Chapter 2
Lila
The stereo screams at full volume, bass thumping through the speakers of my hatchback as I press the gas pedal harder.
Arankai’s “Heavenly Bodies” drowns out my thoughts, drowns out Eli’s voice that always seems to linger in my head.
This is my ritual. The moment I’m far enough from the house, I crank the music to levels that would have earned me a lecture about “destroying the speakers” if he were here.
But he’s not here. For the next eight hours, I’m free.
Not completely free, but free enough to breathe without calculating each inhale.
I sing along, voice cracking occasionally. My singing voice is terrible, another thing Eli never fails to remind me about. But in this car, on this stretch of road with the windows rolled up tight, I can be as terrible as I want. I can take up space. I can exist without apologies.
The road curves ahead, and I ease off the gas, checking my watch. I’m early today, despite the confrontation with Eli. Being early is another ritual. I’d rather be at the print shop alone for twenty minutes than spend an extra second in that house.
I make a sharp U-turn onto the side street leading to the back of a small strip mall. By the Bay Print and Mail is through an alley. It’s a little bit of a walk, but parking back here means more room for customers in the front. To most people, it probably looks unremarkable. To me, it’s a lifeline.
The back lot is empty except for a delivery truck pulling away.
I slide into my usual spot nearest to the alleyway entrance, killing the engine and letting the sudden silence wash over me.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, savoring the transition from one world to another.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart jumps. Is it Eli checking up on me already? But it’s just a notification from the bank. I exhale slowly, hating how my body reacts to every small sound, how deeply the fear runs.
I grab my purse and climb out of the car, fishing the shop keys from the side pocket. The morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the salt tang from the nearby bay. Another deep breath. Then I unlock the back door and step inside.
Fluorescent lights flicker on automatically, buzzing softly overhead. The familiar smell greets me—paper, ink, the faint chemical scent of toner. I drop my purse behind the counter and hit the main light switch. The shop comes to life, shadows retreating to corners as light floods the space.
“Good morning,” I say to the empty room, a habit I’ve developed on the days I open alone. Sometimes I think it helps set the tone for the day. Speaking my voice into the silence, claiming the space before anyone else arrives.
First things first. I move to the corner where the steel deposit box sits bolted to the floor.
Customers can drop off packages after hours through a secure slot, and it’s my job to process them first thing.
I twist the key in the lock and pull out a handful of padded envelopes and small boxes.
Someone’s left a note attached to one: “Please rush, my grandmother’s birthday!
” and I smile, setting that one aside for priority processing.
Next, I boot up the two desktop computers that run our operation. One for customer service, one for processing online orders. They’re old and temperamental, but Valerie hasn’t had the budget to replace them since buying the business. We’ve been doing so well though. I bet she could in no time.
While the computers start up, I sort through yesterday’s mail, separating bills from advertisements from the occasional personal letter addressed to Valerie.
The mindless task soothes me, ordering the chaos into neat, labeled piles.
Then I fill and start the coffeepot for myself. Since I hadn’t been able to at home.
I log into the business end of our website on the first computer, navigating to our order system.
Three new orders came in overnight. A rush print job for wedding programs, a set of business cards for a local real estate agent, and fifty copies of a community theater playbill.
I print the invoices and clip them to their respective folders.
The coffee machine beeps, and I pour myself a small cup, savoring the bitter warmth.
Eli always complains about my coffee. Too strong, too weak, too hot, too cold.
Just another excuse to act the way he does.
Usually, Valerie shows up with fancy coffee in the mornings, but since I was here first and needed some, I decided to go ahead and make some.
I line up sheets of “Do Not Bend” stickers on the counter, placing them next to stacks of mailing labels I’d printed yesterday for the local cafés and boutiques that use our services. The organization calms me. Everything has its place here. Including me.
The back door chime rings, and I look up to see Valerie stepping inside.
Her long, normally straight, blonde hair is windblown from the morning breeze.
She’s wearing her usual, jeans and a graphic t-shirt, this one advertising some indie band I’ve never heard of and a thin sweater.
It stays pretty cool in here all year round.
She balances two cups from the coffee shop down the street in her hands.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, despite the wall clock showing 9:30. Which is opening time, anyway.
I smile. “You’re not late.”
“I brought reinforcements.” She sets one of the cups beside my half-empty mug of coffee. “You look like you could use the good stuff. I thought I was going to be late anyway, so I grabbed your favorite and asked for an extra shot of espresso this time.”
