Anna—Twenty-Six Years Old

“Oof!” Man, these boxes are heavy. I heave one off the floor, set it on the table, and eagerly open it, excited to find out what’s inside. “Come to mama,” I croon as I take the books out of the box.

Yes! It’s the shipment for the new indie romance section I’m setting up as a feature in One More Chapter, the bookstore I work in. It’s a small store with only four employees—myself, Desirae, Christy, and Lana. Christy, just a couple of years older than me, is the coolest boss on the planet and one of my best friends. Desirae is my other best friend. And Lana…she didn’t make my friend list, but I suppose hoping we could all be best friends was wishing for too much. We get occasional extra help from part-time high school or college students, but for the most part, it’s just us four. And this place is my home away from home.

“You need any help?” Desirae asks, tying her curly purple hair up into a ponytail. She likes to change her hair color like some people change their nail polish. While I’d just look ridiculous with purple, pink, or blue hair, she pulls it off effortlessly.

“Check it out!” I show her one of the paperbacks from the box, American King by Sierra Simone.

“Ooh, I need to have one of these on my bookshelf!” Desirae’s eyes widen, and she comes to snatch it out of my hands, flipping through the pages and all but drooling over the cover.

“Right? I’ve been dying to hold it in my hands.”

We empty the rest of the boxes, petting the new paperbacks as if they were precious gems, and line up books to make a visually appealing display.

“So, when does the bad boy get in town?”

“Don’t call him that. He made a mistake, but he paid his dues. He’s not a bad person.”

“He spent the last ten years in prison. What should I call him, an angel?” she says wryly.

Angel. She doesn’t know about Wes’s childhood nickname for me. Instead of filling me with nostalgia, her innocent comment threatens to drown me with thoughts of my past. I’m no angel.

The book I’m holding slides out of my hands, and I snap out of my thoughts.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I force the negative thoughts from my mind. Bending down, I grab the book and carefully check the edges for damage. Nothing’s worse than a bent or dented paperback.

Desirae eyes me while I begin breaking down the empty boxes. “You nervous about seeing him?”

“No,” I start and then amend myself, “Yes. It’s just been so long. I wish he had let me visit him while he was away. What if I don’t recognize him?”

I fiddle with the necklace he gave me. After he went to prison, I dug it out of my jewelry box and haven’t been able to take it off. It was the only piece of Wes I had, and wearing it made him feel close even if he was away.

“He didn’t go away and have plastic surgery, Anna. He’s still the same guy. I’m sure you’re going to recognize him.”

I sigh. “You’re probably right. John texted to let me know they made it back to his place late last night. Today, he has to check in with his probation officer, and I’m sure he’ll be too busy with getting settled to visit with me.”

“I hope he comes by here, so I can see him, too. I bet prison made him hotter.”

My face flushes at the thought. Wes was already hot at eighteen. I can’t imagine him any hotter. But he did say he worked out a lot to pass the time.

“Who’s hot?” a nasally voice asks.

I cringe every time I hear the voice of my coworker Lana. She always sticks her nose in other people’s business.

I glare at Desirae, silently communicating that she’d better not give Lana any information about Wesley. I don’t want her talking about him. I don’t even want her knowing about him.

Desirae winks at me. “You wish you were hot. Maybe you should have applied one more coat of mascara; you didn’t put enough on this morning.”

Desirae is a lot more vocal than I am of her dislike for our coworker. She has no filter. Sometimes, it’s hilarious, and sometimes, it gets her in trouble.

“At least I care about my appearance—unlike the two of you. Do you really think purple hair looks good? Please.” Lana crosses her arms over her chest and looks down at us.

While I’m tall and slender at five-nine, Desirae is short and curvy at five-three. Lana, however, is taller than both of us at six feet. She constantly uses her height to look down at us, as if being taller than us makes her better.

I wish I could replace Lana with my childhood friend Molly. She’d fit in with my group of friends here perfectly. Too bad she went to California for college, and we just…drifted apart.

The three of us make it through the afternoon rush, then close up shop.

“Hey, want to go out dancing tonight?” Desirae asks as we walk to our cars.

I laugh. “When have I ever gone out dancing with you?”

“There’s a first time for everything. You know you want to.”

“I’m impressed with your persistence, but the answer is still no, thank you.”

