5. Anna
ANNA
To say I’m rattled would be the understatement of the century. I spend the next two days locked up in my room, only ever leaving to go to the bathroom or kitchen. On the third night, Darcy knocks, inviting me to join her and some friends, but there’s no way in hell I’m going out.
So I lie and tell her I have plans.
“Like what?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Yeah, she’s not buying it, and why would she?
I do feel bad. We’ve been roommates for over a month now, and she’s been nothing but nice to me. Yet, I do everything possible to keep our interactions to a minimum. After what happened with my dorm mate, I’m feeling less than sociable.
Fool me once, and all that.
Darcy looks between the TV and my pajama-clad body. “And don’t tell me you have a date with Netflix.”
“With a cop, actually.” I haven’t exactly had many social interactions as of late, and Officer Holt is the first person I can think of, so I tell her a mostly true story about our meet cute, except for, you know, the part about him actually asking me out.
“Really?” She practically purrs at the idea. “I do love a man in uniform. Good for you, girl.”
Since it looks like Darcy’s about to head out the door, I make the mistake of telling her I’m seeing him at nine. It turns out the movie everyone’s seeing doesn’t start until a quarter to ten, meaning I would have to leave the apartment well before her.
Crap.
I’ve locked myself into the lie, so I have no choice but to start getting ready for a date I don ’ t have.
A couple of Darcy’s friends are already in the living room talking about some Real Housewives show, so I know I’ll have an audience when I leave, which means I have to put at least some work into my appearance.
I used to love putting on makeup. It felt like painting a canvas, the way I could accentuate and minimize certain features, the way I could take on a different persona. The pin-up girl, the goth, the Hollywood starlet, Jackie O, the femme fatale; each style was like putting on a mask.
But no amount of makeup can hide who you really are underneath. I’m still Annaleigh Evans. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing false lashes or how large the wing of my eyeliner is or what color I paint my lips. I’m still the girl he would recognize.
Sebastian always hated it anytime I did a 60’s retro look, saying it reminded him of his grandmother, so the decision is easy.
I go full Sharon Tate, all the way from my hair and makeup down to my dress and shoes.
Even if I’m not planning on going anywhere, there is some degree of catharsis in it, giving him the metaphorical middle finger for all those times he made me change.
My bruises have healed enough that I can conceal them under makeup, and with my hair being blonde again, I’m more like myself than I have been in quite some time.
At least lookswise.
I get some playful cat calls from Darcy’s friends when I enter the foyer, but it does little to boost my confidence.
Because the second I step out the door, I feel exposed.
There’s no way I’m going anywhere on foot, and since I haven’t gotten the chance to get my tail light fixed, I don’t want to drive far. I head up the street for about five minutes before I opt to give Sebastian another middle finger by pulling into McDonald’s.
At first, I thought it was cute that he said I “deserve better than fast food.” He’d take me to some swanky restaurant I could never afford and treat me to the best entrees and desserts.
Sebastian would always pick my meals for me because he knew what was the best at each establishment, but I eventually found those entrees and desserts going away.
Soon, all I would get was a salad and the main course, which were always low-fat options.
Because he liked a girl who was curvy, but there was “a thin line between curvy and thick .”
A line I wasn ’ t ever supposed to cross, apparently.
I never used to understand why women stayed with abusive assholes, especially if they didn’t live with them. Why not just break up with him and move on?
Well, Sebastian proved precisely how that worked.
After all, who wouldn’t fall for Prince Charming?
He was a few years older than me, was attending law school, and came from an affluent family.
For the first year we were together, he showered me with affection and gifts and bragged about me to anyone with ears, insisting I was “going places” and that I was a go-getter.
He valued that I wanted a career and that I wasn’t like the socialites he had grown up around.
He liked that I wanted financial independence but would then buy me a new car!
I suddenly went from a small-town, middle-class lifestyle to spending the summer on a yacht and being flown to Paris.
Sebastian was everything my Nana wanted me to find, and then some. I was his “princess.”
