4. Bindi
FOUR
BINDI
Jalon walks me to my door then leaves promptly before I even have the chance to invite him inside. Not that I would. Partly because I have no interest in being pleasant after three in the morning, and the other because my apartment is an absolute shithole.
Jordyn is right. I don’t have to live here. I could afford something like Jordyn’s place—with a doorman. I could kill it with overpriced furniture and a candle that probably costs more than my current rent.
But instead, I trade that for this messy, chaotic one-bedroom hell.
It’s a disaster, a mix between what happens when low-income housing gets into a long-term abusive relationship with peeling wallpaper and water damage.
The ceiling leaks when it rains, the hot water barely lasts three minutes before turning to ice, and I’m pretty sure my neighbor sells drugs, but at least he keeps to himself, and for that I’m grateful.
I shove the door shut with my hip, drop my grocery bag that I had picked up before my shift onto the counter, and kick off my shoes.
My sock sticks to something on the floor as I put away some of the random items I picked up.
I mainly just needed toiletries since I’m going to stay at Jordyn’s house to take care of Bigsby in a couple of days.
When I walk into the bedroom, something feels off.
A weird itching at the base of my spine crawls upwards, almost as if something is watching me.
I scan the bedroom, my eyes sweeping over my two dead plants on the windowsill and the pile of laundry on the random papasan chair in the corner of the room.
My eyes finally fall onto the dresser, where the top drawer is pulled out.
Not all the way, but just enough to know that I didn’t leave it like that.
Slowly, I cross the room, and my hand reaches for the drawer as my heart hammers.
I pull it the rest of the way open, my mind trying to find some sort of reasoning as to why it would be open. I always close my drawers.
My bras and panties are a mess—shifted and disturbed, like someone was searching for something specific. Or touching them. The latter thought somehow bothers me more.
Nothing else looks touched. My fake passports? Still hidden. My cash stash? Unmoved.
If someone broke in, why wouldn’t they take the shit they can use? Did they even take anything at all?
I slam the drawer shut so hard the whole dresser shakes. My fingers flex at my sides, knuckles cracking as I force myself to breathe and hopefully shake off the creeping, slithering sense of violation worming through my chest.
There’s no other proof anyone was here. Maybe I left it open. Maybe I was in a rush the last time I was here. Or maybe some stranger was in my house, looking through my things.
Adrenaline spikes, and I grab the nearest object—an old ceramic mug with crusted coffee inside—and start sweeping the apartment.
Closets. Empty.
Bathroom. Clear.
Under the bed: dust, a sock, the creeping feeling of being watched . . . again.
No one’s here. But the feeling won’t leave.
I rub my arms, forcing a laugh. “Paranoid bitch.”
But that’s the thing . . . paranoia’s kept me alive thus far.
It’s optimism that gets girls like me killed in the fucking scary movie.
Eventually I give up, figuring that either I can sit here freaked out, or assume that if someone is watching me, they’ll at least be polite enough to let me shower before they murder me. Maybe even let me finish my cigarette. That’s the dream, right?
I strip out of my work clothes, letting them fall onto the nearest chair, and sidestep the stack of unpaid bills like they’ll explode on contact. Maybe they will. That would honestly do me a favor—explode and take me out with them.
I toe around into the bathroom and twist the shower knob until the pipes cough and water sputters, then gushes out.
I take my time, scrubbing my shift off of my skin, hoping to also erase the parts that Anthony touched.
Running my face under the stream, I try to dull the edges, or drown myself trying.
I jump out when the water goes cold, goosebumps already blooming across my raw skin. I towel off and wrap myself in a robe before shuffling back to the kitchen.
Then, a sound, soft and dull. And not inside. My spine goes straight and I move quietly toward the sliding glass door. The blinds clack softly as I angle them with one finger.
A cat—a white, scruffy little thing—is perched on my bannister .
I press a palm to my chest. “Fucking drama queen,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”
Still, I grab a can of cat food from under the sink. I only buy this shit for him. Or her. I don’t actually know as we aren’t really that close.
I crack it open and step outside barefoot, the cement cold under my toes. The cat doesn’t move, just watches, unblinking. Even as a stray, it’s still regal as hell.
I crouch, setting the can down. “You and I have something in common, huh?”
The cat flicks its tail, but doesn’t answer.
Rude.
I sit for a minute, elbows on my knees, watching him eat.
It’s oddly calming, this ritual. Like if I feed him, maybe I’m not as empty as I feel.
I reach over to the patio table, fingers finding the half-empty pack of cigarettes.
I light one up with a flick of my thumb.
Inhale. Exhale. This is what I fucking needed.
I lean back against the railing, exhaling slowly, watching the cigarette burn low between my fingers.
Across the cracked parking lot, the busted streetlamp flutters once and dies, throwing the far end of the lot into shadow. That’s when I see a car I don’t recognize.
The driver’s seat is occupied. I can’t make out the face, but I know what I’m looking at. Hood up, posture still, eyes locked. They’re not scrolling a phone, not glancing around, pretending to have a reason to be there. They’re just sitting in the dark, watching . . . watching me.
It’s not Anthony. He would be rage incarnated and filled with entitlement.
He would waltz right up to me and demand that I apologize for embarrassing him.
Even so, my throat tightens with unease as I stub the cigarette out against the cement and rise slowly, stretching like I’m just tired, and walk back inside like I don’t feel the target that is burning into my skin .
The second the door slides shut, I lock it, double-check, then yank the blinds closed. My knees give out before I even make it to the couch, and I slide down the wall, heart pounding like fists against a locked door.
This feeling . . . I haven’t felt it in a long time—five years, maybe? That prickling under the skin. That low, burning hum in the back of my brain. And it’s familiar. Like my body remembers this pattern, because it already knows how to survive it.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars, because it’s nothing. He’s not here. He’s never going to come back for you. My nerves are just fried from a shitty night at work and then Anthony. I can’t let my mind start spinning out, thinking of ghosts of my past.
But the more I sit here—the more I let myself think it might be him—a mix of dread and hope starts to bloom in my chest.
And I don’t know whether to lock the doors . . . or open them.
That’s the worst part.
The part of me that feels like I can finally breathe, just at the thought of him being near.