17. Monica
17
MONICA
T he hustle and bustle of Wilson's Market encapsulates me as I stand in the produce section, scanning the fresh herbs. Tonight's dinner needs to be perfect - I want to show Henry my gratitude for everything he's done so far. He's secured a business meeting with restaurant investors, people who are genuinely interested in hearing my vision. And when he told me the news, the smile that radiated off his face was so beautiful. So genuine.
He's such an attractive man, that fake husband of mine. With his blue eyes and somewhat messy hair and muscled body that I've tried not to think too long about.
My fingers brush over the fragrant basil leaves while I picture his face lighting up at the first bite of my signature pasta dish. But then, a flash of movement catches my eye three aisles over. My hand freezes mid-reach. That particular way of walking, the slight hunch of those shoulders...
No. I'm being paranoid. Benjamin is probably nowhere near this neighborhood. I force myself to focus on selecting the ripest tomatoes, but my hands shake as I place them in the cart.
Another glimpse. This time it's the back of his head - that same messy brown hair. My heart pounds against my ribs. The shopping cart suddenly feels like my only anchor to reality.
"Just coincidence," I whisper to myself, but my feet won't move. I should finish shopping. I should act normal. Instead, I find myself tracking his movements through gaps in the shelving.
The figure turns down my aisle and my blood runs cold. Those warm brown eyes I once found so charming lock onto mine. Benjamin. Here. Now.
My fingers grip the cart handle until my knuckles ache. The exit feels miles away. The other shoppers fade into blurs of color and movement.
The ghost of his last words to me echoes in my head: "You'll never do better than me, Monica."
But I did do better. I have Henry now. The thought of Henry steadies me for a moment, but Benjamin takes a step in my direction and panic claws up my throat.
"Monica?" His voice carries that same false sweetness that used to make me doubt everything I knew. "What a surprise seeing you here."
My legs won't move. My voice won't work. All I can do is stand there, frozen, as he closes the distance between us with that smile that always meant trouble. Swallowing down the knot in my throat, I manage a forced smile as I try to look for the nearest exit.
"Benjamin, it's… It's been a while." I force my voice to stay steady, professional. But my heart hammers so hard I worry the other shoppers can hear it. My palms are sweating, leaving damp prints on the shopping cart handle.
"Too long." Benjamin steps closer, that familiar cologne hitting my nose—the same scent that used to make me feel safe before it became a warning sign. "You look good. Success suits you."
I grip my cart tighter, using it as a barrier between us. The metal digs into my fingers. "Thank you. I should get going…"
"Come on, Mo. We used to talk for hours." His pet name for me feels like acid on my skin. No one calls me that anymore—I made sure of it after we split. "I've been following your career since we split, y'know. Saw that write-up about your new menu concepts. Pretty impressive stuff."
"I appreciate that." My words come out clipped, robotic. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to run, but my feet remain rooted to the floor. Years of therapy, and I still freeze when he's near.
"Though I gotta say, some of those dishes?" He clicks his tongue. "Bit ambitious. Remember when you tried that soufflé at my place? Total disaster." He laughs, but the memory stings - how he'd mocked my attempts at branching out, always pushing me to stick to "simple" cooking.
"I've grown since then." I start to push my cart forward, but he shifts to block my path.
"Speaking of growth - marriage, huh? Henry Blackwood." The way he says Henry's name makes my skin crawl. "Quite the upgrade from your humble beginnings with me. Though I miss those beginnings, you know? Just us in that tiny kitchen, making basic pasta dishes. You were happier then, weren't you? More... yourself?"
"I need to go."
"We had something real, Monica. None of this fancy pretense." His fingers brush my cart handle, too close to my tight grip. "I've been thinking about us lately. About how good we were together, before you got all these grand ideas in your head. Maybe we could grab coffee? For old times' sake?"
My throat constricts as memories flood back - nights spent doubting my own judgment, mornings waking up to criticism masked as concern. The lights of Wilson's Market suddenly feel too bright, too exposing.
"Benjamin, I'm not interested in coffee." The words come out stronger than I feel. "Or catching up. Or anything else."
"Still so defensive." He steps closer, his cologne overwhelming. It makes me want to gag. "You always did get worked up over nothing. Remember how I'd help calm you down? Get you thinking straight again?"
My hands shake. That's what he'd always say when I tried standing up for myself - that I was overreacting, being dramatic. And I'd believed him. For years, I'd believed him.
"I'm thinking perfectly straight." I force myself to meet his gaze. "I'm married now. Happy. Successful."
"Are you?" His voice drops lower, honeyed with false concern. "Because from what I hear, this marriage was pretty... sudden. Almost like it wasn't real."
Ice shoots through my veins. How could he know? No, he's fishing. That's what he does - throws out hints and watches for reactions.
"You always did rush into things, Mo." He reaches for my arm. "Remember that time you wanted to open your own food truck? Had to talk you down from that disaster."
I jerk away from his touch. "That wasn't talking me down. That was controlling me. Making me doubt myself."
"I was protecting you." His eyes narrow slightly - that familiar look that used to precede his worst moments. "You needed guidance. Structure. Someone to keep you grounded."
"No." The word comes out sharp, cutting through his manipulation. "What I needed was support. What I got was abuse."
He flinches at the word, but I'm done sugar-coating it. Done playing nice.
"I'm Mrs. Blackwood now." I grip my cart handle tighter, drawing strength from the diamond band on my finger - even if it represents a fake marriage, it represents my choice. My freedom. "And I need you to leave me alone."
I push my cart forward, forcing Benjamin to step aside or get hit. My legs feel like jelly but I force them to move, to carry me away from him. The produce section blurs past as I abandon my shopping, heading straight for the exit.
"Monica, wait!" His voice carries through the store.
My pace quickens. The wheels of my cart squeak against the linoleum floor as I weave between other shoppers. I don't dare look back to see if he's following. The memory of his controlling behavior, his manipulation, crashes over me in waves.
The automatic doors can't open fast enough. I burst into the parking lot, the evening air hitting my face. My hands tremble as I fumble for my keys. Where did I park? Everything looks different now, warped by panic.
Row C. Spot 42. I remember now.
I practically run to my car. I slide into the driver's seat and lock the doors. Only then do I allow myself to look around.
No sign of Benjamin. But that doesn't stop my heart from racing or my breath from coming in short gasps. I grip the steering wheel, trying to ground myself.
How did he find me? The market isn't even in his usual neighborhood. The coincidence feels too convenient, especially with his comments about my marriage to Henry.
I start the engine with shaking hands. The familiar purr does nothing to calm my nerves. I'm safe now, I know I am, but my body is still taking a moment to catch up. As I pull out of the parking spot, my eyes dart between mirrors, checking every angle. No one follows me out of the lot, but the dread in my stomach remains.
The pasta dinner I'd planned for Henry will have to wait. Right now, I just need to get home. Need to feel safe again. But Benjamin's words echo in my head, poisoning what should have been a simple grocery run with doubt and fear.