Thirty-Five
Kat
A Forest – The Cure
“These Christmas shoppers really like their coffee,” Harper says as she wipes down the table.
The scent of lemon cleaner fills the cafe. The sharp citrus smell cuts through the lingering sweetness of peppermint syrup and steamed milk. It clings to the back of my throat, mixing with the dull ache in my shoulders from a ten-hour shift.
“If I have to pour another fucking snowflake latte, I’m moving to the southern hemisphere.” I empty the sweeper full of crumbs into the trash can and return it to the cleaning cupboard.
“You can’t do that, because then I’ll have to come with you, and you know I hate the heat,” she replies, flipping the sign on the door from open to closed.
For the first time all day, the shop is finally quiet. The espresso machine isn’t screaming, the steamer isn’t hissing, and no one is leaning over the counter asking if we can make their latte “extra festive.”
I flex my fingers. They still buzz faintly from hours of tamping espresso and carrying the stupidly large mugs Kaycee insists we use. It’s strange how loud silence can feel after a day like this.
My mind drifts—traitorous as always—to Elias. I wonder what he’s doing right now. If he’s working. If he’s thinking about me. If he has any idea that tonight I’m planning to drop the emotional equivalent of an atom bomb on his living room floor. Or his kitchen, I haven’t decided yet.
Acid fills my stomach. This feels exactly like the moment before stepping off a ledge, unsure if your safety rope will hold. I pull out my phone and check the time.
“Hot date tonight?” Harper asks, bumping her hip against mine.
“I’m going to Elias’s after work. I’m going to lay it all out on the table.” I take in a steadying breath. “But I need to go home and get changed. I smell like sour milk and bitter coffee.”
Harper sniffs me and gags theatrically. I give a wave of dismissal as I grab my purse and jacket and head for the door.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she calls out after me, but the door is already closed.
The cold bites deep into my bones, and I pull my jacket tight around me. The air has that early-winter sharpness to it, the kind that makes it difficult to breathe. Or maybe that’s just the amount of apprehension running through my body right now.
I check my phone again. It’s past five, so I have a bit of time to pick out the perfect outfit. My brain runs through my tiny wardrobe. I need something casual, but not too casual. Something that says I didn’t try too hard but also doesn’t look like I just crawled out of a laundry basket.
My brain runs through the depressing inventory of my closet.
The nicest thing I own is the dress Elias bought me.
Other than that, it’s a handful of band tees, a few sweatpants, leather jeans, and skirts.
Tonight isn’t a leather skirt kind of night.
Tonight is more of an emotional breakdown.
And what does one wear to such an occasion?
I huff out a breath, watching it coil into a small cloud in front of me.
What do you wear when you’re about to hand someone the ugliest parts of yourself?
I need something that screams, I’m fucked up but I’m yours, and not, I’ve been hiding my entire life from you. I pull my jacket tighter around me, suddenly feeling a cold that has nothing to do with the temperature outside.
Maybe Elias listens. Maybe he understands. Maybe he pulls me into those huge arms and tells me it doesn’t change anything. Or maybe the moment the words leave my mouth, he looks at me differently. Like I’m damaged. Like I’m too much. The same look I’ve seen countless times.
I have no idea how tonight is going to go.
It could end with him not wanting anything to do with me.
But I do know one thing. I know that it’s time I laid myself bare with him.
Let him know everything and why I’m so afraid.
The thought sends a tremor through my chest. It doesn’t matter how afraid I am, I have to try.
He deserves it. I ignore the screaming from my brain that tells me to keep quiet.
My heart rings louder. He could tell me it’s too much for him—the last thing he needs is a girlfriend with trauma.
There is a deep sense of dread, but an even deeper feeling of hopefulness. To have one person I don’t have to hide from. I don’t know how I’ll react.
Turning onto Ninth Street, it’s quiet. Everyone is downtown doing their Christmas shopping. It’s only the start of December, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned since I’ve been here in Bridgeport, it’s that they take Christmas very seriously. It’s like a fucking Hallmark movie.
Last Christmas, I spent it with Harper. We ordered Chinese takeout and watched horror movies all day and night.
Harper’s parents like to go away for the holidays, and Harper is only too happy not to be around them for any period of time.
I wonder what the plans will be this year now that Nathan’s in the picture?
Lights twinkle in almost every store window I pass.
Artificial snow clings to the edges of wreath displays, and creepy, animatronic Santa figures move behind the glass.
Somewhere down the street, a speaker crackles out a distorted version of Jingle Bell Rock.
If I weren’t standing on the precipice of a life-changing confrontation, I’d stop and marvel at the way the city does Christmas.
Growing up, Christmas was always huge in our house. Mom would cook the biggest Christmas turkey imaginable, even though there were only three of us. The smell of the roasted herbs and butter would fill the entire house for hours, and we’d have leftover turkey for weeks afterwards.
