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I leave. I text Ruthie, asking her if she needs anything and then my buddies, all of whom agree to the drink except for Shane, who’s staying at the office late, but there’s something I have to do before I go…
Mira woulddefinitelyfeel better than my hand.
Later, when I come back home, there’s a whiskey glass waiting on the counter for me. I’m smiling despite myself as I take a sip. I don’t know how long it’s been sitting out, so maybe the melted ice isn’t helping, but the balance of tart and sweet isn’t to my liking.
I grab some post-it notes from my desk and leave her a message.
Good. But I still like beer better.
ChapterNine
Mira
It’s Friday.
A week of captivity has passed.
A week of captivity that’s made me feel new sympathy for zoo animals, stuck in their tiny cages. Except most animals in captivity were born that way, and I was born with a taste for running across roads and dipping my toes in the ocean and eating cookie dough without giving a second thought to raw eggs. I’m not the sort of person who savors sitting and staring, whether that staring is at a book or a screen or out a window.
Captivity has changed me…and yes, I know that sounds melodramatic. Iammelodramatic, and captivity has amped that up too. Danny left the binoculars for me out on the kitchen island after our talk last week, along with a note:
Enjoy the peeping. Also, I use them for birds, not leaves. Is that worse? Now that I’m writing it down, it seems worse.
I thought it was cute, which is probably a further sign that captivity is altering my brain chemistry in alarming ways.
I have used those binoculars more shamelessly than sweet, debonair Jimmy Stewart ever would have, God rest his soul. Mostly, I’ve checked out the apartment across the way. The only furniture I can see from the window is a single folding chair and the kind of portable table a person would usually only set out on a porch. It’s not the sort of decorating scheme you’d expect from someone so severe looking. The blond or white-haired woman also appears at the window at strange times of day—sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night, sometimes in the middle of the day—meaning her schedule is unpredictable or she’s as much of a loser as I currently am. As of yet, she’s caught me watching her a couple of times, but never with the ’nocs. Occasionally she knits in there. I’m pretty certain she’s up to something. I’ve said as much to Danny, my sister, and anyone who’s inclined to listen.
Most people aren’t inclined to listen, and Shauna threatened to steal the binoculars before I got myself arrested for being a peeping Tom. Delia has pointed out that therapy has been very helpful to both to her boyfriend and Shauna’s boyfriend—and that therapists can now communicate with their patients online, so “I wouldn’t even need to go anywhere.”
Speaking of Shauna: apparently her good friend Josie the psychic has been out of town for some sort of dance retreat and thus couldn’t fit us in until this afternoon. I’m looking forward to our outing more than any rational person should look forward to visiting a psychic.
There have been only two bright spots of this past week.
Bright Spot One: Visiting Glitterati and figuring out a staggered schedule for my return. I wasn’t supposed to do anything this week, but the binoculars must have really thrown Delia for a loop, because she agreed to go with me yesterday afternoon. She insisted on coming because, and I quote, “you need someone to advocate for yourself, and you’re obviously not going to do it.”
Delia and Azalea both agreed that I should only work before opening for the next five weeks, but after that, it’s on. Well, it’s on from 5-9, because they have also insisted that I put in another two weeks of half shifts since I “really shouldn’t be on my feet that soon anyway.”
Honestly. Don’t they know what this is doing to my sanity?
I could have pulled rank, but I had a sinking feeling they were right.
Bright Spot Two: Danny.
Danny, who leaves notes and sometimes little offerings for me on the kitchen island every morning. A scone one morning, and a hot chocolate another day. A stone he found in the woods and thinks might have emerald in it.
Danny, who’s been taste-testing fall and holiday drinks for me like a champ, even though I still haven’t managed to concoct one he likes more than beer, the Philistine. He did give top marks to Santa’s Ho, however, so that one’s definitely getting added to the menu.
Danny, who’s gotten me fully intoThe Murderer Next Door, which, I’ll admit, might be fueling my obsession with the woman across the way. He’s already listened to all of them, but he’s surprisingly cool with me spouting theories at him every night. And yes, he does give me these knowing looks that could drive a woman mad, but the corners of his lips always lift just slightly—and amusing this man is something I savor.
Danny, who’s been marathon-watching shows with me, too, evenBridgerton, which he admits “isn’t his favorite.” Since it’s only fair, I have been watching shows with him, includingStar Trek: The Next Generation, which he claims is the best Star Trek.
Danny, who rigged up the bathroom so I could take showers or baths without having to be rescued by him every time. It’s less of a relief than it should be, because I’m rather fond of the memory of having his hands firmly wrapped around my wet body…
His glasses haven’t arrived yet because they were on backorder, but the shirts I ordered for him did come. He folded them into his wardrobe without any fanfare despite having told me that, “I really, really shouldn’t have.” Because I went a little crazy—big surprise—and got him a dozen.
They’re red and blue and striped and flannel, and I like seeing which one he walks out in each morning. It’s like a little gift to the eyeballs, and I like running bets with myself about which one it’ll be.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that each morning, I want him a little more too. Every time he touches me—to hand me mail or a drink or even the remote control, I feel a little electric zing, like I’ve been rubbing my skin against balloons and am super charged.
