Emily
The next morning, I walk with a spring in my step.
I remember when I was a girl and I saw people walking along like I am now—whistling a tune, a broad smile on their face—and wondering what in the world could make them so happy. I remember being angry at them, unfairly, but angry all the same. I remember wanting them to stop smiling because I could never imagine a world in which I was filled with such happiness. But today, I am that person, and it feels fantastic.
Mrs. M grins at me when I enter the bakery.
“Howdy, smiley.” She hands me my apron. “Somebody had a good night.”
“How can you tell?” I ask, with a wicked smile, exactly the sort of smile I’d never normally give.
“Oh, just a guess.” Mrs. M arches an eyebrow. “Do I smell man on you by any chance?”
“You evil old woman!” I snap, grinning all the while.
Mrs. M brings her hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture. “Excuse me,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows in mock offense. “You will not talk to me in that tone, young lady. You may be my best employee, and the nicest girl I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, but don’t think I won’t bring out the baseball bat!”
We meet eyes, and then giggle.
“You’re mad.” I laugh, wiping a tear from my eye.
I spend the morning in the back, baking and decorating cakes, whilst Mrs. M and another worker man the storefront. At midday, after the lunchtime rush, it’s time to switch. Mrs. M signs off with a wave and a smile and I man the storefront alone, the other worker—a youngish kid—going into the back.
My happiness is infectious today. Every customer that comes into the store leaves with a smile on their face. Even a stern-faced businessman, wearing an earpiece, who looks as though he hates everything and everyone, gives me a smile as he takes his muffin. I wipe down the tables whilst tapping my feet. I clean the coffee machine whilst humming a tune. I fold napkins while bobbing my head.
We shared. We made love.
I relive last night in my head a dozen times, feeling his hands, his breath, his strength. I feel his muscles beneath my hands, the beads of blood from my eager fingers.
I’ve heard the phrase walking on air many times, but I never knew what it meant until today. It’s like there’s a coat hanger wedged in my mouth; I couldn’t stop smiling even if I wanted to.
But then the coat hanger is wrenched away, leaving me numb. No, I wish I was numb. Terrified is more like it.
It’s the end of the day and I’m cleaning away tables, washing the last few dishes. The store is empty and the kid has gone home. I bend down under the counter to get the keys, and when I rise, he’s there, arms at his sides, eyes wide and bloodshot, seeming bigger and scarier than ever. A huge bear lumbering into the store.
Patrick swaggers in, wobbling from side to side, clearly on something.
“Hey, sis.” His words are slurred, coming out heyis. “How’s it going?” Howsgoing.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I walk around the counter, hands raised. Why now? Why today? After two weeks of leaving me alone. Oh, yes, he’s on drugs, and people on drugs don’t tend to be too reasonable.
Almost as soon as I’ve done it, I realize walking around the counter was a mistake. He jumps at me, backing me into the corner. I have no choice but to walk backwards. Then I hit the wall and he looms over me, mouth twisted in disgust.
“I protected you,” he says, spit dribbling down his chin in rage. “I protected you, and this is how you repay me.”
“Patrick—”
He lifts his hand, fist clenched, and aims at my face. “Shut up,” he growls. “It’s time for you to learn who the real fucking boss is.”
Jude, where are you? Jude. Panic courses through every nerve in my body. I want to run, to fight, but these are life-old nerves, nerves which have seized up countless times as Patrick hits me.
I close my eyes as his fist sails toward me.