Except the one thing that matters.
Something big happened, enough to make him file a restraining order, but I can’t find a name attached to it. Not even a redacted alias or case number. Nothing on record anywhere.
Someone erased Kelly’s past, and I don’t know who or why.
That’s what’s eating at me. Someone else knows his secrets, and I don’t.
I know too much and not enough at the same time. Every move, every detail, every pointless habit mapped out in my head, and it’s still not enough. It’s rotting a hole in my skull, and I can’t stop myself from sitting here watching him every day.
Consumed. That’s what this is.
I press my tongue against my teeth and let out a laugh that doesn’t sound right even to me.
I need sleep. If I don’t shut my eyes soon, I’ll start seeing him even when he’s not there.
He walks out the clinic door, pulling on a jacket over his navy scrubs. It’s eleven a.m. He isn’t done working. His shift doesn’t end until five, and he never leaves early, never breaks routine unless something’s wrong.
Where are you going?
I pull my hood up and get out of the car. Rain hits my face, and I’m already moving, crossing the street to follow him. Some asshole in a sedan nearly clips me, and I flip him off.
Kelly’s half a block ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the weather.
He turns into the supermarket on the corner, and I give him twenty seconds before I follow.
This is unusual. He usually stays at the clinic, eats whatever he packed that morning, works through lunch because he won’t say no when someone brings in a sick animal.
I stay tucked near the entrance, watching. His sandy-blonde hair is damp from the rain, sticking to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and he keeps licking his lips. They glisten every time he does it, and I track the movement without meaning to. Fuck.
He pulls coins out of his pocket. Counts them. Scratches the back of his head and glances around, quick nervous movements, then takes off toward the back of the store. Grabs a banana from the discount bin, nearly black on one end, then a protein yogurt after checking the price tag twice.
That’s all he’s getting. A bruised banana and yogurt because he’s counting pocket change to afford lunch.
I could fix this. One transfer and he’d never have to choose the cheapest option again, never have to count coins in a grocery store. But that would require explaining how I know everything about his financial struggles, and we’re not there yet.
I’m still watching him when someone walks into him, hard enough that Kelly almost falls. The banana drops. His back slams into the shelf, and his hands fly up instantly, defensive, bracing for a hit.
The guy shoves Kelly’s shoulder again. “Watch where you’re fucking going, man.”
I curl my hands into fists in my pockets.
That motherfucker.
Kelly looks at the floor, picks up the bruised banana. Rubs his back. Won’t look up. I bite the inside of my cheek as the asshole snaps something else at him, then walks away.
Kelly walks toward the register to pay, but I don’t follow. Can’t. If I get any closer right now, I’ll do something he’ll see.
So, I go hunting instead.
The piece of shit is just two aisles over, standing in front of the cereal, trying to decide between boxes. I close the distance, smooth and quiet. Grab a fistful of his hair. He starts to turn, mouth opening, and I slam his face into the metal shelf edge. Hard.
The crunch when his nose collapses is satisfying and immediate. He grunts, as if dazed, and his legs give out. Blood pools under his cheek, spreading toward a box of cereal.
I spot the wet floor sign a few feet away. Walk over, pick it up, bring it down on his ribs three times.
These stores really need to be more careful about mopping when they’re still open.
Wet floors are dangerous. Man slips, hits his head wrong, stops breathing. Tragic accident. Happens more than people think.
