But I also know he doesn’t want to be seen—he’s made that clear enough. And I don’t want to lose this job, so I make my way back to the kitchen and start planning what I’m going to make for dinner.
I opt for something healthy but delicious, so I prepare a fig walnut salad with a crusted chicken breast, the meat brined for an hour in order to stay as moist as possible while cooking.
As if he can read my mind, Mr. Castle appears just as I’m putting the finishing touches on our meals. Picking up a plate, he squints at it, then nods in approval.
“Mr. Edgewood loves figs,” he says as he whisks the plate off the counter, and I file that information away for later.
Afterward, I busy myself cleaning the rest of the sprawling, granite kitchen, including emptying out the fridge of old vegetables and leftovers, until Mr. Castle returns with Mr. Edgewood’s plate. He leaves it meaningfully on the counter, and when I glance over, a note sits on top.
Good figs.
That’s all it says. At the bottom is a curlicue R, and I wonder what it stands for. I don’t even know Mr. Edgewood’s first name, I realize. Maybe it’ll be on the pay stub.
Good figs.I read it again before tossing the note away and cleaning up the plate. He ate every last thing on it.
What does it mean? Is he complimenting the way Iprepared the figs with a quick braise, or is he pleased that I utilized them? I’m not sure why it matters so much to me, when Mr. Edgewood has otherwise been standoffish and absent. But my chef’s heart swells knowing he liked it.
When Mr. Castle goes to get my car that evening, he stops before letting me climb into the driver’s seat.
“Here,” he says, holding out an envelope. Curiously, I take it and open the flap to reveal a wad of cash inside. “Typically, Mr. Edgewood pays his staff every other week by automatic deposit. But he got the sense”—he glances sideways at my car, a hint of disgust on his lip—“that you need this a little sooner than that.”
How did he know? I take the envelope and curl it under my arm.
“Thank you.” My voice shakes unintentionally. Since leaving Andy’s house and abandoning everything I know, I’ve felt adrift. I know that I’m on my own now, that I’m independent, but it’s been one setback after another. I still don’t have my own bank account.
For the first time, holding this money, it feels like I might just have a chance to make it. To build a new life for myself without him.
“You’re welcome.” Mr. Castle pats my shoulder, but it’s an awkward gesture, like it’s very unfamiliar to him. “I think after today, we would like it if you stuck around.”
I think that means I passed my interview. I could practically jump up and down, because this means a long-term job, where I can save up and have all the things I’ve been dreaming of. But I rein myself in and smile.
“Please, tell Mr. Edgewood thank you.”
Mr. Castle nods, then turns and heads back into the house, and I drive away with a pile of cash in my lap, giddy for the first time in who knows how long.
It felt like I was always standing in a shadow living with Andy, but for the first time, I might just be emerging out into the light.
I’m going to spoil myself.
When I get back to the Thrifty Mart, I park in my usual spot at the far end of the lot, in the corner that isn’t well lit by the streetlamps. I try to stay far away from the sign that says CUSTOMER PARKING ONLY, VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED. With the money I have in my pocket, I’m going to walk three blocks to the Mexican restaurant I’ve had to smell out my car window ever since I got here.
This town is far enough from Andy that I don’t think he’ll find me here, and big enough that if he did, he’d have trouble picking me out from the thirty thousand other people. Which means there are food options, unlike the tiny town where we lived together, and I’m going to finally get to enjoy it.
Locking up my car, I put on my coat, stuff the money into the deepest pocket, then zip it closed for good measure. Once I’m bundled up, I truck off down the street toward the smell of tacos and burritos.
God, how I’ve needed a meal like this. I’ve been subsisting off what I can get at the Thrifty Mart, eating cheap hot dogs with buns that are little more than paper, and then whatever meals I make at Mr. Edgewood’s house. But sitting down for a proper dinner, with someone serving me hot food I don’t have to cook myself? What a treat.
I probably shouldn’t be spending my money this way, but I need something for myself, a little luxury that’s all mine. To keep my sanity, to act as proof that I can survive just fine without Andy.
The restaurant is bustling when I arrive, and I ask to be seated alone. I peruse the menu, eating free chips with salsa while I wait for the server and filling up on them before I’ve even ordered. I make sure to get something big so I can take the other half back to my car with me, and I’ll eat it in the morning for breakfast.
After the waiter departs, I simply relax and enjoy the mariachi band making their way around the restaurant, dancing a little in my seat when they reach me. After doing such a good job on Mr. Edgewood’s rooms today, I feel like… there’s a chance I could be happy.
Yeah, that’s what this feeling is. Potential. I’m not there yet, but I’m on my way to finding a new normal, one where I’m not always looking over my shoulder, wondering if Andy’s going to finally break.
He didn’t hit me, not yet. But I knew the hit was coming at some point soon, and if I didn’t act, he would render me truly helpless. He had already crafted a bubble of isolation around me, telling off my dad in no uncertain terms. Then we moved, separating me from my best friends. I kept in touch with them for a while, but Andy didn’t like how much cell phone data I was using. When he took that away, too, he made sure that I was wholly and completely reliant on him, hoping that I wouldn’t have the balls to leave.
He was wrong.