I don’t ask how she can tell. Valerie has an uncanny ability to read my moods, to see past the mask I carefully construct each morning. She doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, but she notices.
“Thanks.” I take a sip of the fancy latte, appreciating the creamy sweetness. She really does remember exactly how I like it. “How was your night?”
She shrugs, hanging her sweater on the hook behind the counter. “Boring. Fell asleep watching that documentary series I told you about. The one with the cults?”
“Did you finish it?” I ask.
“Nope. Conked out halfway through episode three.” She pulls her hair back into a long ponytail. “Oh, Mia’s visiting family today. She won’t be in.”
I nod, feeling a small pang of disappointment. “I’ll miss her shenanigans today.” Mia is the third in our trio.
“She texted at like 5 AM. Something about her brother needing help moving back into town.” Valerie moves behind the register, counting the till with practiced efficiency. “How far did you get in that book I lent you?”
The question catches me off guard. I’d nearly forgotten about the romantasy Valerie had pressed into my hands last week, insisting I’d love it. I did start it, but I haven’t been able to finish it yet.
“About halfway,” I say, not wanting to disappoint her. “It’s good.”
Valerie’s arches an eyebrow, then continues. “Well, when you get to the part where Kalden dies, prepare yourself. I sobbed for like an hour.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Spoilers, Valerie!” I raise my voice a little, laughing at her. “Kalden dies? But he’s your favorite character!”
“I know!” She leans against the counter, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “That’s what makes it so good. The author doesn’t pull punches. It feels real, you know? Not like those books where you know the main characters have plot armor.”
“Damn, now I’m scared to keep reading.” I’m not lying this time. I’ve grown attached to Kalden, the reluctant hero with a troubled past.
“You have to. It’s worth the emotional trauma, I promise.” She tosses me a knowing look. “Besides, you’re the queen of dark romance. I figured you could handle a little fictional heartbreak.”
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its authenticity. “Fair point. Dark romance is different, though. Even when it’s tragic, there’s usually some kind of... I don’t know, redemption? Healing?”
“And fantasy can’t have that?” She challenges, eyebrows raised.
“You just told me your favorite character dies!”
“Keep reading,” she says with a mysterious smile. “That’s all I’m saying.”
The door chime interrupts us as our first customer of the day arrives, a harried-looking businessman needing copies of a contract. I slip into work mode, processing his order while Valerie helps another customer who enters shortly after.
The morning passes in a comfortable rhythm of customers, phone calls, and processing orders. Around noon, during a lull, Valerie and I eat lunch together at the small table in the back room.
“New book coming out today?” she asks through a mouthful of sandwich.
I nod, surprised she remembered. “How’d you know?”
“You’ve been checking the time every five minutes since we started lunch. You only do that when you’re planning a bookstore run after work.” She winks. “What’s this one about? More brooding anti-heroes and morally gray hotties?”
“Something like that.” I feel my cheeks warm. My taste in books is something Eli ridicules mercilessly, but Valerie never judges. “Want to hit the bookstore with me after work? We could grab dinner after.”
Valerie looks genuinely regretful as she checks her phone. “I’ve got banking deposits to handle for the shop. End of month reconciliation and all that boring owner stuff.” She makes a face. “Rain check?”
“Of course.” I try not to let my disappointment show. Going to the bookstore alone isn’t unusual for me, but having company would have been nice.
The afternoon rushes by in a blur of shipments and customer service. At exactly 6 PM, I log out of the system and grab my keys from my purse.
“Have fun at the bookstore,” Valerie calls from where she’s hunched over the accounting books at her desk. “Get something steamy enough to make your husband jealous.”
I force a laugh, though the joke falls flat in my chest. If Eli knew half the things I read, he’d probably burn my entire collection. He already thinks my books are a waste of money and space. If he knew they were my escape hatch, he’d make sure they disappeared.
“See you tomorrow,” I say instead, tucking a printed invoice into the top drawer of my desk for a customer I promised to call with a quote in the morning.
Back in my car, I sit for a moment and let the summer heat soak into my body.
The bookstore on Sunset Boulevard is calling to me, promising new worlds, new escapes.
For a few hours, I can lose myself in someone else’s story, someone else’s pain and triumph.
I can pretend that happy endings exist, that women like me get to walk away and rebuild.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, turning toward Sunset. I sway and dance behind the steering wheel, blaring one of my favorites, Victim by MeMyselv&Vi. The irony of my toxic marriage is not lost on me. Maybe that makes me weak.