Despite a whole year passing, I feel like my life is stuck, frozen in time. I can’t move forward with my past still haunting me.
Logan hasn’t changed. I haven’t changed. And the unforgettable images of Julian beating my husband to near death on the solid black asphalt haven’t faded nor have they disappeared. They’re still there, the sound of crunching bone and splattering blood echoing through my ears.
The only piece of my life that’s seemed to change is where Logan and I have attempted to restart our lives. I thought moving to Washington would be a fresh new life for us. I thought it would be like pressing the refresh button on a life that had been frozen with fear. Instead, the fear continues to haunt me and I don’t have the courage to tell my husband how I still fear Julian will find us.
I log into the security system app on my phone, making sure the alarm is still secure from Logan leaving. Relief washes over me and I turn back around, staring at the shed once more. My hatred for the shed swells, envisioning what the yard would look like if it were gone. I imagine what it would look like as an empty patch of grass.
I finish what’s left of my coffee and leave my laptop sitting on my dining room table, passing it as I walk out to the garage to grab Logan’s hammer.
Work can wait a little longer.
Three
Logan
Logan: I just got to work. I hope you have a good day. I love you.
I’m not ignorant to my wife’s unhappiness. Like her, my demons have become a piece of me, an extension to the man I used to be. She thinks I don’t see how she tries to hide it. She thinks I don’t see how Julian haunts her the way he haunts me. Over one year later and I can still feel how it felt to have his fist crashing into my face, breaking my jaw and leaving me clinging to life.
The only difference between Lena and me is that I’ve become better at hiding my pain than she has. She wears hers on her sleeve, pretending it doesn’t exist.
I’m sitting in my office, staring at a picture of Lena on my phone when a text comes through, a white box popping up at the top of the screen. I can’t deny how disappointed I am that it isn’t a text from Lena. After leaving Providence, we made an agreement to always text one another when either of us left the house.
Making a trip to the grocery store? Send a text.
Going to the dentist? Send a text.
On our way home from work? Send a text.
Maybe it made us paranoid or overly cautious. But Lena and I didn’t care. The note Julian left in my apartment a year ago injected an intense amount of fear and insecurity into our marriage. Because if we stayed in constant contact throughout the day, we knew it was another day where Julian didn’t reappear.
Instead, it’s a message from Max asking whether the sous chef he hired yesterday has shown up yet. I would wonder why he’s asking since she isn’t supposed to be here for another ten minutes, but I know Max well. He’s strict when it comes to the chefs and staff, especially when it involves being on time. Not that I fault him for the way he runs his restaurant, in fact, I admire him for it. Max has built this place from the ground up, investing every cent he had. Even though Max is strict when it comes to the operation of his restaurant, I quickly learned to adapt when he hired me a year ago. I’ve come to respect him over the time I’ve worked here, and I could tell he felt the same after he offered me the head chef position after being here only six months.
Before replying to Max, I dig inside the pocket of my black pants, pulling out my box of half-eaten Tic Tacs. It’s a habit I’ve used to replace the nearly full pack of cigarettes I would smoke a day nearly two years ago. The tangy orange candy doesn’t completely satisfy me the way a cigarette would, but it was a compromise I made with myself to quit.
By the time I reply to Max’s text, one finally comes in from Lena. My heart races. It’s a sensation I thought would have faded over the time we’ve been together, but it hasn’t. I hadn’t heard from her since the message I sent her when I had stepped into the front door of the restaurant, her only reply a simple ‘okay’. Even if her replies are simple, they give me a sense of comfort. Comfort knowing she’s invested in our marriage just as much as she was the day we were married.
I slide the Tic Tac to the other side of my mouth with my tongue and open Lena’s text.
It’s a picture of the shed in our back yard. Or rather, what used to be the shed. The weathered planks of wood lie in a massive, disorganized pile in our yard. The old robin’s egg blue nearly gone; tiny pinstripe lines embedded between the old gray wood. Underneath the picture, is a message.
Lena: I couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. I hope you won’t miss it too much.
I hit the reply button.
Me: I still planned on doing it. I’m sor—
“Excuse me.” My fingers pause as I snap my head up to three knocks tapping against the doorframe to my office. “Are you Logan Moore?” Standing in the doorway is a woman, dressed in a crisp, black chef jacket. She’s young, most likely a few years younger than I am.
“That’s me.” I abruptly stand. “Can I help you?” Lena’s text is
