REHAB
Sara
Sunlight kisses my skin. I tuck my knees up under me and hug them loosely.
The shouting has faded. Alarms stay silent.
No one asks for more than I’m willing to give.
Birdsong carries on the wind, rustling the trees.
The distant shimmer of the lake still holds onto morning mist. A sense of peace washes over me, sinking deep into my bones, stripping away noise and pressure.
A clean slate, that’s what this is.
Footsteps creak across the wooden planks. Chris appears, asks if I want to stay out here longer, and offers me a folded blanket and some orange juice.
I blink, take it from him with both hands. “Thanks,” I say with a skeptical smile.
He nods once and leaves again.
Wrapping it around my shoulders, I make myself comfortable outside as the hours slip by, watching light and shadow drift across the clearing.
Part of me keeps waiting for him to order me into the shed for the night.
He didn’t bring anything back into the house, so I figure he might.
If I get through the rest of the day without giving him a reason to doubt me, he might not insist.
The idea of returning to that cage makes every instinct scream at me to run again. But I don’t.
We have a deal, and I’m not breaking it.
When the sun finally dips behind the treetops, painting the sky in reds and oranges, I’m still there. It’s magical in a strange, lonely way. Like a place outside of time, or so far away it doesn’t matter anymore. Is this what meditation does to you?
It gets chilly, but I stay in my spot, trying to enjoy every minute out in the open until dusk settles and Chris calls me in for dinner.
I meet him in the kitchen, where garlic sizzles in the pan, scenting the room. I sit across from him at the table, still watchful. He doesn’t push for conversation, simply makes sure I have enough to eat and leaves me to my thoughts.
Judging by how each bite dances on my tongue and how the plate looks like a masterpiece, he’s a great cook. I wouldn’t have guessed that at first, and I savor every mouthful.
When we’re done, I help with the cleanup without him having to ask. At home, I never lifted a finger. Staff handled everything, when there was dinner at all. Here, there’s nothing else to do, and doing dishes is better than the shed. Anything is better than that.
Since I don’t know where the dishes go, I wash while he puts them away. On the last plate, he pauses, drying it slower than the rest. His eyes flick toward me. “Let me show you something.”
I wrap my arms around myself, wary. “What?”
He lets the water drain away. “Come on,” he says with a wave toward himself.
I follow him upstairs with slow steps, my heart picking up even though I try to keep it cool. He leads me to the room. My room.
I step inside and freeze. It’s different.
On the floor, blankets and a pile of plush pillows cover a thick mattress. A small nightstand sits nearby. The shelves are no longer empty. They’re filled with books, a couple of folded newspapers, and my clothes. A low lamp spills warm yellow light across the room.
I turn back to him, my brow furrowed. “Why?”
He shifts, like the question unsettles him. For a beat, he hesitates, then his gaze settles on mine. “Because I’m not a monster. I shouldn’t have taken this job, but I did, and I want to make it right.”
My throat constricts. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I step farther into the room, trying to make sense of it all. It’s almost cozy.
“You went through my things,” I blurt, dragging a finger across the neat pile of my clothes, unsure whether to feel violated by it. My underwear is there.
“Well... I had to check for weapons,” he says, almost apologetic, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“I take it you didn’t find any?”
A lopsided grin appears on his face. He shakes his head.
My attention shifts to the stack of books. They don’t match: The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, All the King’s Men, The Joy of Cooking. Some spines are cracked and frayed. Others seem untouched.
“Is this your collection?” I ask.
“I raided one of those little free libraries on the way,” he replies. “Figured you’d need something to pass the time.”
“How thoughtful.” I pull one off the shelf at random. The cover reads Fishing for Dummies. I raise a brow. “Maybe I’ll just do that if I get bored.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, not falling for it. He inhales slowly, the kind of breath that buys him time. His eyes narrow a fraction as he weighs his words.
“I’ll still have to lock this door at night. I know we have a deal. Give me some time to trust it?”
I nod and force my expression to stay blank, although what he says stings.
I understand, though, and I’d agree to almost anything if it means I can sleep in here tonight.
