20. Leaving Behind The Old
LEAVING BEHIND THE OLD
Kayleigh
Imist the leaves at the front window—slow, measured passes, like a nurse drawing lines on a lung x-ray.
The monstera glistens under its spritz, droplets veining along each rib.
This early, the street outside is nearly empty, just a dull rush of cars and a cyclist shooting past, shoulders hunched in an aggressive, be-here-to-be-gone posture.
The inside of The Fig Leaf smells like it always does: wet dirt, decomposition, green so intense you can almost taste chlorophyll when you breathe in.
The sound system is stuck on a playlist called “Botanic Chill,” which means I am currently being serenaded by a synth-pop version of “Fast Car,” heavy on marimba.
I love this store—and I still do, to be honest, even if this isn’t my forever job.
When I was fifteen, I thought it would be the only job I’d ever want.
I used to come here after school just to run my fingers along the petunias, pick up the stray soil from the counter and set it back in place.
There was something safe about the work.
Predictable. You water, they grow. They die, you compost and begin again.
But now, the air inside makes my chest feel tight.
Every movement is a tiny apology: to the plants, to the customers, to myself.
I keep tugging my sleeve down over my wrist even though the handcuff mark is barely visible anymore, just a faint red ring with a single deeper crescent where the edge must have bit in.
I wonder if it will fade by tomorrow, or if it’s one of those things that takes weeks to go away, like a secret stain.
I think about texting Stella, but I don’t because I can’t handle her over-the-top chatter right now.
The routine is still the routine, even if my brain is running on two second delays.
The register is finicky, so I ring up each succulent with an extra tap.
I restock the shelf by the door with tiny cacti, their needles so fine you can’t see them until they’re in your thumb.
I sweep spilled soil from the concrete in tight, circular gestures, like erasing a blackboard.
Around noon, the sun hits the front windows and turns the place into a terrarium; sweat crawls down my back even though it’s only 68 on the thermostat.
My manager, Angela, is somewhere in the back, probably pricing shipment.
I hear her moving boxes, the clatter of pots on the metal counter, the slow, deliberate way she sighs when something doesn’t fit on a shelf.
There’s an energy to her that’s always struck me as halfway between drill sergeant and daycare provider.
She once told me, “I don’t want anything from you except that you show up and try.
” I used to think that was kindness. Now I wonder if it was just a way of lowering her own bar.
The last customer leaves at 2:53, a woman with two teenage sons and a hard question about fiddle-leaf figs. She doesn’t look at me when I hand her the change, just scoops up her bag and nudges the boys ahead. As the bell above the door falls silent, I realize I’m shaking.
I take inventory of myself: Dress code on point (khaki shorts, black tee), hair mostly under control, no visible mascara streaks. I am, on paper, perfectly normal.
I tell myself to get it together.
I walk to the back, past the orchid rack and the row of prayer plants, to where Angela is hunched over a flat of seedlings with her clipboard. She doesn’t look up when I stop a few feet away, just clicks her pen, notes something, and then lets the pen fall behind her ear.
“Everything okay, Kayleigh?” she says without looking. Her voice is all warm Minnesota, that distinct up-tilt at the end of each sentence, but it carries a little static now.
I open my mouth to answer and close it again. For a second, my mind is a blank screen, just the blue screen of death. Then, as if by remote control, I say, “Um actually, yes. I need to leave the Fig Leaf. I mean, leave as in quit. I’m really sorry for the short notice.”
Angela looks up fast, her face freezing for a second, eyebrows arched. “Today? Now?” she says.
I nod. “I know it’s not fair. I should have given notice. I’m sorry. I just—” I let the sentence dangle, like maybe the rest of it will show up in the next breath.
Angela looks at me for a long second, then sets the clipboard on the counter, careful not to squash the seedlings. “Are you okay, Kayleigh?” she asks, and this time the up-tilt is gone. Just flat, serious concern. “Something seems off. You know that it’s common courtesy to give two weeks notice.”
