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I walked out the door and did what they said. It made it easier to move my leaden feet when they told me Angel would be waiting for me in the back of the car in her basket. Got into the dark car with the tinted windows and held my cat as tightly as I was holding myself together. My stuff would be packed for me. Sent in a separate car. I was left buried in a nest of self-hatred and humiliation.
How stupid was I for falling for a man who can’t face his emotions? Who runs at the first sign of love? At least, I thought he loved me. But he couldn’t even answer me last night when I poured my heart out and asked if he felt the same.
Now, a whole month later and the only time I’m not thinking about him is when I’m standing in a room full of Bachman teens, their hope-filled young eyes staring up at me, hanging on my every word as we discuss Shakespeare.
I’m intimidated by how well educated they already are in the subject. They don’t even break for summers.
They’re good kids. Respectful, smart, polite. But of course the second I walk out of that classroom, I’m thinking of what could have been, the family we could have had, had he not sent me away.
It’s been a long day. There’s a fever spreading through the school and I’m on constant high alert, checking temperatures, disinfecting surfaces. In a closed-off community, this is one of the drawbacks; illness spreads quickly.
I set my empty wineglass down on the end table, curling tighter into my fluffy pink robe. Angel comes by for a pet, her paws sinking into the soft cushions as she moves. I stroke her soft fur, so grateful to have her company during this dark time.
She gives a sweet meow, then wanders off to find her food bowl.
Alone again, I stare out the massive picture window of my small cottage, into the night. The moon is full, its clear blue light illuminating the rolling, grassy hills of the Hamlet. The land stretches out, reaching the massive stone wall that surrounds the entire town.
Something catches my eye. A streak of long black hair flying past. Kate Paisley, as she was introduced to me, but everyone calls her Paisley, or Paise. Daughter of the head of the Hamlet, Bronson, and his wife, Paige. She inherited her mother’s striking blue eyes and almost black hair.
At least I think it’s her. I lean on the deep sill of the picture window for a closer look, careful not to upset the line of books I keep there. It’s her—I’m sure of it. I recognize her graceful dancer’s gait. She wears a black hoodie and dark leggings, a backpack slung over her shoulder.
Where is she headed?
She looks over her shoulder, seeming to check if anyone has followed her. She makes a right-hand turn, moving further from me. I lose sight of her as she disappears into the darkness.
Where is she going?
No one leaves these walls without permission. With the family’s dangerous ties, it’s a safety issue. Which means Miss Paisley shouldn’t be wandering around alone in the night.
I’m calling her parents.
I reach beside me to grab my phone, a good old-fashioned landline that’s had the Bachman upgrade, a sleek black number with large white buttons. It reaches the homes in the Hamlet with a simple two-digit code. I just need to press *01 to dial Bronson and Paige’s home.
My finger hovers over the sleek white star button, but I pause when I see a dark figure crossing the grassy field. I take my spot on my observation sill, peering out.
A man with short dark hair. A man that looks a lot like… Damian. I lean in for a closer look, hating myself for the momentary hope that fills my heart. It’s not him. It’s someone else.
Paisley’s father, Bronson, is following her. Now closer, it’s clear he looks nothing like Damian. A trick of the mind.
Bronson has it covered and as long as I know Paisley is safe, it’s not my business. I put the receiver back in its cradle.
Of course, in my dark breakup state, my mind instantly focuses on Paisley’s loving, protective father, of how I didn’t have a father, how I’ve had to heal from my mother’s indifferent love, which always seems to be contingent on my success, or lack thereof.
How I long to help him heal from the loss of his mother…
“God, I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” I grab for a tissue, dabbing my eyes. I seem to be needing them less and less but still…
I’m tired of crying.
I should be relieved, finally free of the arranged marriage that was made to save me. To a man who I thought might have loved me. It’s all over, the drama, the power struggle between us. I’m free to move on, to shape my new life however I want to.
Now that I’m vetted by the family, I can work wherever I want. They’ve got branches all over the world. But no matter how I dream up my future, I just can’t stop seeing him in it.
I’m not hungry but I know I should eat.
Heaving a sigh, I push myself up from the couch, going to the refrigerator to find the leftover mac n’ cheese Mary, a sweet older woman who seems to run things, made for me the beginning of the week. I heat it up in the sleek Bachman tech microwave thingy that heats food evenly all the way through in ten seconds without drying it out.
Dinner is the hardest part.
