Chapter 3
NYX
Thank fuck I live alone.
The mid-morning sunlight violently assaults my eyeballs, and I wipe a string of drool from my mouth.
Pitting my flexibility against the laws of gravity, I reach down with a groan and check my phone for the time, wanting to stay in my nest of warm sheets and revel in the faint, lingering drowsiness from Carlos’ brownie.
When my hand hits a spoon, I recall that at some point last night both Ben and Jerry joined me in bed, and the evidence of our witching hour tryst lays half-melted on the floor.
My bladder disagrees, however, and I drag myself to the bathroom.
The woman in the mirror glares at me with deep brown eyes and unruly brown curls that hide an expanse of silver studs in her ears.
A thin, snug septum ring hangs above soft, pink lips.
Her prominent collarbones peek out from her thin, oversized, shirt courtesy of a past hook up.
I stare at my reflection, searching for the person I want to be rather than the person I’ve become. I imagine what she would look like, this stranger.
Less exhausted, probably.
Happier, possibly.
Maybe she’d have smile lines around her mouth and crows feet around her eyes. Someday, I’d like to meet that woman in a mirror just like this one. I wonder if I’d recognize her—or if she’d recognize me.
With a long sigh, I break my staring contest and walk to the kitchen, intent on searching for something to eat only to remember that I need to get groceries.
Resting my head against the refrigerator for a moment, I mentally pull on my big girl pants, and then pull on my actual big girl pants: high-waisted skinny jeans that have seen better days, a cropped t-shirt, beloved, ratty high tops.
I slip my backpack on and lock the door behind me, walking to the town’s only grocery store in the opposite direction of Daly’s.
As I make my way uptown, the buildings gradually get nicer, the people smile a bit brighter—though when their eyes catch mine, they quickly look away, as if my status as an outcast was catching.
I’m no stranger to the cold shoulder, but it still stings after all these years.
The air conditioning brushes my hair softly, sending a chill down my spine when I enter the bright, gleaming grocery store.
I make my way through each aisle by muscle memory alone and I’m so focused on tallying my total so I don’t go over budget that I don’t sense something’s off—like the world’s paused on the inhale of a halting breath.
“Nyx! What a lovely surprise.” I startle and whirl to find Blondie—Celestine from the night before—dressed in a figure-hugging sheath dress that shows off her mile-long legs.
She approaches me, her high heels echoing against the grimy linoleum floor.
“Good morning!” The world exhales, and sound comes crashing down, breathing life back into the silence.
If I were still high, I could almost pretend the world was waiting for her.
“Oh, hi again. Good morning.” Trepidation coils in my stomach when I realize the unease I felt last night wasn’t entirely due to the mystery brownie.
“I have to say—thank you for your recommendation about the diner! I had to practically drag Augustine away before she devoured a kitchen’s worth of bacon and eggs.
I’ve never met someone so fond of breakfast food as she is,” she says, like she’s reliving the lifetime of shared memories with her sister.
When she turns her penetrating gaze to me, the cool, dismissive mask I usually wear is nowhere to be found.
“What are—are you guys heading out of town already?” I cringe inwardly when I trip over my words.
“We have some business to attend to before we move on, but I can’t say I’m disappointed!
What a charming little town you have here, with such a vivid history.
” She beams, and I’m once more struck by the unrelenting positivity she radiates.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never felt as joyous as she looks about anything. Neither has anyone else in this town.
“You’re talking about Lynden?” I ask incredulously, just to make sure I heard her right. She does that tittering thing again and I quickly glance around to make sure no one’s heard her. I’m already the town reject—I don’t need anyone associating me with someone who titters.
“Yes of course!” she says with palpable zeal, as if Lynden is some hidden gem.
I blame social conditioning for unconsciously following her when she resumes walking down the aisle.
“The candidates we meet tend to live in the larger cities, so it’s rare that we have a chance to slow down and smell the proverbial roses.
” I promise it’s not roses you’re smelling, Blondie.