I won’t break my word, but he doesn’t know that, and I can’t be sure he’ll keep his.
This might be the only way it works. A lock for me and one for him.
It’s neither freedom nor trust. But it’s the closest we can get for now.
“So, you want me to stay in here then?” I ask carefully, bracing for an answer I dread. I’ll go crazy if he locks me in.
“No,” he says immediately. “It’s only locked while I sleep. Otherwise, you’re free to roam the house. As long as I know where you are, you can also go outside, okay?”
This isn’t freedom, but it’s not a cage either, so I agree. Not wholeheartedly, but I do. It’s a start.
He steps out, leaving the door open behind him. I scan the room. No red light blinks in the corner. He might still be watching. It’s just not obvious.
An hour later, relief still doesn’t come. I’m drained, ready for sleep, but I need to test him first. Find out how real he is.
After waiting a few minutes, I slip out past his room, glimpse into the bathroom, and go down the stairs, as stealthy as I can. He’s on the couch, arm comfortably draped along the backrest. His gaze finds me instantly.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I point toward the kitchen. “Yeah. I wanted some water for the night.” Not even I believe a word I say.
“Go ahead. You’ll find drinks in the fridge.”
The kitchen door falls closed behind me. I grab a bottle and start back, but my eyes linger on the drawer handles, the glint of steel within reach beneath them. A precaution. I take one of the knives upstairs. Deal or not, I need more time before I can rely on it.
The glow of the TV catches my eye as I reenter the living space. Football is on. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, trying to make out who’s playing. I need one second too long, and his voice cuts in. “Wanna watch?”
I want to say no, but I also want to see the game.
Upstairs there’s nothing waiting for me but books and boredom, and I’m too wired to sleep.
So I go to the armchair farthest from him and sink into it.
Concealing the knife under my sweats, I try not to cut up my leg more than it already is.
I twitch once, which earns me a suspicious look I ignore.
It’s a fast-paced game with lots of breakaway runs and long passes. Although I don’t shout at the screen like some fans do, I do find it entertaining, even in the very awkward situation we find ourselves in right now.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him twitch at an interception. When the Packers score their fifth touchdown to lock in the win, his fists clench at his sides before relaxing again. His mouth pulls into a smile, a subtle spark of triumph. He turns to me, checking if I saw.
I can’t help but grin. “You’re a fan too, huh?”
“I don’t get to watch very often,” he admits. “So that was fun.”
“Yeah. It was...”
I stand too fast, cutting the moment short before this gets weirder than it already is. Somehow I make it to my room without losing the knife or the bottle.
The closed door doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, not when I’m the one who shut it.
When he locks it later, I might not even notice.
Tucking the knife beneath the mattress is a small victory.
I’ve managed to stay one step ahead again.
No immediate consequences. My luck is finally changing.
I flip through newspapers and magazines, trying to tire my mind enough to sleep. They’re all from last week. One headline stands out. Underneath it, a familiar face stares back at me like he’s already won: Future Governor Richard Whitmore: Faith, Family, and a Second Chance at Public Life.
I almost don’t read it. I really, really should simply tear it up.
A quote stands out near the end. At first, I think I’ve misread.
But there it is, in black and white. “Sara is a bright girl. But she has been lost for a while, ever since her mother passed. Like any teenager in pain, she started acting out with drinking, skipping school. Rehab was the right place for her. I’m hopeful.
I’ve always loved her and her mother dearly. I’m doing this for them.”
I sit back on the mattress and stare at the words. Anger blurs my vision. A hard-edged kind of rage starts low in my chest and spreads like wildfire.
The paper crumples in my hand before I even realize I’m doing it.
Rehab?
Rehab?
How noble.
How convenient.
The coarse paper crackles as I force it flat, pressing my hands together so hard that both my arms shake.
Hatred bubbles up hot and acidic in my stomach. It doesn’t explode. It simmers. He’s crafted this perfect story, and the broken daughter is the tragedy in the footnotes.
He left me and outsourced the damage. I never knew this much resentment could exist in one person, but here we are.
Let him charm the cameras.
Let him win votes.
But one thing’s for sure: He’ll never get me back.