Chapter 3
Chapter Three
FREYA
Ihold it together until he’s out the door, and then the tears come.
What the heck is his problem? I step over the colorful skeins like they’re landmines to make it to the door, flipping the sign and turning the lock before he gets any ideas about coming back.
I’ve spent enough time in my life dealing with asshole men, I don’t need one more.
I don’t know why these things are always so hard for you. Aaron’s voice echoes like he’s next to me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my mind not to fall into the trap it wants to. Not when I’m halfway across the country, finally rebuilding myself.
I press my fingers into my palm one by one, counting off in my head. One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one. I let the rhythm ground me. I’m not going there. It’s over.
Pressing my back to the door, I survey the scene. There’s yarn everywhere. I’m going to be finding stray balls in corners and under shelves for days. My throat tightens at the sight of my ordered space in such disarray.
I don’t make a habit of closing early, but nobody needs to see this. It looks like we just had an extremely localized earthquake in here.
I scoop up a basket from behind the desk and start plucking skeins from every corner of the room. Maybe if I get it all fixed, I’ll be able to forget that any of that ever happened. Seriously, what was with that guy? He talked to me like I’m some child, as if I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’m sick of people treating me like I’m out of my depth. And I especially hate that there’s a small, insecure part of me that’s ready to accept he’s right.
What would you do without me?
No.
Stop it.
I huff, willing the memories away as I drop to my haunches to reach under the shelves.
I cringe as sticky cobwebs coat my fingers.
The previously bright-red mohair comes out looking like it’s just been dragged through a haunted house.
I peek under the unit and glimpse the nightmare that’s back there.
Holy shit. I dust every day, what is going on?
I press my back to the wall and start picking dust bunnies out of the fibers. The repetitive action goes some way toward helping me regulate myself, and I feel my heart rate start to come down.
I’m here, I’m safe.
Once the store finally resembles what it’s supposed to, I slump behind the desk, head pressed to the cold wood.
What am I doing?
Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.
When I told my mom I was moving, she wasn’t even upset, she just smiled the smile she gave me when I was seven and I said I wanted to be an astronaut.
I know she loves me, and she’s just trying to protect me in her own way.
But she’s never believed in me the way I wanted her to. Needed her to.
Oh, fuck this. It’s time I wrote off this horrible day in a string of horrible days. I need to be at home, tucked under a weighted blanket, where hopefully I can be released from this roiling anxiety.
I’ve just gotten out of the shower when my phone chimes from the dresser. My stomach instinctively plummets. Tapping the screen, I see the message.
MOM
Let me know a good time to call
I love you! Drink water!
And try to eat more than just pasta, you need more nutrients in your diet
FREYA
I eat fine.
I’m just busy with work, I’ll call soon.
Love you too.
I take a screenshot and forward it to Luci, my best friend back in Connecticut. She’s probably sick of hearing about this, but I guess that’s what she signed up for when we signed an extremely serious contract at fifteen to stay “besties for life”.
FREYA
Does she still think I’m eating nothing but dino nuggets?
LUCI
WTF DEBBIE
FREYA
She’s been calling non-stop for days.
LUCI
Have you been answering?
FREYA
No…
LUCI
Ah
I think we’ve gotten to the bottom of that one
I snort a laugh despite myself.
FREYA
How long do you think I could get away with not answering before she hires a PI?
LUCI
Oh, you know she’s already got the google search loaded
You need to call her back before she gives all her money to some skeevy guy with a bad mustache
FREYA
Ugh, fine, tomorrow.
Maybe.
LUCI
Would talking to her be so bad?
FREYA
No, of course not.
But it’s always a lot.
And things here are good, she’ll just make me feel like I’m doing everything wrong.
I mean, things are mostly good. I’ve only cried once today, that’s pretty good by my standards. But Luci doesn’t need to know that.
LUCI
I’m sorry bub
You’re doing everything right!
You’re a perfect angel!!!
I miss you
FREYA
I miss you too.
I’d better go to bed, I’ve got to get to the shop early to start prepping my Denver stuff.
I’m running a stand at a craft fair in Denver in a month, but I’m already swamped with prep. Hopefully sometime soon I’ll be able to hire some help at the store, but right now I’ve still got to manage everything on my own.
LUCI
Nightie night pookie
Love you
FREYA
Love you too.
I plug in my phone and lie down, pulling the covers up to my chin. I listen to the soft hum of the dishwasher through the wall, whooshing gently, almost in time with my own heartbeat.
The silence of the apartment prickles, that lonely feeling I try so hard not to acknowledge starting to make itself known in my chest. It’s a physical sensation, a pit somewhere inside me that yawns open, threatening to swallow me whole.
Sometimes it comes as an itching in my palms, like my skin is reaching out, begging to touch someone.
Last week I shook hands with a new supplier and nearly cried, I was so starved for the contact.
People often assume that because I’m Autistic, that I don’t want to be touched.
They’re not completely wrong, light touches and unexpected contact are uncomfortable for me, but nobody ever asks that far.
They stay away, thinking that’s what I want.
It’s like being in a bubble, I can see everything going on around me, I can get close, but I’m never quite part of it.
I pull my weighted blanket over the comforter, hoping that’ll help. The pressure is nice, but there’s something cold about it. I can’t shake the feeling, the hollowness that’s invaded my body. I just want a hug. Someone here to hold me until I don’t feel so much like I’m gonna fall apart.
I don’t remember the last time I was held.
Definitely not with “I’m not much of a hugger” Aaron. The one time I asked if we could cuddle, he said he didn’t see the appeal in lying there sweating on each other. I should have known then that he was bad news, but apparently I’ve never been able to see what’s right in front of me.
I roll onto my side, hoping that my brain will calm down enough to let me sleep. When that fails, I pull on my headphones and lie back, opening my sleep sounds app and hitting play on one of the “ASMR Boyfriend” audios I have saved.
I know that it’s pathetic, pretending there’s someone there, saying sweet things to me and telling me they love me, but pretending is better than the alternative.