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Did he miss me? Was he thinking about me as much as I was him?
I set my bag on the counter, something heavy hitting the granite. A peek inside showed the massive hunting knife laying at the bottom. Matteo had given it to me, or I assumed it was him who had tucked it into my things before I’d left.
All my shit had been ready and waiting by the front doors, as if he’d been counting down the hours until he could kick me out.
I’d told Luca to take me to the bus station. I didn’t know where I was going, but I wouldn’t have told Matteo’s right-hand man anyway. Not that it mattered. I knew a man like Matteo would find me no matter where I was.
I’d grabbed a bus schedule, closed my eyes, and pointed to a random spot.
And that’s how I’d come to live in North Point, New York. A three-hour bus ride to what was a fresh start for me.
I put away the groceries I’d bought on the way home from work and then got ready for the diner. Once dressed, I looked around my small apartment.
It was nice. Nicer and cleaner than anything I’d ever lived in, not counting Matteo’s mansion, that was.
The apartment was modern and trendy. It had come fully furnished, so none of the stuff filling the space was mine. This entire area wasn’t even…me.
I felt like a stranger living amongst someone else’s possessions. I leaned against the kitchen island and closed my eyes, breathing out. It felt like another panic attack was welling up, one that came on as swiftly as it disappeared.
I thought moving out of Desolation would do me good. I’d be a new person. I’d have a new life. It’d be everything I ever wanted.
But it had taken me no time at all to realize that you could take the girl out of her dark world but couldn’t take that darkness out of her.
With one more last look around, I grabbed the keys and my bag and headed back out.
The walk to the diner was only a couple of blocks. I passed a bagel shop. A chic little smoothie kiosk. There was a small, handmade furniture store right down the street that specialized in handmade bowls and kitchenware.
The sidewalks were made of cobblestone, the streetlights antique bronze. I felt so out of fucking place that it made my stomach tighten slightly. There was also a bar on every damn street corner, the local college kids frequenting them every weekend.
The sun hadn’t even set, but said bars were already hopping, the young adults barely legal drinking age and already working on getting shitfaced.
I rounded the corner and walked another block before I got to work. It was a little fifties retro-style diner that served homemade pies and ice cream and was known for their over-the-top milkshakes and sandwiches.
It was a quick shift for me tonight. Just four hours, so I covered the dinner rush.
I was sure people thought I was a snooty bitch because I kept to myself. My coworkers hardly spoke to me, and I knew it was because I had a resting bitch face firmly in place. It was a defense mechanism for me.
Not making connections with other people and becoming invisible was how I’d stayed alive in Desolation.
And it worked. But I’d never make friends being so distant and coming across as standoffish. Did I really want these people to be part of my life? They wore polo shirts, penny loafers, and pressed khakis. The men looked like they went golfing on the weekends while their wives drank mimosas and gossiped.
And despite having more money than I could even count, I still shopped at local thrift stores, bought clearance items off the rack, and searched out sale items at the grocery store.
I didn’t think I’d ever change my mind and body, always in that survival mode.
For the next four hours, I focused on my job, plastering on that fake smile that would earn a few extra dollars in tip money I didn’t really need.
It was at the end of my shift that I grabbed a meal to go—discounted with my employee status—headed out, and made quick work back to my apartment.
A hot bath, cold beer with my dinner, and maybe even a movie I’d already seen ten times over was how I was going to spend my night.
It’s how I seemed to spend all my nights.
And it was perfect, if I were being honest. Being home and not being afraid was still such a foreign topic, something I hoped I could feel comfortable with one day.
I was adjusting my take-home bag when I rounded the corner and walked by one of the newer bars on the block.
It had an Irish pub feel to it, as if someone had taken every stereotypical thing they assumed an establishment like that had and slapped it in this place.
