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So much so, that as I try to set my foot on the floor, because hiding under the bed is my only option, I get distracted and land too heavy. The floor creaks, and panic seizes me.
“Come on, let’s go, I think she’s awake.” I hear one of them snicker.
The other person bumps into something and curses, shoving whatever it is to the ground with a large clatter. I crouch down on all fours between my bed and the wall, all my bones rattling. Cringing because I’m trying to be as silent as possible, I realize that maybe they didn’t think I’d be here.
They thought the house would be empty, a fun tale to tell their friends. That they broke into Butch Mauer’s house and maybe stole some shit. Only teenagers would do something so stupid. If they were taking off already—I thought I heard the sound of the front door bang open—then it means they didn’t think anyone would be here.
It feels like hours that I wait, huddled on the dirty carpet, to make sure they aren’t still here and aren’t coming back. That could have ended a million times worse, but it’s not like I’m not scared out of my mind. This is one of the biggest fears in life, being unsafe in the place you thought you were the safest.
A white-hot kind of fear I’ve never experienced grips me by the throat as I rise, walk across the room, and slowly open my bedroom door. I expect to be hit in the face, rushed by another person, or worse. Images of what could have happened flash through my mind like doomsday predictions.
When I make it to the living room, shaking like a leaf, I’m met by darkness and silence. A few things have been tossed on the floor, including the contents of my purse. I’m sure the two hundred bucks I had in my wallet won’t be there when I go to check. Which is fine, let them have it.
Immediately, I run to the kitchen and arm myself with a knife, brandishing it in the dark like it’ll help me attack ghosts. My mind is spinning, all the hairs on my limbs standing up like I’ve been electrocuted.
But no one is here, just me and the demons I’ve imagined since I heard that glass shatter. Furniture is turned over, and I can hear the wind whistling through the window they broke.
If I’ve learned one thing, a very long time ago, it’s that I would never be safe in Hope Crest. Not from my father’s actions, not from bullies, and now, not from people trying to get me or get something from me.
I spend the rest of my night driving around aimlessly, unable to be in the house until the sun comes up.
10
PATRICK
The closest hardware store to Hope Crest is a Home Depot twenty-five minutes away.
Being a small town with small-town values, the council doesn’t let any big box stores set up within a certain mileage of our little haven. And since the local hardware store run by Alana’s old tennis coach shut down a year back when he decided to retire, I’m stuck schlepping my tired ass there.
I finished early with the books, and someone needed to get some caulk and new lightbulbs for the bathrooms in the restaurant, so I offered to go.
With a basket in my hand, full of the necessary items on my list, I’m about to walk to the front to check out when I hear a familiar voice.
“Do you have, um, pepper spray anywhere?” someone timidly asks from the next aisle.
“Aisle nine, near the bee repellant.” Some teenage kid’s voice breaks.
“Thanks,” that voice says again.
Walking double-time to the end of the aisle, I glimpse a streak of auburn hair and follow it. When my body is fully in the open grid plan of the store, I can finally make her out. Cassandra.
Pepper spray? Now, why would she need that?
She’s walking in a disjointed manner, like she’s exhausted or confused, and I notice she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants with a pea coat over them. I’m not one to judge, but I’ve never seen her with a hair out of place, even when she’s hanging out in a dressed-down state.
Getting closer, I hear her audibly counting the aisles.
“Cassandra?” I almost reach out and touch her but refrain.
We haven’t spoken to or seen each other in almost two weeks, not since I kissed her, and then proceeded to try to convince her to sell us her land. Not since she tore me a new one, rightfully so, and I realized I’d better give her some space. The past has clearly not been forgotten, and I’m not even sure there’s a way forward, but pushing her into anything, whether it’s selling her land or friendship or more, doesn’t seem like the right move.
Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about that goddamn kiss until it drove me half insane.
She stops at the sound of me saying her name, turns over her shoulder to look at me, and her lip wobbles.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh,” she says, like she didn’t even hear me, as her head moves on a swivel.
