Chapter 6 #2
“The pit of my day was that someone’s loved one was brought into the mortuary, and he was very young. It’s always hard when young people come in. But the peak of my day was that the sun came out; it made everything better. Your turn, Atticus,” I say to my fifteen-year-old brother to the left of me.
Together, we eat our dinner, and one by one share the pits and peaks of our days.
Sometimes going off on a little side conversation around someone, like my sister, Hazel, whose pit was that Tommy from across the street told her no one would come to her birthday party next week.
It’s so hard for me to grasp bullying behavior. Especially amongst kids.
After dinner, I help my dad clean up, doing the dishes and watching the sun set behind the mountains from their large kitchen window. The sky stretches with blues, pinks, and yellows. I love living in this small, peaceful part of the world.
“Thanks for helping out, kiddo,” my dad says as he finishes drying the last pot.
“Happy to. I think I’m going to head home early; tomorrow will come quickly.”
“Don’t I know it. We’re proud of you, you know that?”
I dry my hands off and turn to face my dad directly.
Having gone grey younger, he has a full head of silvery strands, ice-blue eyes that match my own, and a bump on the bridge of his nose.
My finger trails along the bridge of mine as if feeling the phantom touch of Crew.
Why am I still thinking about this man? What was it about him that my mind keeps returning to?
His eyes flash behind my own, the way they lingered and held mine a second longer than polite, as if he was lost weighing possibilities.
And then the way he left me standing there, moving with such controlled ease, like he’s gone through life and learned to conserve his energy, learned to purposefully be quiet.
I didn’t hear him when he approached, and had my back been turned to him again, I wouldn’t have heard or felt him leave.
“Monroe? You okay, honey?”
I return back to reality, realizing I just completely checked out.
“Of course I am. Just lost in thought.”
“Okay, we’re always here if you need to talk about anything.”
“I appreciate that, Dad. I promise, I’m okay. Everything is good. Great, even.” Which is the truth. My dad wraps me in a hug that warms my soul, and I breathe in his comforting, woodsy scent.
“Good night, kiddo.”
“Night, Dad.”
After saying goodnight to everyone else, I grab my rainboots and bag, slipping out the side door barefoot. I lock the door behind me, jogging down the steps and crossing the yard to my tiny home, the grass cool on the soles of my feet.
After I turned twenty-one, my dad helped me turn the large storage shed at the back of the property into a mini home just for me.
My parents refuse to let me pay rent, but I help out in other ways, saving my income instead.
As much as I love living with my family, it is nice to have my own space, while still being close to share everyday things.
I unlock my front door, stepping into my space and flicking on the lamp to my right.
It’s one large studio, with a bathroom off by itself, and a kitchenette.
The walls are painted, with twinkling fairy lights trailing along the edge of the space.
Plants sit on most surfaces and a few wall shelves.
My daybed functions as both my bed and my couch, and since I’m too busy to occupy friends or boyfriends, it works perfectly just for me.
I take a seat at my piano, a beautiful keyboard that I saved far too long to be able to afford, and stretch out my fingers.
Then I play, letting myself get lost in “Fur Elise” by Beethoven, its soft melody transcending me to someplace else.
There, I’m not Monroe, I’m not a daughter, or sister, or worker bee, not the girl everyone in town looks at with pity in their eyes.
Here, within this music, I just get to exist and feel.
I play for what seems like hours, easily flowing from one song to the next, until my fingers are tired and my eyes grow heavy.
After getting ready for bed, I slip into a satin nightgown with thin straps and lace that lines the hem at my thigh.
I don’t have anyone to wear it for, but it makes me feel good and sexy, so I wear it anyway.
I grab my journal from my small end table, my nightly ritual, and write about my day.
To no surprise, the only thing I want to write about is him.
Dear Diary,
Today I met a man. He was mysterious, dark, and dangerous but he was also curious and intriguing.
There’s something about him that held me hostage.
I don’t know why I decided against telling my family about him, but something inside me wanted to keep it to myself.
Like he was a secret. Nothing overly exciting or interesting happens in my life, which is good, safe.
But this was something new and it was refreshing.
The man was so expressive but also so shrouded in secrets.
He had the kind of presence that quiets everything around him without trying.
He wasn’t loud or flashy, or vibrant, he was just there, like a shadow, dark, observant, and stealthy.
I didn’t hear him or feel him until I saw him.
That should frighten me. The fact that it didn’t should scare me even more.
And the fact that I’m intrigued? I’m not sure what to do about that fact or what that says about me.
I hope I see him again.