Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
A month stretches, sliding between lesson planning, cafeteria duty, parent conferences, math tests, and the endless cycle of trying to keep twenty-two kids safe and learning with half the resources we need.
There are days when I’m so busy I barely look up from my desk, days when I forget to eat lunch until Kelly throws a granola bar on my table and gives me that very specific look she reserves for when she thinks I’m about to pass out. She’s usually right. I haven’t had time to have a real lunch with her in ages.
A couple of times this month, I’ve been sure I saw the man who attacked me. Twice I’ve caught a glimpse of someone with the same build, the same jacket, the same cruel angle of his jaw, walking across the grocery store parking lot or leaning against the bus shelter near my apartment. Both times, my breath evaporated instantly, leaving me cold and dizzy and unable to move for a few seconds. When I blinked, he was gone, or he’d turn out to be someone else entirely, a stranger who looked nothing like him.
It makes me feel ridiculous, walking around jumpy and paranoid, seeing danger where there is none. But I still walk faster, still keep my keys clutched tight between my fingers, still take the long way home if I catch even a fragment of a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I know I won’t get so lucky twice. Seeing Samuil again is definitely not worth putting myself in danger.
I haven’t told anyone about what happened that night.
By the time Saturday arrives, I’m so frayed around the edges that Kelly texts me twice just to make sure I’m alive. We decide to meet for coffee at the place near the park, the one with the mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menu, and the barista with purple hair who is always humming something under her breath.
When I step inside, the rich, warm smell of roasted coffee doesn’t give me the same hit of dopamine it usually does. In fact, I feel like I’m going to vomit the second the smell hits my nose.
My stomach twists sharply, an immediate rolling wave that sends me stumbling back a half step. I press a hand to my stomach instinctively, trying to steady my breathing. It’s unusual and irrational. I drink coffee every day. I basically live on it. I need it to survive the morning chaos of fifth graders. Why is the smell so cloying today?
Kelly spots me the instant I hesitate and waves me over.
“Girl, you look exhausted,” she says as soon as I drop into the chair across from her. “And a little green. You feeling okay?”
“Just tired,” I answer quickly. “It’s been a long week.”
She eyes me with her signature stare, so annoyingly perceptive it feels like she can see through the cracks I try to cover up. I try to smile, but the swirl in my stomach sharpens, and I look away, focusing on the chalkboard menu instead of the coffee aroma tightening my throat.
She launches into a story about another horrible dating app experience, complete with dramatic reenactments and the kind of commentary that usually sends me into a fit of giggles. Today I smile, but it feels thin, stretched too tight around the edges. She notices immediately.
“You’re not listening to me,” she accuses, though there’s no anger in her tone. “What’s going on with you?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, even though we both know that’s a lie.
She narrows her eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me.”
I let out a breath and pick at the seam of my sleeve.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “You’re right. I’m exhausted, and I think I must be getting a stomach bug.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but just then the door chimes and the smell of fresh espresso fills the café again. My stomach lurches violently. I stand so fast my chair screeches across the floor.
“I need to go,” I say abruptly.
Kelly stands too, reaching for me. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” I protest, thinking about how much I don’t want to vomit in her car. “I think the walk will be good for me. I’ll text you later.”
I don’t wait for her to respond because I’m already heading for the exit, trying to breathe through the nausea threatening to spill over in public. Outside, the cold January air hits me, and the shock of it helps a little, but the twisting sensation deep in my core doesn’t ease. I walk down the sidewalk, drawing in slow breaths and trying to calm myself. It’s probably nothing. Stress or any number of nasty germs the kids pass around.
The pharmacy is on my way home, and I decide to stop in and get some medicine. I head toward the back, but on my way, I pass an aisle that I don’t normally go down. As my eyes land on a pink box, a wave of panic washes over me, rising on top of the nausea.