8. Not A Chance
Not A Chance
"You know, you're the only person I've ever seen mop like the floor did something to you personally."
I stop mid-swipe, and I start to laugh, thinking that he’s joking—
Oh.
Okay.
He’s serious.
Oops.
“Can you show me what I’m doing wrong?”
I look at him expectantly, which causes Patrick’s cheeks to turn red for some reason.
Oh no.
Am I being too demanding?
Or is he turning red with irritation because he can’t believe how much I still suck at my job, considering how I’ve already been working at the club for three weeks?
“It was a joke,” he says in a strangely strangled tone. “You’re actually doing great.”
“Are you sure?”
I honestly want to know because Patrick—like me—also works as a floater at the country club. But unlike me, he’s extremely good at what he does, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the length of his employment.
He’s just a lot more skilled and less clumsy while I always feel like a giraffe on stilettos wherever I go, and my hands always seem to turn into jelly every time I’m asked to take something from Point A to Point B. Things just keep slipping from my hands, and that’s why—
“You can give it to me straight,” I tell him earnestly, “if there’s really something I’m doing wrong—”
“I really was joking,” Patrick insists. “You’re doing everything right.”
“You promise—”
He’s already wincing before I’m done speaking. “Only if you don’t make me say ‘hope to die’.”
I can’t help laughing at this, and more so when Patrick stresses how he’s being serious this time.
There was apparently this local urban legend about a man who said those three words, and he ended up dying in less than twenty-four hours.
Since I’ve never been the superstitious type, stories like that don’t scare me at all—
“Uh, Karyna?”
But since Patrick is, as he says, serious about it—
“You have my word,” I say solemnly. “I’m not going to make you say those words again.”
And I mean it, too, of course.
Ever since this new chapter in my life began, I was back to feeling insecure and unable to talk much, and it was only Patrick and Gwen that had managed to draw me out of my shell. They’re the only ones I don’t feel self-conscious with.
“It’s not that,” Patrick says. “It’s something else entirely, like…”
Actually, when I think about it…
“I was wondering if I can ask you out for a date?”
Patrick and Gwen are the only friends I’ve ever made in my entire—wait.
My gaze flies up to his, and…oh.
He really did say those words, and I just—
His eyes widen, and when I follow his line of sight, I realize that his question had me subconsciously reaching for the gold chain around my neck, and accidentally exposing what I’ve had hidden under my shirt all this time.
Patrick is staring at my wedding ring like it’s an unidentified foul object. “Y-You’re…married?”
I open my mouth to answer him, but no words come out…as the hairs behind my neck suddenly start shooting up like there’s some monster about to lunge at me from behind. It’s a very familiar feeling, unfortunately—
No, no, no.
One of the pre-requisites for working here was to have a one-on-one session with their in-house mental health counselor (who’s also a licensed psychologist and psychiatrist), and after being completely honest with her about my past (without being specific, just to be safe), I remember her telling me that there’s always a possibility of my PTSD acting up for the most unexpected of triggers.
I’m not telling you so you can be paranoid or even on guard at all times. But it’s important that you’re aware of this so you can prepare accordingly.
It’s these words that are topmost on my mind as I reach for my mop. It’s not exactly the most dangerous weapon to arm myself with, but it’s better than nothing, and well…
Inhale, exhale.
I try keeping myself calm with the breathing technique she’s taught me as I slowly spin around.
I don’t care if this place is supposed to be high-security and all.
Bad things can happen any moment, and I’m not…
I’m not going to let anyone have an easy time turning me into a victim again.
If I have to go down, I’ll go down fighting—
R-Ruel?
I automatically rub my eyes, but he’s still there.
He's standing at the end of the hallway in a dark suit, tall, dark, and handsome like I’ve always imagined him to be, and…
He’s not even looking at me
In fact, he’s already walking.
Briskly, the way I remember he would when he has somewhere to be.
The distance between us shrinks with every step he takes, and just as I hold my breath, unable to imagine…or maybe I’m terrified to imagine of what he’d do next—
Oh.
Oh.
Okay.
I definitely wouldn’t have imagined that.
That being Ruel walking past me…
Like I was never there, and maybe…
Maybe that’s what I imagined?
Ruel realizing I was even there in the first place.
Or Ruel ever caring about me at all.