Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVE N
CLAIRE
I stay cooped up in my bedroom for another full day, alternating between reading the book Mark loaned me and writing in the notebook. This is a turning point in my life, one that I’d like to keep a record of to look back on someday. So, for the better part of the last two days, I’ve sat here detailing my past, what I’m escaping from. I’ve cried about a hundred times as I’ve spilled my life onto the pages, describing everything I remember from my past—the good, the bad, and everything in between. I never realized how much some of these things have affected me until I think back to them through a critical lens. Each word I write carries the weight of memories I've tried so hard to forget or justify. It’s only now I’m seeing how unjustifiable, even cruel, some of those things were.
I've filled fifteen pages already, detailing not just the arranged marriage I narrowly escaped, but everything that led up to it—the constant guilt, the demanded obedience, the perpetual fear of stepping out of line. In a world where God was supposed to be my savior, he felt more like a cruel dictator acting through my father and the other church elders. I know that says more about them than it does about God, but it still hurts. I was promised a love I’d never felt, yet I tried so hard to exemplify the dedicated daughter growing into a pious, compliant woman.
It was only a matter of time before the pressure broke me entirely.
My hand cramps, and I flex my fingers before setting the pen down and looking out the window. The storm has finally passed. It started as a sparkling blanket of snow, though it was pushed aside into a gray slush by the snow plows almost as quickly as it came. Still, Chicago looks different from up here, almost peaceful, though I know that illusion will shatter as soon as I venture back out into it.
My phone buzzes with a text from my boss, Jackson: " You're on the schedule for 4-close on Tuesday ."
Reality crashes back in. I can't stay here forever, hiding in this comfortable room with a book and my thoughts. Mark has been incredibly generous, but I can tell he feels awkward having me here. I don’t blame him. I'm essentially a stray he picked up off the street.
The book he loaned me sits on the nightstand with a bookmark placed at page 247. I've been rationing it, trying to make it last, knowing that each page brings me closer to having to return it. It's silly how attached I've become to this simple object and these characters who feel more like real people than words on a page.
My stomach growls as the sky fades into darkness. Mark said I could help myself to anything in the kitchen, but I’ve been eating breakfasts and lunches of the protein bars I’d had stashed in my car before this. Last night I did sneak into the kitchen after Mark had gone to bed and made myself a PB&J sandwich, and even though he had told me to help myself, it still felt wrong somehow. Like I don't deserve such kindness after what I've done.
Is this my self-imposed penance? Living off scraps even when abundance is offered freely? Old habits die hard, I suppose. Back home, any form of self-denial was seen as virtuous. The more you suffered, the closer to God you became.
I snort out a laugh at the thought. Joke’s on them—I’ve been suffering in the cold for three weeks and feel further from God than I ever have. But it’s liberating to know that there is life beyond what I was taught, that not everything is so black-and-white as I was led to believe. There’s a freedom in knowing that my life is my own and I serve no one but myself.
As if on cue, the faint smell of food wafts through the room, and for a moment I’m not sure if my hunger is causing me to imagine things. But no, there’s definitely something cooking out there.
Before I can stop myself, I'm opening the door and following the smell to the kitchen.
Mark stands at the counter and unloads what appears to be several containers of Chinese takeout. He looks up when I enter the room.
"Perfect timing," he says, gesturing to the spread of food. "I might have ordered too much."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to—"
"I want you to," he interrupts. "Seriously, I got enough for both of us on purpose. Please eat."
There's something in his tone that shows me the sentiment is genuine, so I take the seat across from him at the table.
He opens containers while explaining what each dish is, and I accept his offer to split the food onto separate plates so we can each sample everything.
"I have to go back to work on Tuesday," I tell him as he starts eating. "So I'll be out of your hair soon. Thank you for letting me stay as long as I have."
Mark pauses with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. "So, you're planning to go back to living in your car?"
I drop my gaze and chew my lip, trying to figure out how to answer that without seeming like I’m trying to guilt-trip him into letting me stay. "Yes, but it won’t be too much longer, only until I can save up enough for—"
"No." He shakes his head. "Don't do that. Just stay here."
I meet his stare and will my expression to stay neutral. "I don’t want to be any more of a burden than I already have been. You’ve helped me so much already, but I can manage on my own now that the storm’s over." It’s obvious he feels uncomfortable having me here sometimes, that he’s unsure of how to behave when someone else is occupying his space.
"You’re not a burden. And frankly, I’d rather know you're safe here than worry about you sleeping in your car in the middle of winter."
His words take root in my head. Being told something so simple—that I’m not a burden—shouldn’t have such a strong effect on me, yet for some reason it does. "I’m not sure. I mean, we hardly know anything about each other."
A small smile plays at the corners of his lips as he leans back in his chair. "Let's fix that then."
The way he's looking at me makes my stomach flip, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because no one has ever looked at me like that before—like they actually want to know who I am, not the person they expect me to be.
It might also be due to the fact that his easy smile is the most charming thing I’ve ever seen.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I want to know him too. Not just the surface details, but the things that make him tick, the reason he lives alone in this big apartment, why he would take in a complete stranger without hesitation.
But those are dangerous thoughts. Getting too comfortable here, letting myself feel too much will only lead to more pain when I inevitably have to leave. Because I will have to leave eventually. Besides, the rational part of my mind is aware that I’m in danger of getting too attached to him simply because he’s the first person to show me genuine kindness since I left home.
The fortune cookie sitting next to my plate seems to mock me with its promises of wisdom. I crack it open, and the slip of paper inside reads: "Sometimes the right path is not the easiest one."
I laugh out loud at the irony. If only it could tell me which path is the right one.
Mark narrows his eyebrows at me, but I just shake my head and fold the small piece of paper before shoving it in my pocket. I realize he’s still waiting for my response to his suggestion.
I should say no. I should gather my things and leave now, before I get too attached to this warmth, this kindness, this man whose smile seems to disarm me in an instant.
But I'm tired of running. Tired of being afraid.
So instead of retreating back to my room, I pick up my chopsticks—which I have no clue how to use—and say, "Okay. Where should we start?"