I have rehearsed this in my head: Next step.
Not a botanist. Time for something different.
I say, “Yes, but something came up unexpectedly, I’m so sorry.
I have to take a different position,” and then realize I didn’t say it right.
“A new job, I mean. A private job. Like, a personal assistant, sort of?”
Angela’s eyebrows do a thing, one up and one down, and I realize how stupid it sounds. “For whom, may I ask?”
“My family, kind of. It’s—” My mouth dries out.
Trevor said not to tell anyone, and even if he hadn’t, what could I say?
That I’d been bought at auction and now work for my stepbrother as his live-in sex slave?
That he locked me in a room with a handcuff and a list of chores and made clear that my existence depends on him alone?
Even worse, that the idea of it doesn’t even really scare me, not in the way it should?
“It’s a long story,” I say, blushing wildly. I look at the counter, at the little baby leaves cupping up to the light, and wish I could disappear into thin air.
Angela is silent. Then, in a motion so fast I barely see it, she pulls the pen from behind her ear and sets it on the table. She says, “Kayleigh, you don’t owe me or The Fig Leaf anything. But if something’s wrong, you should tell me.”
The urge to confess is so strong my knees almost buckle.
I want to tell her everything, even the parts that make no sense—about the auction, the handcuffs, the way Trevor touched me, the fact that I don’t know if I’m in love or in the middle of a mental breakdown.
I want to say that I’m scared, but that I’m also happier than I was last week, which must mean I’m insane.
Instead, I say: “It’s not what you think.” Then, because my brain is still trying to sabotage me, I add: “I’m not in any danger or anything like that.”
Angela nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. She glances at my sleeve, which I’ve let slide back just enough to show the red mark on my wrist. Her eyes linger there, not with the coldness of someone taking inventory, but with the sharp, immediate attention of someone who’s seen this before.
“You know,” she says, softer now, “my husband works at Hennepin. In the ER. If you ever need help, you should call. Even if it’s in the middle of the night. I don’t mind.”
“Um thanks,” I say lamely. “But I swear, this isn’t what you think it is.”
Angela sighs heavily, and then pulls a business card from her apron and slides it across the counter to me.
It has her number, both the store and her personal cell, in neat block print.
She covers it with her hand for a second, then lifts her eyes to mine.
“I’m serious, Kayleigh. People care about you.
If you need a place to go, or someone to call, don’t be a stranger. ”
The words hit somewhere low in my chest. I nod, take the card, and put it in my back pocket with the weird care you give to something you might need later, in an emergency.
We stand in silence for a while, just the sound of the vent fan above and the faint drip of the hydroponic shelf. Angela picks up the clipboard again but doesn’t start writing. She just turns it over, runs her thumb along the edge, and watches me.
“We’ll miss you,” she says in an even tone, making too-direct eye contact. “You were a good employee.”
I smile wanly.
“Thank you for everything,” I murmur and mean it, even though my voice is watery. “This was the best job I ever had, I swear, and I’m sorry to leave you like this.”
Angela’s face does another shift—this time softer, almost maternal. “Go home,” she says. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
“Um thanks, okay,” I say, and for a second, I’m scared I might cry. I swallow it down.
On my way out, I pass the wall of ferns near the entrance, the fronds arching up and out like they want to pull me in for a hug.
I drag my fingers along the edge of the shelf, leave a faint streak in the condensation.
The air outside is cooler than I expect, sharp and almost sweet after the thick humidity inside.
I walk half a block before stopping to look at the business card again, just to make sure it’s real.
It is.
I slide it into my phone case, where I keep things I can’t lose, and keep walking.
My pulse is so high it rattles in my teeth, but I don’t slow down.
Not even when I realize that, underneath it all, I’m actually excited.
I’ve finished the first task on his list.
I quit my job to become his full-time sex slave.
And now, I want to see what Trevor will do next.