I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to scrub the images away. Knox’s hands. Eli’s arms. Fallon’s eyes.
Fuck, it felt real. It felt right.
I push the covers aside and slide out of bed, needing to move. My feet are silent on the hallway carpet as I make my way to the kitchen.
The house is sleeping, the kind of deep silence that only happens in the middle of the night.
I go to the fridge, opening the door slowly so the light doesn’t flood the room. Inside, on the top shelf, is a carton of orange juice. Jude bought it yesterday.
I reach for it, my fingers closing around the cold cardboard.
Suddenly, my hand freezes.
I’m standing in a cramped, dirty kitchen in Portland. It’s three in the morning. I’m thirsty, my throat parched from crying. I reach for the milk carton.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Luke’s voice cuts through the darkness. He’s leaning in the doorway, a cigarette hanging from his lip, his eyes narrowed.
“That milk is for Maisie’s cereal in the morning. I paid for that. You don’t get to just drink it because you feel like it.”
“I’m thirsty, Luke,” I whisper, cowering. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t gotten fired for showing up high again, we’d have some extra money for you to guzzle milk,” he snaps, walking over and snatching the carton from my hand. “You contribute nothing. You’re a drain. You think this food is free? You think you get to just take?”
He looms over me, backing me into the counter. “If you can’t pay with money, Amber, you know the arrangement. You want something? You earn it.”
Bile rises in my throat, burning and acidic.
I slam the fridge door shut, the sound too loud in the quiet house. I stand there in the dark, shaking. I look at my hand.
It’s empty. I’m not in Portland. I’m not with Luke.
But the memory is so visceral I can taste the stale smoke. I can feel the shame of needing a drink of water and having to barter for it.
I remember the nights I gave him my body because I hadn’t made enough at my waitressing job that week, and he made sure I knew exactly how much I “owed” him for rent and groceries.
I hated him. I hated myself for letting him.
I can’t believe I lived like that. I can’t believe I let a man treat me like a tenant in my own life, like a vending machine where he put in anger and got out sex.
I move to the sink, turning on the tap. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of his hands. It doesn’t help.
The house feels too quiet, too big. I feel trapped by my own history.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The noise comes from the back door. A loud, clawing sound against the wood.
I freeze. Then, recognition cuts through the fog. The raccoon.
He’s back.
I look at the fridge again. I can take the juice. Jude bought it for me. He bought it for Maisie. It belongs to us.
I grab a ceramic saucer from the cabinet and fill it with warm water from the tap. I don’t know why, but I need to do this.
I need to feed something without asking permission. I need to care for something small and hungry.
