CHAPTER 14 – THE IMMERSION
DAISY
Iwake to darkness. Not the midnight blackout of city nights, but the grayish, pre-dawn kind, the kind that seeps into every corner and makes even the expensive silk sheets feel cold.
I’m on my back, staring at the ceiling, still breathing like I’m running, not sleeping.
There’s a noise—my heart, or maybe the HVAC kicking on again—and then a dull ache, like a bruise spreading out from somewhere deep in my chest.
Or maybe it’s lower than that. I’m sore everywhere. My thighs, my wrists, my hips, my cunt, my heart. I swallow hard and remember the kiss, the teeth, the confession that tore open the past and dumped it all over the carpet.
I’m not Daisy. I’m Tara Monroe.
It feels like a punch. The truth is heavy in my veins, like lead. I flex my hands, trying to remember what it’s like to be one person instead of two. My fingers tingle, numb from where I spent the night clutching at Hunter, as if he could keep me from splitting apart.
But my stepbrother’s not here. I don’t know if I’m grateful or wrecked. There’s a wild moment where I want to call out for him, beg him to wrap his arms around me and pretend that nothing has changed, but I don’t. I bite my tongue, tasting the iron, and instead throw back the sheets.
The room is a bomb site. Our clothes are strewn on the floor, a chair overturned from our frantic lovemaking. I move through it like a ghost, noticing the sticky patches on the rug, a used condom discarded by the bed.
I stand in front of the mirror, naked and raw. I see my huge blue eyes, a snarl of blonde hair. My eyes are red and puffy, but there’s a clarity to my features that wasn’t there before. Like I’m finally looking at myself, really looking.
I’m Tara.
I have to get out of here.
Not because I want to, but because I have no idea what happens next if I stay.
I dress in the dark, careful to be quiet even though I have no idea where Hunter is.
He’s likely at the gym, so I work fast. Jeans, sweater, the old boots that survived everything.
I pack a bag—essentials only. Toothbrush, spare panties, a brush.
I don’t take any keepsakes. I’m too confused over who I am, and what belongs to me.
The zipper sticks. I force it, and my hands start shaking so bad I have to stop, press my fists against my thighs to make it stop. The shaking doesn’t. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth creak.
On the bedside table, there’s a notepad. I grab a pen and force myself to write something, anything, because leaving without a word feels crueler than all the rest.
All I can manage is: I need to find myself.
I stare at it, waiting for the rightness to land, but it just looks hollow. I set the pen down, brush my hair back, and tuck the note under the corner of Hunter’s laptop.
He’ll know what it means.
Or he won’t.
Either way, I have to leave.
I slip out of the penthouse, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because the thought of the wood-paneled box and its reflective mirrors, makes my skin crawl.
It’s thirty-eight flights, and every step echoes like a gunshot.
By the time I hit the lobby, my lungs are burning, my thighs shaking, but the adrenaline makes me feel real, alive, and animalistic.
I pull my coat tighter around me, the collar stiff against my chin, and brace myself for the cold. The air in the entryway is sharp, chemical-clean, but outside it’s a whole different world.
The Minneapolis morning hits like a fist to the gut.
Wind slices through the gaps in my coat, knifing at my ribs, my knees, my bare ankles. I stagger, blinded by the ache in my face and the sudden glare from the sodium lamps, and almost trip off the curb.
The world is awake. Or waking up, anyway.
Delivery trucks grind past, their headlights burning holes in the mist. A street cleaner glides by, hissing and spraying, the scent of bleach and rot left in its wake.
The only other people out are workers—early-shift janitors, bus drivers, and the rare jogger, bundled so tight they look like astronauts.
I push my hands into my pockets and walk.
Every footstep is a gamble. My head is swimming, memories flickering in and out like broken neon signs.
A flash: A coffee cup, white ceramic, slipping from my fingers and shattering on tile.
The smell of burnt espresso, the acid tang of panic.
Another: A girl my age with blonde hair—Eliza, I think—her eyes huge and blue, laughing at a joke I don’t remember.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the harshness of the city.
I have nowhere to go. My old life is a black hole, the pull of it so strong it’s all I can do not to fall in.
