Page 117 of Into Pitch

“I know.”

“I can’t convince you to fucking screw your head on straight?” She sighs, pulling back just enough to hold my gaze. No doubt gauging just how serious I am.

“No,” I murmur.

“What are you going to tell people about your impromptu disappearance?”

“A little of truth, a little of lie.” I mumble.

She sighs heavily, rolling her eyes. “Just… don’t disappear on me again. Promise me that, Sadie.”

“I promise,” I smile and reach up to cup her cheeks, squeezing affectionately.

“And if he shows up—”

“I’ll tell you,” I cut her off.

She hesitates before yanking me back into a hug. “Let’s get drunk.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I smile, clinging to her.

A month is a long time to consider everything that’s fucked up about your life.

It also allows for habits to calcify and routines to settle back into place. And it’s certainly long enough for people to stop asking if you’re okay and start assuming you are.

If anyone didn’t believe my lie about where I have been, they haven’t questioned it. Not that anyone particularly cares. The police have more shit to worry about than an adult woman who decides to go on vacation without telling anyone. Sure, they weren’t happy resources were allocated, but no one really pressed.

Alex hasn’t called.

He hasn’t even showed up to haunt my door or inbox. He just disappeared on me. And I don’t know why that fucking hurts, but it kind of does. Some part of me thought he would show up and ask me to stay. Maybe beg just a little.

I clearly read that wrong, so I tell myself it’s a blessing. That this space and distance is exactly what I wanted. A return to the normal. I even lie to myself and think that if he were still here I’d be losing my mind.

So, I do what every sane adult does. I lose it quietly.

I go back to work and pick up extra shifts after kissing my boss’ ass to high heaven so that he continues to allow me to work. I even smile at customers and sing when they ask. Pretend that nothing inside of me fractured and rewired itself somewhere between the cabin in the woods and the cathedral.

And at night, I paint.

I paint until my hands ache and my eyes burn. I paint fire and shadow and movement and things that never quite take shape. I paint houses that aren’t mine and faces without eyes and forests that feel like they’re watching me back.

Nothing I do quiets my head.

Imogen watches me like she’s waiting for me to lose it and end up on an episode of Snapped. To be honest, I’m not sure she’s wrong in doing so.

She doesn’t say much anymore about Alex, but she does check in and bring me coffee. Comes to the edge of my bus steps some nights and talks about nothing in particular, like she’s afraid if she digs too deep I’ll break apart.

I don’t tell her that I haven’t slept worth a shit and that sometimes I wake up reaching for someone who isn’t there. I also make a point to not let her see that I still wear my stupid fucking bracelet.

It stays on my wrist like this awful brand I can’t get away from.

Tonight the bar is loud and packed in that sticky, late-summer way where bodies press too close and everyone smells like sweat and cheap liquor. I’m three hours into my shift, sliding drinks and taking orders when I’m supposed to. It’s easy muscle memory and survival.

And something about that aches in a way I can’t stand.

So, I do something entirely stupid when a man I’ve worked around for years closes in.

Evan works security sometimes and helps toss out drunks when things get ugly. He’s handsome with an easy smile, harmless in a way that used to feel comforting.