Chapter 8
EMILY
Imade it through my front door and straight to my bedroom, peeling off the sundress like it was contaminated. Jeans. T-shirt. Hair tie securing the mess on top of my head. Better. I could breathe more easily.
The sunroom called to me, so I went. But when I stood in front of my easel, staring at the half-finished canvas, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The brush felt foreign in my grip. The colors looked wrong. Everything looked wrong.
I set the brush down before I could ruin what I’d already done.
What I needed was to burn off some of this agitation.
The baseball was in the basket by the back door where I always kept it. Dad had given it to me when I was eight, back when he still did things like that. It was scuffed and dirty, the leather worn soft from years of use.
I grabbed it and headed outside.
The wind hit me immediately, warmer than it should’ve been for spring, carrying the smell of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. I walked to the middle of the yard, wound up, and threw the ball hard at the oak tree.
It cracked against the trunk and bounced back. I caught it, threw it again. Harder this time.
Crack. Catch. Throw.
The repetitive motion helped. My shoulders loosened slightly. My breathing evened out.
I kept my eyes on the tree, on the ball, on anything except the green shed in the corner of my yard.
Crack. Catch. Throw.
We sacrificed so much for you.
I threw the ball harder. The leather smacked against my palm, stinging the skin.
I just don’t want to see you disappointed when it doesn’t work out.
The wind picked up, whipping my ponytail around. A few strands escaped and stuck to my lip gloss. I hurled the ball again, putting my whole body into it.
It hit the tree so hard the sound echoed. But when it bounced back, I missed the catch. It slipped past my fingertips and rolled across the grass, stopping dead.
Right in front of the shed door.
Because of course it fucking did.
The wind gusted hard enough that I had to brace myself. Leaves skittered across the grass. Somewhere down the street, a trash can lid clattered.
I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the white leather against the green grass. The shed loomed over it. I’d never opened that door. Not once in three years. I didn’t even like looking at it directly.
You’re being dramatic, Emily.
My mother’s voice was so clear she might as well have been standing next to me.
The memory slammed into me without warning.
Mom’s hand around my wrist, too tight, nails digging in. Her voice so calm, so reasonable. “You’re being dramatic, Emily. You just need some time to think about your behavior.”
The shed door opening. The smell of dirt and gasoline and something else, something stale and wrong. The darkness inside even though it was the middle of the day.
“You can come out when you’re ready to be reasonable.”
The door closing. The lock clicking.
I was six years old and I’d refused to smile for a photo. That’s all I’d done. Refused to smile.
I blinked hard, forcing myself back to the present. Back to my yard, my house, my life that Mom couldn’t touch anymore.
“Fuck this.”
Rage, hot and sharp, burned through the fear. I marched across the grass before I could talk myself out of it. My hand shook as I reached for the ball, but then I paused. Straightened. Stared at the shed. Ridiculous to be scared of something so… innocuous.
Without thinking, I grabbed the warm metal handle, twisted, and yanked the door open.
The smell hit me first. Grass clippings and dirt and motor oil. Completely different from that other shed.
I stepped inside.
It was small and dusty, with muted light filtering in through the Perspex window. Just a bag of fertilizer in the corner and some old tools on the shelf.
Nothing scary. Nothing threatening.
See? You’re fine. You’re okay.
I took a breath. My heartbeat slowed. I was standing in a shed and the world hadn’t ended. Maybe that meant I was stronger than Mom’s voice in my head. Maybe that meant I could be the person I wanted to be.
Outside, the wind roared.
The door ripped out of my hand before I could turn around.
Slam.
The latch clicked.
The sound ripped through me like a fucking gunshot in the small space. The silence that followed was worse.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
“No.” I lunged for the handle, yanking on it.
It didn’t move.
“No, no, no!” I threw my shoulder into it. “Hey! Is anyone out there?”
The walls seemed to shrink instantly, pressing in on all sides. The light from the window wasn’t enough. It was too dark. Too small. The smell of dust twisted into the smell of old oil and trapped heat.
You can come out when you’re ready to be reasonable.
My chest seized. My throat closed up.
“Please.” I was crying now, hot tears streaming down my face. I slammed my fist against the door. Once. Twice. “Help! Someone help me!”
But there was no one. Just like before.
My legs gave out and I slid down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
The walls were too close. The space was too small.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except sit there and shake and cry like the stupid, dramatic little girl my mother had always said I was.
You’re being ridiculous, Emily.
“Please, Mom,” the word slipped out, broken and terrified. “Let me out.”