“Come on, Anna. What are you going to do tonight? Let me guess, clean your already-spotless apartment?”

That’s exactly what I was going to do. “The only reason it’s spotless is because I clean,” I defend.

“You are a single, gorgeous twenty-six-year-old woman. When are you going to let me set you up on a date?”

“That would be never.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, but only because the bad boy is back in town. And I’m betting he can break down your walls when it comes to dating.”

“Wesley and I are just friends. We were never anything more.”

“Not when you were kids, but now, he’s, what, twenty-eight? And he’s been in prison for a decade. I bet he is desperate for some female company after all that time, if you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows, moving her open fist up and down to mimic a man masturbating.

I flush again, thinking about Wes masturbating.

“We’re just friends,” I enunciate the words. “Besides, I’m not interested in starting anything up with a guy; you know this.”

“That’s right; you’re practicing to join a convent.”

“Smart-ass. Not everyone needs to be in a relationship.”

“Okay, maybe you don’t want a relationship, but how about some male company to give you some orgasms every now and then? A girl has needs, Anna, and you’re only human.”

I open my car door. “I’m leaving now. See you later.”

She laughs. “You love me, and you know it.”

I blow her a kiss through my window and pull out of the parking lot. Ten minutes later, I arrive at my apartment complex. It’s a small building, only three floors, but I prefer it that way. It’s quiet, safe, and affordable.

And mine.

Unlocking the door, I step inside and drop my keys in the key dish on the hall table in my tiny entryway. Sighing, I lean against the wall and look at my place as if I don’t see it every single day. It has an open floor plan; the living room, dining room, and kitchen all share one large room. The kitchen is separated from the rest with an island and four barstools. The dining area has a high-top table that seats four. The living room has a corner fireplace with a flat screen TV above it, a couch, and an oversized chair. I always wanted one of those to curl up and read a book in, and that’s where you can find me most nights—curled up in my chair with the fireplace on and my e-reader in hand. The hall leads to a full bathroom and spare room and then dead-ends with the master suite, complete with a large closet and en suite bathroom.

Just like Desirae said, my place is spotless. Whenever I’m feeling down or nervous, I either clean or read, which means I clean a lot and read a lot. My apartment is always company ready, and my Kindle is always full of books.

I can’t help but wonder what Wes is doing tonight. What would he think of my place? He wanted a house with a lawn to mow and a garden to maintain. I have none of those things. Besides, I’m not sure what I’d do with a bigger space. It’s not like I have parties or a family.

A family.

Most women my age are looking for the one to settle down with and start a family, but I’m not.

I can’t envision having a family. How could I have more kids when I so carelessly discarded my first child? What kind of mom would I be? My mom is the epitome of love, comfort, and protection. Could I love, comfort, and protect another child when I didn’t love, comfort, and protect my first? Could I cherish them when I didn’t cherish my first? And what man would want to be with me when I was such a disaster?

My hand brushes over my rib cage, the space beneath my left breast tattooed with nine small tally marks—one for each birthday my son or daughter missed. The least I can do is remember what I did. But, honestly, how could I forget? What would my life be like if I had chosen to keep the baby? Would I have finished school? Would my parents have helped me? Would Charlie and I still be together? Would I have continued with medical school and become a doctor?

These questions will never get answered.

Coulda.

Shoulda.

Woulda.

It doesn’t matter now. Because I wasn’t brave.

I was…a coward.

Shame festers inside me like an infection. My stomach churns and riots, and I feel like, at any moment, the shame will eat its way through my skin to make the outside of me just as ugly as the inside. Wrapping my arms around my midsection in a feeble attempt to hold it together, I eye the stovetop.

It could use a good scrubbing, I think.

I change out of my clothes, get out the cleaning products and a bristle pad, and get to work. I scrub every surface in my kitchen until my fingers are stiff. Until my skin is red and raw and stinging. Until all of the surfaces are gleaming and shiny. As if, by cleaning these things, I can clean all the dirty, infected, broken pieces inside me. As if I could heal myself.

But someone like me can’t be healed. I don’t know how to clean my insides, how to get rid of the shame and guilt. So, I settle for cleaning everything else instead.

I heat up a frozen meal and have dinner in my big chair with my e-reader open to the latest new release. I turn my brain off and get lost in the world of fiction where heroines are beautiful and smart and make all the right decisions and heroes sweep them off their feet.