Tears choke me up as I change my name on Facebook and Instagram and block him on all social media. Having set up my dad’s joint Facebook for him and my stepmother, I log in and block Ben from them as well, not that they were friends.
It takes less time than it should to delete him from my life as I remove every photo, every memory. Instagram is filled with us so I delete the account and app completely. The tears have stopped but they’re close by, ready to pounce.
Once I’m finished, I hope he can’t get in contact with me.
Maybe it’s evil.
Maybe it’s cruel.
It’s totally immature.
But there are only two outcomes of this story.
One, I end it by ensuring he’s gone forever from my life. Or two, I go to jail charged with assault for beating his ass with one of my shoes.
While the latter is more appealing, I’ve worked too hard on my career to sacrifice it for maiming him, and I like my shoes.
Sniffling, I pick up my phone and begin a mass text message to my contacts, close friends, and family: Good morning, this is Jenny. Sorry about the mass text. This is my new number. Please don’t give it to anyone. Just changing some things in my life. My Facebook status says it all. I don’t want to discuss it, to be honest I shouldn’t have to. But I expect you to unfriend him. Thanks.
I stare at the message for a minute, certain it’s a mistake. It will lead to questions. And the last shred of self-respect I have can’t handle those right now.
Sighing, I attempt to talk myself out of it, but I press “send.”
It’s done.
Instead of wallowing, I shower and dress to start my day over.
A new day.
A new life.
As if none of this has happened.
The last three years haven’t happened.
Not with him at least.
Him who?
2 Abducted
Lori
The end of the downpour makes me miss home, the way the air there clears after a storm. Here in New York it gets heavier. As much as I wouldn’t want to live on the West Coast again, I wish I could bring the cold feel of the ocean breeze with me.
As I climb out of the car, I notice my right thigh is still a bit sore from the charley horse I got in the last game. Our last game of the season. I make a mental note to roll my leg out before I go to bed. Maybe adding a bunch of beers to the rolling will help eliminate any tension and assist in my wallowing as I study the gameplay videos.
Getting knocked out of the playoffs by the Senators is going to sting for a while, but at least it means I can go home for a couple of weeks and get the stink of the city off me.
The door to the pet store rings with a bell as I open it, alerting the clerks that someone has entered. The neighborhood is rough enough that the windows are barred. Something my usual pet store doesn’t have but this stop was on the way home, and if I show up empty-handed, Millie, my housekeeper, will make him a fillet again. The damned cat will end up with heart disease. He’s too old for fillet, but Millie’s too old to try to change her mind on how pets should eat. She’s raised ten cats and four kids in her lifetime and quite comfortable reminding me of it.
“Can I help you?” casually asks a girl with blue hair and piercings in enough places on her face that I can’t help but imagine where more are. She doesn’t lift her gaze to mine.
“Yeah, Purr Bistro for my cat. He’s a senior.” I even emphasize the stupid purrr. The things I do for Simon.
“By Merrick? Yup.” She walks away, leaving me at the till. She comes back almost instantly with the medium-sized bag in her hands, flumping it onto the counter with as little effort as possible. She rings it in, her eyes never meeting mine. “Twenty-five seventy-nine.”
I hold up my card. “Charge.”
She taps the machine and glances at the door. “Did it freshen up with the rain?”
“Nope.” I finish the purchase and lift the bag of food. “Just more humidity.”
“Shit,” she laments and hands me my receipt.
“Thanks,” I say and walk out. The indifference should be refreshing coming from a girl her age, but I like eye contact in customer service at least. Another thing I miss about home.
“Some change for food?” a small voice asks from somewhere nearby. I stop and spin, scanning for who asked. There’s always a tiny whisper of hope that I’ll recognize the face, except I never do.
Especially not this time.
It’s an old man with a grizzled beard and dark hair. His filthy clothes are wet from the rain, accenting the skinniness of his body. He’s skeletal.
“Yeah, my man. Give me a minute.” I cling to the bag and take in my surroundings. The old strip mall is mostly abandoned except for a few places. Fortunately, there’s a shitty-looking sandwich shop at the end, a couple of doors away from the pet store. I jog down to it.
The door to the sandwich shop rings with almost the same bell as the pet store when I fling it open. The guy behind the counter, a small teenaged boy, flinches when he sees me hurry in but speaks as if his manager is watching, “How can I help you?”
“You got premade sandwiches?” I ask right before I spot them. Walking over, I peruse the fridge under the counter and nod at the BLT on sourdough. “I’ll take that BLT with a water and a cookie.”
The kid moves with almost as much zest for life as the blue-haired girl. I try not to do the thing my mom does where she widens her eyes and sighs in displeasure at how slow