“There’s just so much to appreciate with small towns like this. ”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never left Lynden,” I admit, but I can’t smother the edge of resentment that makes my voice waver. “I am taking some online classes, though. Not sure what I want to do yet, but I figure a college degree couldn’t hurt my chances of getting out.” Why am I telling her this?
“Oh, that’s wonderful! How much longer do you have in your studies?”
“Depends on how many classes I can afford at a time.”
“Such tenacity is an admirable trait in one so young.” I glance at her as we continue to walk down the aisles—she can’t be more than what, mid-thirties? “Have you considered applying for a scholarship?” she probes, oblivious to my inner turmoil recalling the most recent rejection letter.
But I just brush it off like all the other times. “It just hasn’t worked out yet.” She tilts her head and hums in thought. “What’s your favorite city you’ve traveled to so far?” I ask, deflecting her line of questioning. She thinks as we meander through the aisles.
“I’ve grown fond of the Pacific Northwest. There’s something… magical about it that resonates with me,” she says with a soft smile.
“I figured you’d say New York, or Los Angeles or something. Seems like those would be more your vibe.” I say, nodding to her outfit.
“We’re all just full of surprises, aren’t we?
” she teases, waiting patiently for me to fill my backpack with fifty-cent noodles, and resumes when I finish.
“You know, Nyx, after so many years in this line of work, I like to think I’ve developed the ability to read people fairly well,” she hedges, and I tense at the change in her tone.
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” she continues, “but despite our brief acquaintance, I feel compelled to mention my alma mater—a small, private college not far from Boston. I suspect that it might be someplace where a student with your interests might thrive. I would be delighted to speak with my contacts there on your behalf, if you’d like,” she offers with an expectant smile.
Her words echo in the now frigid silence hanging between us and I stare at her, trying to tame the writhing tangle of emotions wreaking havoc inside of me, but not even the familiar burn of shame can cool my temper.
It’s not often that I acknowledge what people see when they look at me.
The lies I tell myself—that no one else’s opinion matters but my own—have become armor so thick that no one and nothing can get close enough.
Especially not something so patronizing as Celestine’s casual cruelty, thinly veiled as charity.
I see her offer for what it is, like so many others before her: sweet promises that hide the bitter aftertaste of performative sympathy, because no one offers anything for nothing.
Poverty tourists like her breeze through Lynden all the time, spectators to the drama of desperation, throwing scraps to the huddled masses before returning to their gilded lives with smug satisfaction.
She probably expects me to placate her with platitudes about her selfless generosity like so many others who’ve demanded simpering gratitude.
But she’s miscalculated, mistaking the mask of detachment and impassivity I wear to survive this place for meekness and naiveté.
I’m not some toy to be shelved and forgotten.
I’m a starving animal, with its limb caught in the jagged teeth of a trap, ready to gnaw off whatever piece of me it takes to escape.
And like an injured animal, I lash out with my own vicious cruelty. The kind that hurts others first, before they hurt me. Her brows furrow at my hardening expression.
“You would be delighted to pass along my information.” A statement, not a question.
“You think I’m worthy of your charity,” I hiss with derision, “because we had a little meet-cute and you saw someone desperate for a handout?” The low chuckle that escapes is devoid of any humor, and I can see the realization dawn when she registers this conversation isn’t going the way she thought it would.
“Nah, I know better than that.” Celestine’s expectant smile slips, and her lips part, but I don’t give her the chance to speak.
“We’re not in some fucked up Disney movie, and you’re certainly not the first asshole with a savior complex to come through this dead-end shithole, making promises you have no intention of keeping.” I scoff and turn to leave, but she reaches out to stop me.
“You misunderstand me, Nyx. Please—” I shake her off, whirling to face her.
I catch someone watching us from the corner of my eye and glare at them until they turn away.
“I understand you perfectly.” My voice takes on a venomous edge.
“People like me are nothing more than playthings to people like you—dogs on leashes that you parade around as proof of your righteousness, trained to sit, stay, and beg while you pat yourselves on the back for having brought the mongrels to heel.” She starts to protest, but I refuse to hear whatever poison she spews to justify herself.