is too much to bear.
The sliding glass doors part before me as I exit the store, and the frigid air conditioning of the grocery store gives way to the thick, suffocating North Carolina heat, the asphalt of the parking lot shimmering under the beating sun.
That’s when I seehim.
My breath catches in my throat at the vision of the tall, dark-haired man standing between a pristine SUV and a rusty old Toyota with a missing bumper. He’s obscured slightly by the heat mirage, the sun warping the air around him, but he’s recognizable all the same. Even without ever having fully seen his face, I’d recognize him anywhere.
We’ve never spoken, yet I feel like I’ve known him a lifetime. The man from my dreams. The man who’s been following me.
He’s here, my mind screams.He’s here for me. My body reacts in an instant, adrenaline rushing through me as I push the heavy cart as fast as I can toward the line of cars. Maybe this time I can catch him, speak to him, figure out what he wants from me.
I half-jog toward him, my sandals slapping the asphalt. I only glance away for half a second when my shoe catches on the cart’s wheel, but when I look back up, he’s gone.
I whip my head around, frantic to find him, but the rows of cars stretch over every available surface.
