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My phone ringson the coffee table. I put the magazine I was reading next to me on the couch and grab the phone. Zara. I guess she’s phoning to tell me I no longer have the job.
My husband’s ranted words slither into my head. “You can’t fucking do anything right.” He’d said it right before he punched me in the stomach. Amelia was sick, and I hadn’t had time to make dinner.
Maybe he was correct that I can’t do anything right. If I’d done a better job standing up for myself in prison, maybe I wouldn’t have been attacked. And then I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did in Picnic & Treats.
I wouldn’t now be unemployed.
I accept Zara’s call, an apology on my lips. My hand trembles just thinking about what happened this morning and how it must have looked. “Hi, Zara.” The words come out dry and cracked.
“Hey, Jess.” Her voice sounds cheery—not at all what I was expecting. “How’re you doing?” Mary Poppins claimed a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Maybe Zara thinks a spoonful of cheery makes being fired easier to swallow.
“Better, thanks. I’m so sorry for what happened. I know that doesn’t change anything, but I really am sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did.” I close my eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t let them see what they’re doing to you.
I repeat in my head what became my mantra in prison. It hardened my shell on the outside but didn’t have the same effect on my soft, bruised insides.
The dull ache where the shank dug into my back returns. I don’t know how much of the pain is real versus psychological—a constant reminder of what I’ve endured. I should probably get it checked out, but I’d rather avoid that if I can. I will, though, if it doesn’t get better.
“It’s okay. No one was hurt,” Zara says. “That’s the main thing. But what happened to you to make you so jumpy? And I don’t mean the part about the pan falling on the floor.”
I open my eyes. “It’s nothing I can talk about.” Or want to talk about.
“Do you think it could happen again?”
God, I hope not. “I don’t know. Possibly?” My tone isn’t cautious—it’s downright dejected. All I wanted was to start my life over. To make up for all those years I was locked up in two separate hells.
“Have you thought about seeing someone?” Zara asks. “Like a therapist?”
I don’t respond. She’s beginning to sound like Troy.
She clears her throat, and her discomfort with this conversation is felt in my bones. “You’re still planning to come in tomorrow, right? To work?” Nothing about her tone suggests she’s about to fire me.
I jerk up straighter on the couch, hopeful I haven’t misheard her. Optimism flickers in my chest, the flame too small to create any real warmth, but all it takes is a spark and the right kindle to create a fire, to warm a room. “Are you sure you want me back?”
“I thought we could try again. Let’s see what happens. If you don’t feel comfortable with coming back, I understand. But I’m hoping we can still be friends.” Zara sounds like she genuinely means it.
“I would like that too. Both parts.” Even though working in Picnic & Treats isn’t ultimately my career goal, I enjoyed the physical aspect of chopping the vegetables. The repetitive motion was soothing, and it kept me from focusing on my past. Or it did until the metal-pan incident.
But if given the choice between working at the café and having Zara as my friend, it’s a no-brainer. More than anything, I want to have friends like her, Simone, Emily, and Avery in my life. I used to have friends like them. Friends I could tell anything and they wouldn’t judge me.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow at six a.m.?” Zara asks.
“Yes. Thank you!”
We end the call, and for a second I’m tempted to phone Troy to tell him the good news. But I have a feeling he already knows. He was likely instrumental in Zara phoning and telling me I still have the job if I want it.
Part of me screams to step away. The last thing I want is for another man to have that much control over me, that much control over my life. The other part of me views things another way. Troy wants me to see a therapist.
My husband would never have wanted that.
He relished the power he had over me. He would never have handed me the tools to escape him.
29
TROY
March, Present Day