Dad always sat on the floor with a screwdriver in his hand, squinting at the instruction manual for whatever toy Santa had given me that year while I hovered beside him impatiently.
Mom would laugh from the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a mug of hot chocolate.
Eventually, the toy would come together, usually crooked, and we’d eat Christmas dinner with Dad falling asleep shortly after.
Mom and I would stay up late watching movies while the tree lights flickered quietly in the corner, gift wrap thrown all over the room. Safe. Secure.
I haven’t had a Christmas like that in years.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and press the button at the crosswalk, waiting for the red hand to turn green.
I feel a prickle… a tightening in my shoulders.
The feeling slides across the back of my neck like icy tendrils.
I ignore it. People get paranoid when they walk alone at night. It’s normal.
But my body doesn’t relax.
My breathing slows, the way it does when you try to hear something better.
I shake my head slightly, forcing my gaze forward.
It’s dark, it’s quiet, I’m tired, and my nerves are already fucking frayed.
No matter how many ways my brain tries to present the lack of danger, my body still tightens.
Still, I slow my breathing further, my sense of hearing heightened.
My body remembers this feeling even if my brain doesn’t.
That’s when I hear it.
Footsteps echo somewhere down the strangely quiet street.
They’re not close, but they’re not far away either.
I’m crossing the crosswalk before the light turns green, and my steps quicken.
The sound of my boots echoes against the red brick buildings.
Cold air fills my lungs, and my breath fogs faintly in front of me as I pick up the pace.
At the next intersection, I stop to wait for the light.
The footsteps stop too.
The silence that follows is deafening. For a second, I think maybe I imagined it. Maybe whoever it was just pulled into a store or a house. My skin prickles, and my stomach drops. My pulse thuds hard.
I stuff my hand into my purse and curl my fist around my keys, the jagged edge pointing through my knuckles, the cold metal biting into my skin, but I don’t take them out into the open. Not yet.
I stare straight ahead at the red hand blinking across the street. One second. Two. Three. My fingers curl tighter around the keys in my purse. If I turn around right now, I’ll see them, I know I will.
As I step off the curb and cross the street, the sound of footsteps resumes. They’re closer now, I don’t even need to look back to know that. I pull my keys from my purse and quicken my pace.
The footsteps quicken too.
My heart starts to race, panic boiling under my skin. Everything around me suddenly feels wrong. Every Christmas tree in the window feels like a beacon, trying to warn me. Every thought in my head dissipates, replaced by a single thought: get home.
My apartment is only a block away, I can make it.
I risk a glance over my shoulder, just quick enough to catch a glimpse. A figure steps forward into the streetlight. Tall, just a little taller than me. Broad shoulders, their face hidden under the shadow of a dark hoodie, every feature cloaked in darkness.
My stomach flips violently. They’re not wandering.
They’re fucking following me.
Fear snaps fully into place, and I break into a run.
My breathing turns sharp and uneven as my boots hit the sidewalk with urgency.
Cold air slices through my lungs as I push forward.
My purse slams against my hip with each stride.
It feels like I’m running through syrup.
My lungs burn, and adrenaline floods my bloodstream so fast that my fingers go numb.
The footsteps behind me inch ever closer. They’re fucking running too. The realization sends a bolt of pure panic through me. My lungs burn. My legs feel heavy. My heartbeat roars in my ears, drowning out every thought and feeling until only one is left. Determination.
Don’t fall. Don’t look back. If you fall, it’s over.
The entrance to my building looms ahead of me. I nearly sob with relief as I reach the door. I fumble for my keys, my fingers shaking so badly I nearly drop them. The metal of my keys scrapes uselessly against the plate.
Fuck. Wrong key.
My vision blurs with panic. Behind me, the pounding footsteps grow louder.
I jam the key into the lock again. This time it slides in.
Come on, come on, come on!
I throw myself inside and slam the door shut behind me. I twist the deadbolt with frantic force before pressing my back against the door, chest heaving. My legs almost give out beneath me.
I count to five to slow my breathing down. My legs tremble, adrenaline still screaming through my veins. The familiar smell of dampness and musk settles into my lungs, letting me know I’m home. I’m safe. Except that only one of those statements feels true right now.
Slowly, I turn and look through my peephole. My hands shake as I hover over it. Part of me doesn’t want to look, but I force myself to peek through the tiny circle of glass anyway.
The figure is standing across the street. Perfectly still. Half-hidden in shadow, positioned just beyond the reach of the streetlight. They’re not moving, not walking, not… anything. Just standing there, facing my building.
Watching. Waiting
My stomach twists violently and cold creeps up my spine, settling between my shoulders. Because whoever they are… they weren’t trying to catch me. They were herding me. Making sure I ran exactly where they wanted me to. Right back to my apartment.
My chest tightens as the realization settles in—whoever is out there already knew where I live.