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Despite the flurry of activity, no one panics. All around me people continue on with their day. Bizarrely, most of them don’t even stop what they are doing to see what’s going on. The ones who do, do either one of two things: they pull out their phone to capture the moment, or they look to the person next to them as a cue for what to do. At the heart of it all, a man lies on the ground. A woman is hunched over him. She’s performing CPR.
Upon closer inspection, I realize that the man sprawled out on the pavement is Creepy Stan. I know Stan. Everyone knows Stan. He works here. He bags groceries and has a penchant for saying wildly inappropriate things to female customers. Everyone overlooks it on account of his disability. Most of us avoid him all together.
But not her. She pumps Creepy Stan’s chest as though her life depends on it. Although her hair shields the majority of her face, what I can see of her profile seems somewhat familiar. Mentally, I try to place her but can’t.
Another bystander checks Stan’s pulse. His expression causes the woman to work harder. “Help is on the way,” someone says.
He just went down, a man says.
I think he tripped on the curb, an old lady says.
I saw him clutch his chest, someone else says.
This is why you can never trust eyewitness accounts.
I wonder if Stan can hear them. I assume not. His eyes are fixed straight ahead on the cloudy gray sky. It’s almost poetic the way he watches the heavens. He doesn’t blink. Blood pools around his head in a kidney-shaped pattern before flowing outward onto the pavement. My stomach barrel rolls. Blood and death and emergencies are not my strong suit. Too many memories. It’s scary how fast the mind can travel.
Finally, paramedics arrive. Three men and one woman spill out of the fire truck. They move with purpose, almost in formation.
Stan isn’t dead. He isn’t breathing, but they bag him, and the good news is, at least he has a pulse. We all watch in unison as they deftly log roll him onto a spinal board before securing him onto the stretcher.
The crowd breathes a collective sigh of relief when the ambulance doors close and then they clap for the woman. When she turns in my direction, I realize I know her. It’s Ann Banks. Internet celebrity. Best-selling author. Self-help guru. The kind of woman that puts all the mixed up puzzle pieces of the world in a neat little row. She has the ability to make you see the big picture. This is what they say each week, anyway, on her number one podcast. The book reviews. Her followers. They say she can change your life. As for what I think…well, the jury is still out.
A woman pulls her into an embrace. Cheers erupt, growing louder. It’s a fucking moment, to be sure. “You’re a hero,” the old lady tells her. She smiles and says it was nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
HER
You’re going to want to know who I am. You’re going to want to know a lot of things about me. I don’t want you to worry. We’ll get there. In time, I assure you, you’ll know everything there is to know.
Well, perhaps not everything. There is beauty in the ambiguous. You should keep that in mind.
If you ask me, there’s far too little mystery left in the world. It’s something I’ve often found interesting in my line of work. Everyone wants answers. So few want to work for them. There’s something equally pleasant and terrifying in the unexplainable isn’t there?
It makes sense, I suppose. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for? A little bit of magic. Something that sweeps in and takes us over. That is, until we find it and it terrifies us. We can’t help ourselves. We pick it apart. We run it into the ground. Tell me about yourself, we say—to lovers, to friends, to everyone. I need to understand. I need to see if who you are fits in with how I need you to be.
It’s a shame we feel the need to know every little thing. Because, and this is where I’d like to warn you, knowing every little thing is dangerous. Knowing every little thing is like asking for a cup of poison and drinking one tiny sip at a time. It’ll kill you slowly. But it kills you nonetheless.
So, before I tell you about me, first, I should probably tell you about her. It’s impossible to know me—to truly understand me—without knowing about her. She is the reason for everything I do, after all. From the get-go, from the first time I laid eyes on her, my whole life became about her. This is what happens when you love a person; when you truly love them.
Shakespeare said: Love is smoke and is made with the fume of sighs. A madness most discreet. Smart fellow, he was. Love makes me do things. Mad things. Bad things. Morally corrupt things.
It’s all for her. This time was no different…
The way he looked at her as she spoke was unnerving. That in and of itself was nearly enough. But no, he couldn’t stop with his eyes. He had to go and touch her. Not just her cart, but her things—her person. He rested his hand on her shoulder. He was so close that she could feel his hot, stinky breath on her face as he spoke. He told her she was pretty. Pretty. Not beautiful. Not stunning. Just pretty.
He didn’t stop there. He made the mistake of letting his hand trail lower. She isn’t the kind of woman that allows that. No funny business with her. He should have known better. I have a feeling now he does.
CHAPTER THREE
SADIE
It is the Friday before Thanksgiving. I’ve packed my cart full of items to make a traditional meal, the one I’d made every year since Ethan and I’d become engaged, the one I no longer need to make anymore. It’s just another thing taken
from me. The list as long as the one in my hand.
It was sort of a last minute decision, coming here. A real recipe for disaster. But you never quite know these things beforehand though, do you?