I drift through the streets, following the path of least resistance. Past the fancy bakery, not yet open, the glass case full of perfect pastries already lit. Past the corner bodega, where the old man in the window gives me a nod, like he recognizes me. Maybe he does. I barely recognize myself.
I keep walking. My toes go numb. My fingers, even inside the coat, are stinging. My breath leaves in white clouds, curling around my face and then vanishing.
Every block, the city changes. Near the river, it’s silent but for the soft slap of water against concrete. A dog barks somewhere far off, and I think for a second it’s calling my name.
At a crosswalk, I stop, light-headed. My bag slips from my shoulder, and when I go to catch it, I remember the weight of a different bag, a book-bag maybe, from when I was little. I see a flash of yellow paint, a lunchbox with stickers, a hand holding mine as we cross the street together.
Then I’m back. Alone, shivering, just another shape in the dark.
The world keeps going. A van delivers bagels to the university, a kid in a puffy jacket scuttles past on a scooter, eyes glued to his phone. I want to grab him, ask him who I am, but I just watch him zoom past.
A coffee shop on the corner is open, the windows fogged, the smell of roasted beans and yeast heavy in the air. I think about going in, just to thaw out, but my stomach turns at the thought of the light, the crowds, the noise.
Instead, I duck into an alley, lean against the brick, and let myself cry for a minute.
It’s not loud, not even messy. Just tears leaking down my frozen cheeks, the kind of crying you do when you know no one’s going to hear you.
I wipe my nose on my sleeve, stand up straight, and keep walking.
As the sky gets lighter, the city fills. More cars, more noise, more people. The sidewalks start to buzz with students, parents dragging half-awake kids, packs of men in high-visibility vests, smoking and laughing and yelling at each other over the whine of machinery.
It should make me feel less alone. It doesn’t.
The world feels like a zoo, every window and bus shelter a cage with some other animal behind the glass.
My head hurts. My teeth hurt. Every sound is too loud.
A bike messenger almost runs me down at an intersection.
I walk the city for hours, aimless, hungry for the ache of my own muscles and the cold that creeps under my borrowed sweatshirt.
Who am I? Where am I going? I know that I’m Tara Monroe, but I don’t know who this woman is.
Yet the world is different today—each face on the street another ghost, every window reflecting a stranger that could be me.
I can’t go back to the penthouse, not now.
I’m not sure I’d survive another confession, another hour of Hunter’s blue eyes flashing as his big body comforts me.
It would only make things more confusing at this point because who is he making love to? Daisy or Tara?
So I keep moving, thinking if I walk long enough, I’ll find who I am.
It almost works.
The city hums, sidewalks are slick with last night’s rain.
My feet take me places I don’t remember knowing—down Nicollet, past the library, across that weird pedestrian mall with the bronze statues of businessmen.
Somewhere around the music hall, I lose the will to even count my steps.
My body is empty, but my brain won’t shut up: Tara, Tara, Tara.
The name rings in my skull, making everything else sound hollow.
After a while, my stomach grumbles for food. I ignore it. It’s just another voice in the din. Instead, I find myself at a crosswalk, waiting for the light, and see it: The Daisy Cafe.
It’s smaller than I imagined. Blue awning, a neon daisy in the window, the sidewalk black with old gum and cigarette scars.
But it’s real. And I know—like, bone-deep know—that I’ve been here before.
Didn’t Hunter say that I named myself after this cafe?
That I used to work here, and that in a haze of confusion, I took its name as my own?
Across the street, I stop, balancing on the curb, and stare through the glass.
Inside, there are three baristas: one tall, one short, and one with pink hair pulled up in two buns, like mouse ears.
Their green aprons look like a parody of Starbucks, but the vibe is way more chill.
The tall one grinds beans, laughing with the short girl, while the pink-haired one wipes down a table, glancing up at the door every few seconds as if she’s waiting for someone important.
Customers drift in and out, city people clutching laptops and toddlers, a few suit-jackets, a flock of joggers in matching leggings. The hum of conversation makes the place look warmer than it probably is.
But it’s not the sight that hits me.
It’s the smell.
Even from across the street, I can taste the burnt coffee—rich, sweet, a little floral, a lot like the syrup in Hunter’s fridge. The aroma makes me dizzy, and I clutch a lamppost to stay upright.
A memory slams into me, all at once: