I don’t notice my stalker until I’m almost at the shop door. She’s standing on the other side of the street watching, her long blonde hair shining in the sun. She’s wearing a white floaty dress. And she’s both younger and thinner than me. I stare at her and she stares at me and ugh. The girl’s going to have to try harder if she wants to scare me. No way does she get to ruin my day. I am a grown-ass woman and more than capable of doing that all on my own, thank you very much.
But she and I should chat. There are some questions I want to ask her. I look both ways searching for a break in the traffic before attempting to cross the road. And she takes theopportunity to turn and start walking away again. I am not chasing after her. Whatever game she’s playing can wait.
Shoulders back and boobs out, I turn toward the store. Here we go.
A bell jingles as I open the shop door and step into the air-conditioned space. There’s a faint scent of lavender or something. Wooden racks hold rows of clothing sorted by color. Jewelry, shoes, hats, and some homewares are displayed on and around a long wooden table in the center of the store. There’s even a display of vintage jackets and bags for sale. It all looks so good. I kind of want to buy everything.
A woman approaches me with a smile. She has dark skin, long hair, a cool floral tattoo on her arm, and is wearing one of the green linen jumpsuits displayed in the front window. There was a time in this town when women were cutting their hair short for safety’s sake. All of the ones who went missing had long hair. The shop assistant’s practiced eye takes in my old jeans, faded tank top, and the bedraggled sneakers on my feet. The fading bruise on my face has been carefully covered with concealer.
It’s not like I’ve bought nothing in the last nine years. Once something wore out beyond repair, then I replaced it. But it was mostly just the basics, which I shopped for online. My therapist Heather would say I don’t believe I deserve nice things. She’d say I have survivor’s guilt.
The woman who works here stops and cocks her head. “Sidney?”
Her recognition is happening faster than I imagined. But if she asks me to leave, then okay. I’ll just try somewhere else. This isn’t the only clothing store in town.
“My name is Emma,” she says. “I was a year below you in high school.”
“Oh.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“I need a couple of outfits. Maybe more than a couple.”
“Okay,” says Emma.
“This has started getting on my nerves.” I wave my hand in the general direction of me. “I want to look better.”
“I can help you with that.”
A woman over by the changing rooms stops and stares at me. The hostility coming from her corner is a lot. But it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. And at least she’s not hissing murderer or whore at me. That shit really hurts my feelings.
Emma heads for the racks on the other side of the store. “How about I show you some things so I can gauge what you like and go from there?”
“That sounds great.” I smile. “Don’t suppose you know a good hairdresser?”
Kaia Kater is playing when we hear the front door open. Muriel and I are in the back of the house in the study, ready for our weekly meeting. Sunday brunch is the perfect time for blackberry scones. Though carbohydrates and sugar are always a solid idea.
Nothing was said about my new navy-and-white-stripe midi tank dress and light makeup. Same goes for the fresh long layers and strands of honey and platinum in my hair. Though I know she noticed, thanks to the definite widening of her eyes. Muriel’s probably scared of saying anything in case I change my mind and run upstairs to scrub my face and put on a pair of sweatpants or something. And who can blame her?
Hana is running late, though that’s not unusual. What is unusual is her remembering to use her key. Banging on the door and hollering is her preferred method of gaining entry to the house. But what’s truly bizarre is how she’s talking to someone. Same goes for the deep voice that answers.
Muriel raises her brows.
I know the voice, though I haven’t heard it in three days. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever hear it again. And now here he is, standing in my living room. Huh.
“…comes from this couple at the farmers’ market they have just down the road,” says Hana.
“Haven’t gotten there yet,” answers Noah.
“You have to go. So good.”
“Nice pictures.”
“Sidney’s grandmother taught art,” says Hana. “She did most of the prints and sketches. Nature was her favorite subject, as you can see.”
He nods and looks around the room. This is not awkward at all.
I love my home. However, having him in it makes me doubt everything. The house has a simple layout. A living room at the front of the house with a fireplace on one side and stairs on the other. Then the kitchen, half bathroom, and a small, enclosed patio are on the right. While the dining room and study are on the left. Walls are a warm off-white with the original honey-colored wooden floorboards throughout. French doors with mottled glass separate the different rooms. Though I tend to leave them all open. Furniture is a mix of Grandma’s and mine. Her midcentury teak dining table and my navy sofa. Her pair of vintage black leather and chrome armchairs and my blue velvet cushions and grey wool rug.
