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I pause mid-aisle, oblivious to anyone around me. “Uhh…” I wrack my brain, trying to remember if it’s our anniversary, but no, that’s sometime in April or May. His birthday? Nope, that’s not for a few months yet. And it’s definitely not my birthday. “No, I don’t think so.”
She snorts. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to know these things without having to think about it.”
“Shut up,” I grumble, not wanting to get into this conversation… again.
“I don’t understand why you stay with him when you’re clearly unhappy.”
“I’m happy,” I argue, reaching the register and loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt while tossing the checkout woman a warm smile.
“Happy people don’t have to convince themselves—or their friends—that they’re happy. You should be with someone who is right for you.”
“He’s a good man,” I sigh. “Safe. Reliable—”
“Boring.”
I frown. “He’s not boring. He’s taking me away on a surprise weekend trip. Boring people don’t do that.” A non-committal grunt is all the response I get from her. “Look, I’m at the checkout, I gotta go, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hanging up, I pay for my groceries and begin the short walk to my apartment block. I barely notice the people passing me by on the street, already accustomed to city living. I moved to Springview as soon as I graduated from Halston University. With a major in English and a minor in journalism, I was offered a job at a world-renown publishing house straight out of college. Of course, having only started the job a couple of months ago, I’m at the bottom of the food chain, doing the grunt work to prove myself before I can work my way up the corporate ladder. But I’m no stranger to hard work. My entire life has been about hard work. It’s all I know, and Ilikeit. I’d much rather be busy than twiddling my thumbs.
Dodging a woman walking seven dogs, my thoughts drift back to what Mel said. Now that she’s raised the question, she’s got my mind spinning off in crazy directions trying to work out Richard’s reasoning for the surprise weekend getaway. I just assumed he was trying to be more spontaneous. We have been together for over a year. It’s natural that the initial excitement of a new relationship would wear off, although I’m not sure if we ever had that hot and heavy,I can’t keep my hands off of you,beginning. Richard and I had a critical writing class together our junior year, and we became fast friends. As time passed, it became apparent that he wanted more, but I was hesitant to cross that friendship line with him. I’d been there, done that before, and I still hadn’t recovered from the fallout.
He eventually won me over with his compelling arguments—I am a sucker for a well-thought-out argument. Besides, on paper, he’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Stable, dependable, trustworthy. He listens when I talk, he always texts to say goodnight, and healwayswalks me to my door after a date. He’s the perfect gentleman—husband material. And yet, everything about our relationship feels… flat. We still have that close friendship, only there’s no spark. My body doesn’t melt beneath his stare, and I don’t lose all common sense when I’m around him. I don’t want to pounce on him and lick him all over the second he walks into a room… not like I wanted to do withthem.
God, even now, my face heats at the thought of that night. I’ve always beenthe good girl. I always got good grades, went to a prestigious high school, then to one of the top universities in the country, and now I work at one of the best publishing houses in the world. I’ve had my moments of fun, especially when I was at Pacific Prep. When you lock a bunch of teenagers on campus together, you have to expect at least some debauchery… but I never fully allowed myself to be wild and carefree until that night.
Except, instead of the one night of dirty, sinful deeds with my best friend’s brother and herkind offiancé, things snowballed. Feelings got involved. Mistakes were made—mostly on my end. I didn’t handle the situation well, and everyone ended up hurt. Well, probably not Hawk. That man has the emotional bandwidth of a peanut. But Wilder was definitely hurt, and I… honestly, I’ve never been the same since, even though I know I made the right decision at the time. It was the end of school, and I was heading off to college, so it just made sense to sever any and all ties and start fresh.
Besides, I was a scholarship student at a prestigious school for the rich and arrogant—two things Hawk and Wilder had in spades. I didn’t fit into their world. All that glitz and glamor. The fake smiles and over-the-top parties. I’m more of aglass of wine in my sweats on the couch on a Fridaynightkinda girl.
