I’m not Daisy. I’m Tara Monroe.
It feels like a punch. The truth is heavy in my veins, like lead. I flex my hands, trying to remember what it’s like to be one person instead of two. My fingers tingle, numb from where I spent the night clutching at Hunter, as if he could keep me from splitting apart.
But my stepbrother’s not here. I don’t know if I’m grateful or wrecked. There’s a wild moment where I want to call out for him, beg him to wrap his arms around me and pretend that nothing has changed, but I don’t. I bite my tongue, tasting the iron, and instead throw back the sheets.
The room is a bomb site. Our clothes are strewn on the floor, a chair overturned from our frantic lovemaking. I move through it like a ghost, noticing the sticky patches on the rug, a used condom discarded by the bed.
I stand in front of the mirror, naked and raw. I see my huge blue eyes, a snarl of blonde hair. My eyes are red and puffy, but there’s a clarity to my features that wasn’t there before. Like I’m finally looking at myself, really looking.
I’m Tara.
I have to get out of here.
Not because I want to, but because I have no idea what happens next if I stay.
I dress in the dark,careful to be quiet even though I have no idea where Hunter is. He’s likely at the gym, so I work fast. Jeans, sweater, the old boots that survived everything. I pack a bag—essentials only. Toothbrush, spare panties, a brush. I don’t take any keepsakes. I’m too confused over who I am, and what belongs to me.
The zipper sticks. I force it, and my hands start shaking so bad I have to stop, press my fists against my thighs to make it stop. The shaking doesn’t. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth creak.
On the bedside table, there’s a notepad. I grab a pen and force myself to write something, anything, because leaving without a word feels crueler than all the rest.
All I can manage is:I need to find myself.
I stare at it, waiting for the rightness to land, but it just looks hollow. I set the pen down, brush my hair back, and tuck the note under the corner of Hunter’s laptop.
He’ll know what it means.
Or he won’t.
Either way, I have to leave.
I slipout of the penthouse, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because the thought of the wood-paneled box and its reflective mirrors, makes my skin crawl. It’s thirty-eight flights, and every step echoes like a gunshot. By the time I hit the lobby, my lungs are burning, my thighs shaking, but the adrenaline makes me feel real, alive, and animalistic.
I pull my coat tighter around me, the collar stiff against my chin, and brace myself for the cold. The air in the entryway is sharp, chemical-clean, but outside it’s a whole different world.
The Minneapolis morning hits like a fist to the gut.
Wind slices through the gaps in my coat, knifing at my ribs, my knees, my bare ankles. I stagger, blinded by the ache in my face and the sudden glare from the sodium lamps, and almost trip off the curb.
The world is awake. Or waking up, anyway.
Delivery trucks grind past, their headlights burning holes in the mist. A street cleaner glides by, hissing and spraying, the scent of bleach and rot left in its wake. The only other people out are workers—early-shift janitors, bus drivers, and the rare jogger, bundled so tight they look like astronauts.
I push my hands into my pockets and walk.
Every footstep is a gamble. My head is swimming, memories flickering in and out like broken neon signs. A flash: A coffee cup, white ceramic, slipping from my fingers and shattering on tile. The smell of burnt espresso, the acid tang of panic. Another: A girl my age with blonde hair—Eliza, I think—her eyes huge and blue, laughing at a joke I don’t remember.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the harshness of the city.
I have nowhere to go. My old life is a black hole, the pull of it so strong it’s all I can do not to fall in.
I drift through the streets, following the path of least resistance. Past the fancy bakery, not yet open, the glass case full of perfect pastries already lit. Past the corner bodega, where the old man in the window gives me a nod, like he recognizes me. Maybe he does. I barely recognize myself.
I keep walking. My toes go numb. My fingers, even inside the coat, are stinging. My breath leaves in white clouds, curling around my face and then vanishing.
Every block, the city changes. Near the river, it’s silent but for the soft slap of water against concrete. A dog barks somewhere far off, and I think for a second it’s calling my name.
At a crosswalk, I stop, light-headed. My bag slips from my shoulder, and when I go to catch it, I remember the weight of a different bag, a book-bag maybe, from when I was little. I see a flash of yellow paint, a lunchbox with stickers, a hand holding mine as we cross the street together.