But then the cracks started to show. They were only small at first. A comment here, a little bit of attitude there.
Nothing too bad. But then the “reward” system began.
He was “stressed,” he had “needs,” he had insecurities.
Of course, being a good girlfriend, I wanted to help ease those things and did everything I could to make him feel better.
And it worked. He would go back to the same old Sebastian I first met. Kind, doting, charming…
But the second I “slipped up” and did something he didn’t approve of, Mr. Hyde would come out.
He had a problem with every single one of my friends, especially if they were guys.
He didn’t like that I hadn’t agreed to move in with him yet and would get angry if I spent the night in the dorms instead of his place.
He didn’t like it if I made plans without running them past him first. He “caught” me eating McDonald’s.
He “caught” me talking to another man (who was nothing more than a classmate I was tutoring).
He “caught” me spending time with my friends somewhere he didn’t have eyes and ears on me.
He caught me breathing outside of his bubble.
Well, fuck you, Sebastian, because I’m going to order anything and everything off this menu that I want.
The inside of the restaurant is too crowded for my comfort, but the parking lot is well-illuminated, so after going through the drive-thru, I pull into a space and settle in for my meal.
I can see everything happening around me, and the inside of the car is dark enough that no one pays me any mind. Perfect.
For the first five minutes of my meal, I am in complete and utter bliss, relishing the taste that I’ve deprived myself of. But, of course, that snake weasels his way into my thoughts as an unwelcomed flashback from the last time I had eaten this comes to mind.
I had been curled up on my bed in the dorms watching a movie when Sebastian waltzed into my room unexpectedly, thanks to the key he made for himself.
He acted like he witnessed me committing a felony, seeing the golden arch emblem on the container in my hand.
One second, I was watching The Princess Bride .
The next, he was ripping my fries and takeout bag away from me, chucking them into the garbage.
I was too startled to say or do anything.
I just sat there paralyzed as he scolded me, saying I wouldn’t fit into the dress he just bought me for an upcoming gala if I kept eating like this.
Never in my life had I ever been insecure about my weight, but this asshole knew how to make someone feel self-conscious, that’s for damn sure.
Throughout the next month, he continued making passive-aggressive comments about how my clothes fit and that he was sure I was “sneaking in meals” when he wasn’t around.
Like I was a diabetic kid left alone in a chocolate factory.
Like I needed to be supervised. After that, he ridiculed every food purchase I made, admonished me for not buying “healthier” options, and eventually sank his claws deep enough into my brain that it induced panic attacks when I had to go grocery shopping.
And the fact he continues plaguing my thoughts every second I try not to think about him just pisses me off more.
Every little decision I make, I can’t shake his voice from my head, forever judging me.
Too many songs, movies, and TV shows have memories of Sebastian attached to them that I can’t stomach listening to or watching them anymore.
Nearly every night when I close my eyes, the asshole haunts my dreams, immediately twisting them into nightmares.
Hell, I can’t even touch myself anymore without his face forcing its way into my head and killing my mood.
The douchebag doesn’t even have to be here to keep ruining my life.
The mere memory of him is enough to kill any attempt to blow off steam or give me some kind of release. I haven’t had an orgasm in over a year!
Maybe thinking about him has also conjured up that same icky feeling to course up my spine, because I suddenly have the impression I’m being watched again.
I don’t see anyone suspicious, but I nevertheless recline my seat back until I’m out of sight.
The only thing visible now is the gap between my side mirror and the car next to me, showing the entrance to the parking lot.
After ten minutes of absolutely nothing happening, I’m confident I’m just being paranoid again, only…
An SUV that looks suspiciously like Officer Holt’s pulls in.
Seriously, did mentioning him earlier manifest this guy too? Because what are the chances? I know there are plenty of dark SUVs on the road, but I swear from what I can see on the license plate that it’s the same vehicle.
Without even thinking, I move my seat back as far as it can go and throw my upper body forward and down, ducking out of sight. Between my dress and the dark seat covers, I doubt anyone could tell I’m in the car so long as my skin and hair remain hidden.