I’m more than happy to leave all that angst and drama to the dirty books I read. At least then, when it all becomes too much, I can just set it aside and return to the safe existence I’ve carved out for myself. Although Richard is the kind of man I have always pictured myself ending up with, he doesn’t make my heart thump or my throat dry up like the Sahara. He’s the type of guy I’msupposedto want. The kind who will one day be a caring husband and doting father. He’s not all hostile aggression and crazy mood swings like two other assholes I used to know… and occasionally still get off to with my vibrator.
By the time I make it to my apartment building, I’m pissed off and feeling like crap, and the smile I give the concierge as I pass by is tight and forced. I feel awful that I’m thinking about two other men when I’m in a happy, steady relationship, and I feel even worse that no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make myself feel for Richard what I felt for those two assholes. It has resulted in me stringing him along, not wanting to let him go but never being able to fully commit, either.
God, I’m a fucking mess.
Getting out of the elevator on my floor, I notice a small cardboard box sitting on the mat outside my door.Huh, that’s weird.Looking around, there doesn’t seem to be anyone about. Any outside packages get left with the concierge, so it must be something one of the neighbors left at my door by accident. Maybe they meant to give it to the guy next door. He moved in shortly after I did, but unlike me, he’s friendly and sociable and has actually made an effort to get to know the other people on our floor. Whereas I mumble ahelloand walk on past like the anti-social bitch I am. I’m too drained after a day’s work to engage in small talk.
I’m not exactly sure what happened to the girl from high school who was always up for a good party and enjoyed hanging out with her friends. Somewhere along the way, I lost a fundamental part of myself. Which is ironic, considering the whole point of working hard and obtaining my scholarships was so that I’d end up here—with an excellent job, a financial security net, and a life that I chose for myself.
Sliding the key into the lock, I open the door, which leads straight into a large, spacious living room, furnished simply with a white, modern, leather sofa that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows. They provide an expansive view of the city. There are also two cozy armchairs that sit in front of overstuffed bookcases and dark wood furniture interspersed throughout the room.
Off to the left is a small yet modern kitchen, and I set my grocery bags down on the counter before heading back out to grab the package on my doorstep. Lifting it, I turn it over in my hands, frowning when I don’t find a name or address.
I’m already peeling back the tape to open it as I head back inside and close the door behind me. Another two steps, and I have the cardboard flaps pulled back, before I freeze halfway across the room.
I blink, then blink again, before my brain finally computes what my eyes are seeing. Hysteria descends like a mist as I double over, my trembling hands dropping the box as some strange, strangled noise escapes my lips. The sound only escalates as a bloody, detached finger rolls out of the box onto my cream carpet.
I can’t do anything but stare at it as the wailing sound bounces off the walls. I can’t even get my brain to think straight, to doanything.It’s just completely shut down as I stare wide-eyed at the severed digit in horror.
I’m faintly aware of a loud bang somewhere in the apartment, but it’s not enough to force my gaze from the floor. A second later, large hands are on my shoulders, turning me away from the grotesque sight, and a face obstructs my vision. I distantly note the handsome features of David, my next-door neighbor—his broad jaw with a dimple right in the center of his chin, a dark dusting of stubble over his cheeks and atop his upper lip, a broad nose, and intense green eyes lined by thick eyebrows, and dark wavy hair that’s fallen across his forehead.
He gives me a shake, and I focus back on his plump, pink lips… lips which seem to be moving, but no words are coming out. Blinking rapidly, I try to focus on the attractive man standing before me.
“Emilia. Em! Are you okay?”
Am I okay? I mean, yes, I’m absolutely fine, except, you know, for the bloody finger lying on my clean, cream carpet. How does one even get blood out of a carpet, anyway? I feel like white vinegar and elbow grease aren’t going to cut it. Isn’t the key to getting red wine out of fabrics to put something on the stain as soon as possible to soak it up? Maybe the same logic applies to blood; it’s similar in color, after all. But then, is my carpet technically a crime scene now? I mean, a crime was committed… somewhere, on someone… and now my carpet’s going to be cut up and taken away as evidence.
