Me:
Will do, thanks.
After a shower, I raid Irma’s closet again. Everything is too big for me. I was already thin, but the stress of the last month or two caused more weight loss. Last night’s ice cream would have done me good, if only my mind would play along. Luckily, she wore smaller sizes, and I can get away with some of the items, as long as there are beltloops.
I pull out another pair of pants—ones with a floral pattern of browns and greens—and pair it with a crewneck sweater in similar shades.
I open a map of the town on my phone and memorize where I’m heading. GPS is a distraction I don’t like having. It takes focus away from concentrating on my surroundings and people nearby. Situational awareness is always important, especially for a woman. Especially for a woman who has an abusive man dogging her every step.
There shouldn’t be any way that Pierre knows where I am. But he’s been surprisingly cunning in the past. This isn’t the first time I’ve run, after all.
Often, I wonder what my life would be like if I’d left him early on. Before it was clear that he was physically abusive, which came far later than the emotional abuse and manipulation. He worked up to the worst. Made sure I had less people on my side and fewer places to hide.
It’s what the people who ask “why didn’t you leave” don’t understand. By the time you know you need to go, your options have been systematically limited. I try not to make excuses for myself, though. I had means that most others don’t. I kept a small savings account that Pierre never knew about. While he doesn’t have full access to my checking account, he does have access.
The money in my savings will only last me so long. Then what? If I’ve been blackballed from the industry, which I have no doubt he’s working on, what do I do for income when my stash is depleted? The fear of that kept me in Pierre’s home longer than it should have. By design, of course. He’s a meticulous planner and was always several steps ahead of me.
Situational awareness is more important now than ever, because I’m never going back. I’ll die first. Which might be his goal, anyway.
One thing I can get used to with small town living is the lack of traffic. I didn’t drive when I lived in New York. With the established public transit there, it wasn’t necessary. Most of my long-term jobs in other countries were in cities with similar systems.
Los Angeles was different. Pierre’s home is in the hills, so if I wanted to go anywhere, a car was necessary. He wouldn’t let me drive his and encouraged me not to buy one for myself. Instead, he put his rideshare account on my phone. I thought it was sweet that he wanted to pay for me to get around town. It never crossed my mind that he did it to keep track of me.
Infatuation made me stupid.
Downtown Stowaway is quaint. Reminiscent of settings used for Hallmark holiday movies. I can see it as a backdrop for a woman finding her way back home after being gone for years, only to fall in love with her childhood bully who is now the kindhearted local veterinarian and hot as fuck.
Ranko’s Hardware inhabits a building that looks like it’s been here since the country became a country. I envision a hitching post outside lined with bored horses waiting for their riders to come out and load their saddlebags with all the provisions their homesteads need.
A brass bell rings above me when I enter.
“How can I help you today?” a voice asks immediately.
An older man, perhaps in his mid-sixties, sits on a stool behind a counter that his feet are propped up on. Glasses ride down to the tip of his nose as he takes me in.
“I was told to ask for Sam,” I say, trying for a friendly smile.
“Well, hell, who told you that, Little Miss?” He sounds grumpy about it, but he winks as he drops his feet to the floor.
“Grady Steele,” I offer.
“That man is always here looking to find something for me to do. Gotta keep your mind busy in your golden years, he says, or some such nonsense.”
“I bet your mind is doing just fine.”
“Damn right it is,” he says, a smile tickled by his mustache. “What can I help you with?”
“Paint.”
“You know what color you want?”
“I have ideas, but I’d love to peruse some paint chips, if you could point me in that direction.”
“Follow me,” he says, coming around the corner. “It’s in the back on account of the mixer making such a god-awful noise. We only carry one brand. Limits you a little bit, but I can screw around with the formulas if you don’t like what you see. Gives mymindsomething to do.”
“They say that’s important,” I tease.
“They say a lot. You tell him I said that.”
