Page 22 of Below the Shadow of the City

Best,

Billie

I audibly groan. The biggest opportunity of my life has quite literally fallen into my lap and I’d been ignoring it rather than facing the fear head on. Until Billie sent yet another email, I’d forgotten her pitch entirely. I still have until Monday to say yes, which would thrust me into a two month sprint of recipe development and testing, which I don’t even know if I have the energy for anymore. But, the logical part of my brain pushes through and I realize I can let myself use it as a distraction from meeting the “Adam” — the monster, or whatever he is. If I make myself busy enough, I won’t have insomnia tempting me with another trip to the laundry room, and if my only thoughts are about baking, I can’t ruminate on what could have been.

There had been plenty of time extended towards me to deliberate, but I need the weekend to sit down and truly figure it all out. I can frame out a few recipes, figure out ingredients to buy, start testing a bit. It would be good, it would be a healthy way to cope. If this entire ordeal had taught me anything, it’s that I haven’t lost my spark entirely, the cookies were at least a success.

I’m thrown back into reality by the employee at the salad shop asking for my order. I stammer as I try to remember my surroundings, Margo gives me a careful glance from behind as I fumble an order that I’m only half sure I’ll actually enjoy eating.

Two more days, I promise myself. Two days of mourning “what could have been” and then I need to focus entirely on future Sigrid. I can’t let myself be completely unwound by my own thoughts anymore.

CHAPTER 10

SATURDAY, LATE SEPTEMBER

I left you something in the basement.

Don’t worry, I won’t be down there.

He messaged me?

Oh my god. He messaged me. I’d checked my pockets for phantom buzzes thinking he’d texted me more times than I’d care to admit. Margo had noticed, and she’d given me side glances every time I’d fumbled for my phone while we were out at a coffee shop or grabbing lunch. She’d certainly seen my visible disappointment each time I’d looked at my phone to see it devoid of a singular notification.

Now, finally, his fake name has lit up my phone again. I had to look at it a few times to confirm it was actually a true message on my phone and not another hallucination. Two lines of text have already made me break my promise to myself of using the weekend to pretend none of what happened the other night was real. Even now, I couldn’t believe that he was real.

The morning that was supposed to be spent planning recipes and making lists had instead been spent largely in bed, watching episodes of comfort shows. My laptop served as a wonderful companion while I wallowed. I’d stocked the space beside me with every prepackaged snack and candy I could find in my apartment. This nest was warm and safe and my thoughts were kept at bay while I’d been distracting myself. Nothing had made me rise from my bed faster than his message.

I tread down to the basement with my hair unwashed and in the same sweats I slept in last night. If anyone looks monstrous right now, it’s certainly me. Like some creature, I creep through the dark hallway in silence. I anticipate seeing him now, I know what I should expect if he is in fact down here. I need to see him again.

The room is empty when I enter, and completely silent. No laundry running in any of the machines. An envelope sits against the door to the other side with my name written across it in neat, angular handwriting. A few seconds pass as I wait and see if he makes an appearance, and when he doesn’t, I run back up the stairs into the sanctuary of my apartment. Inside sits a USB flash drive, loose without a single thing accompanying it. No note, no context.

Against my better judgment and the careful instructions of every IT person I’ve ever worked with, I plug the flash drive into my laptop. It whirs for a few seconds and pops up with a singular folder, “For Sigrid.” I hesitantly click on it, and it’s a handful of audio files, each a song neatly organized with the track name and artist, except for the first one. It’s named, “play me first.” I click again and turn up the volume on my laptop and a familiar voice comes through the speakers.

“Hi Sigrid, I’ve recorded this message a few times but couldn’t think of what to actually say to you. I shouldn’t have kept my identity a secret, but I’m sure now you understand why I did. I’d initially hoped we wouldn’t meet again after that first night because I knew just how impossible it would be not to fall. I didn’t think I’d let myself take things so far with you, and I didn’t think that now it would be so hard to let you go. I don’t have much of a way with words, but I do love a good mixtape. So, maybe, by listening you’ll get an understanding of exactly how I feel. And if I haven’t scared you away completely, I hope you’ll consider meeting me again tomorrow night.”

How does that old saying go, you attract what you fear? Surely this was the most literal interpretation of that. Or was I the one attracted to what I feared?

I lean back and play his message again, shutting my eyes, imagining the voice coming from the face I saw. The voice note goes into the first track, the ethereal synths of “The Downtown Lights” by The Blue Nile begin playing, my eyes flick open and I pause it. I go back to his voice note.

“Hi Sigrid,” I press pause.

Start over. “Hi Sigrid.”

The cursor hovers over the left-facing arrow. One more time.

“Hi Sigrid.”

If the definition of insanity is doing the exact same thing over and over and expecting different results, then my photo should be included next to its entry in the dictionary.

Every single time I hear those two words a small piece deep within me twists and knots. Each syllable sends a pulse of something strange to my core. I replay it and replay it, hoping that I won’t have this involuntary biological reaction. And every time, it does the same thing.

“Hi Sigrid.”

His voice unraveled me before, of course it would again. I squeeze my eyes shut. I paint a picture based on the few seconds I’d managed to look at him. My eyes had avoided his gaze as much as they could, but it was impossible to not look.

I should be scared of him, right? He had a tail, he had horns! And fangs! And claws! On their own, each of those traits is concerning, together they meld into something horrifying.

And yet.