“And Chiara, wearegoing to talk about that shit some more later, but what were you thinking? I sleep in that bed too,porca miseria! You are going to wash those bedsheets tomorrow,twice!”
“Okay,” she whispers once more before I end the call.
I slip on my jacket and pocket my phone, heading back to the bar. But it seems Donny has already shut everything down. No lights are on, and no one responds to my knocking.
Fuck, what do I do now?
I can’t stay outside for hours. It’s too chilly, and the shelter closes its doors at night, so I can’t go to Howie either.
I head back to our apartment building, where I can wait in the stairwell. It’s not exactly warm, but it’s definitely warmer than outside. As I walk, a weird feeling of being watched creeps over me. I scan my surroundings, but all I see are some people laughing in the distance and a stray cat darting across the street—nobody else in sight.
“Pull your shit together,” I mutter, but that nagging sensation just grows stronger.
I take a turn and pause, glancing over my shoulder. A shadow disappears behind a building. Fuck, I’m right in front of my place now, but if someone follows me in, I’m trapped.
So, I quicken my pace, hoping to lose him in a labyrinth of turns before doubling back to my building. Maybe it’s all in my head, and this feeling will pass soon.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still walking, heart pounding in my chest. Something deep down is screaming at me that I’m in danger.
In a move I never thought I’d make, I get out my phone and dial Clay’s number.
He picks up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I’m so sorry to—” I stammer, my voice shaking, but he cuts me off.
“Karen, what’s going on? Where are you?”
“I-I think someone’s following me. I’m too scared to go home,” I whisper.
There’s a pause, some shuffling, more rustling, then he’s back on the line. “I’m heading over. Where are you?”
“Harlem, near the 7-Eleven,” I manage to say, my voice laced with fear.
“All right, go inside. Stay on the phone and stay where the cashier can see you. I just got home, so I’ll be there in twenty.”
I make a beeline for the store, walking quickly but trying not to look too panicked. This might all be in my head, but if it’s not, better safe than sorry.
I step inside, casting a glance at the cashier’s counter where a kid, maybe eighteen, with acne-ridden skin is working.
The sound of a car door slamming and an engine roaring to life filters through the phone just as Clay asks, “You’re inside the store?”
“Yes, I’m in,” I confirm.
“Go chat with the cashier,” he orders.
“But he’s just a kid, and I don’t know what to talk about.”
“I don’t care, Karen. Ask him about the freshness of their eggs for all I care. Just get him to talk to you.”
Despite my jitters, I head toward the counter, keeping a watchful eye on the entrance. If someone was tailing me, they wouldn’t come in here, right? They’d wait for me to get back out, right?
I approach the kid, who glances up with a bored expression.
“Can I help you?” he asks, sounding anything but helpful.
“Are your eggs fresh?” I blurt out.
Clay’s laughter echoes from the phone.
