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My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Darkness reminds me of that night, when I hiked away from the campsite, somewhere in the middle of Mount Diablo State Park.
I threw one last glance at the five colorful, plastic tents on the grass. People were gathered around their campfires, telling stories, singing to acoustic guitar, and roasting marshmallows.
They would be the last people to ever see Grace Esposito alive. Tomorrow, my family would call the cops, who would ask these people about me.
But none of them was even looking in my direction.
And I’d never even read the news about me either. Like my mom had told me, I was to cut all connections to my past. If I wanted to keep my baby and me safe, I should never even Google myself.
As I ventured deeper into the woods, the human voices grew faint. I stopped hearing the crackle of the campfires and started to pick up the night calls of birds and insects instead.
“So, Ashley, what do you do?” asks a deep, masculine voice seemingly coming from in front of me.
His name is Matt, which gave me some pause when he introduced himself. But then I realized I was being silly. It’s a common name.
“I’m a graphic designer.” I smile out of habit before I realize he can’t see my face anyway.
“Oh, really? What kind of stuff do you design?”
“Oh, event posters, book covers, images for advertising . . . all kinds of things.” I deliver my lines so smoothly, now that I’ve had plenty of practice.
In reality, although I do some freelance work from time to time, it’s difficult to get my design business off the ground, especially when there’s so much competition for online work. Being a single mom to a toddler doesn’t help either.
But I don’t lie to impress anyone. I just haven’t found a way to tell people I don’t make much money without raising questions about how I support myself. Obviously, I can’t tell them I got a bag full of money from my mom when I ran away from my mafia family.
Sometimes, I wish I could get a job outside the home, but then I wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with Jack.
“How about you? What do you do?” I ask the man presumably sitting across the table from me.
I’ve almost sat through appetizer with this guy, but I still have no idea what he looks like. I stab at my plate and hit porcelain before I manage to pierce through something soft—something edible, hopefully.
I feel dumb.
If it weren’t for Lily, my nosy neighbor, I wouldn’t even be here. But she insisted. When she told me about this literal blind date, she’d already paid the dating agency and booked a sitter for Jack.
“I work in the family business,” my date says.
“Oh.” I struggle to hide the judgment in my tone. I’ve built the entirety of my new life on the premise of escaping my family. I can’t fathom the idea of just following in my parents’ footsteps, filling a role that has been prepared for me since birth. “Do you like it?”
He chuckles. Something about his voice sounds familiar. “I didn’t, at first. But it grew on me.”
“Did you ever want to do something else with your life?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Then I realized I was just being a little shit. I thought I was so different from the rest of my family. I thought I was meant for something bigger. Something more noble. But as it turned out, my family knew exactly what I needed.”
I bite my lip. Have I offended him with my questions? “That’s great.”
I rest my hands on my lap as a waitress comes to clear the table and place the entrées before us. It’s hard to believe she can navigate her way around the tables and other diners without knocking into anything, while balancing plates on her hands.
Everyone who works here has impaired vision. The restaurant donates a percentage of their profit to the Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind. That’s one big reason why I agreed to do this—it’s for charity.
“How about you? Are you close to your family?” Matt asks.
I almost burst out laughing at how far he is from the truth. “No. They’re on the other side of the country.”
“You don’t keep in touch? You can visit. Or call, at least.”
“Nope. We haven’t spoken in four years.”
“Family is important. You may miss them when they’re gone,” he says. Why is he being so insistent?
“I’ve cut ties with my family. I’d prefer not to talk about them.” That usually shuts up anyone who asks.
Matt remains silent for a second. “So you’re not from around here, huh?”
“How do you know that?” My pulse quickens.
“Your family’s on the other side of the country.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I’m so paranoid it’s not even funny. This is why I can’t socialize. I’m too scared someone will connect me to my old identity.
