DEAL
Sara
For a long time after the door clicks shut, I stay still.
Chris’s footsteps fade, but the low buzz of the beam overhead remains. I lie on my side, eyes fixed on the void, tears slowly soaking into the mattress beneath my cheek in a constant stream. My mind refuses to cry, but my body needs to let go of the pressure.
His words loop in my head: You know it doesn’t have to be like this. I don’t understand why he said it.
I’m nowhere near trusting him, but what he said felt sincere. He doesn’t need to change anything at all. He could leave me to rot in here and get paid anyway. I doubt this arrangement with Richard depends on how I’m treated.
I sniff and wipe my face, then finally roll onto my back.
Something soft brushes against my leg. At the foot of the bed, folded neatly like it hadn’t been through hell, lies my hoodie.
I jerk upright and stretch out my arm, half convinced it’ll dissolve right before I can touch it.
Have I lost it so badly I’m hallucinating?
No, it’s really there, the fabric soft under my hand.
I lift it onto my lap, inspecting it. It’s clean.
The tear is gone, repaired so seamlessly I wouldn’t know it had been there at all.
I bury my face in it and breathe deep. It’s warm with the scent of peach and cotton clinging to its fibers.
I cradle it against me. After days of total emptiness, there’s more than numbness or pain.
A spark ignites deep within my soul where I believed all was dead.
When I lift my head, I spot a small stack of clothes. All mine. Except for the sneakers at the bottom. They’re exactly like the ones I wore when I came here, but I can tell they’re new. How did he manage? Hard to picture Prime delivering out here.
I straighten up slowly, my body protesting from every angle, but I’m not bothered. At the sink, I wash my face and finger-comb my hair. It’s ridiculous how much it helps to do the smallest things in this situation. Cleaning up and putting on fresh clothes brings a piece of me back. I’m human again.
Sitting down at the table, I stare at the door.
Why did he change his mind? Or did he? I recall the way he frowned when I screamed at him for touching my hoodie.
He didn’t know what he’d done, confusion washing over his face the instant I lunged for that piece of clothing. He must’ve thought I’d gone crazy.
A gust of cold wind brushes my skin, pulling my attention to the man in the doorway. Our eyes lock, a long beat hanging between us.
“You ready to start over?” he asks at last.
I push past the knot of doubt in my chest and choose to take the chance.
Outside the air is crisp, making my lungs ache when I breathe it in too fast. The sunlight catches in my eyes and I have to squint, but it’s beautiful.
Not exactly warm. It’s early and the chill hasn’t faded yet.
The sky is a clear blue, and the mist hovering over the lake curls like smoke in slow motion. Nothing stirs but the birds.
It’s strange to have space again. My legs shake, like they’ve forgotten how to carry me farther than around the bed. I fight the stiffness. Chris keeps his pace matched to mine and his hands to himself but stays close enough that the scent of cedar drifts over with every step.
Even without him around, running wouldn’t be an option right now. My sore feet won’t let me, and I’m not making the same mistake twice. Plan A’s still there if this goes sideways. I’m out of the cage now. Getting his phone and making a call isn’t impossible.
The porch is bathed in sunlight. A wooden bench presses against the cabin wall, one of those sturdy picnic tables in front of it, the kind I remember from field trips in school, deep in the forest where you could smell the bark and moss and your packed lunch always tasted better than it did at home.
The food is different, though. A huge pile of pancakes is waiting in the center along with every kind of spread you could wish for.
Syrup, butter, and jars of jam are lined up neatly.
A steaming pot and a kettle sit nearby, accompanied by matching mugs, plates, and neatly arranged napkins, completing the cozy breakfast setup.
The last time I had breakfast like this, Mom was alive to share it with me.
I push the thought away before it settles.
My stomach grumbles before I can stop it. The corners of Chris’s mouth twitch.
“I wasn’t sure if you’re more into coffee or tea in the morning,” he explains, “so I made both.”
Hard to believe the same man who manhandled me into a shed is now serving a Pinterest-worthy breakfast.
“You can sit,” he says, gesturing toward the bench and adding a quick “if you want.”
Cautiously, I lower myself onto it, the sunlight draping over me, offering comfort. He sits next to me at a deliberate distance.
I go for the coffee first, chasing the comfort of heat and the kick of caffeine. It burns my tongue, but I don’t mind, relishing the warmth as it travels down my throat, soothing the anxious flutter deep in my belly.
The sight of the little pancake mountain almost excites me even if I’m still a prisoner. One bite and my taste buds go wild. No way this came from a boxed mix. My gaze drifts to him, unable to hide my surprise.
“Good?” He smirks.
I nod slowly, my eyes wide and my mouth full.
Chris coughs lightly. “How are your feet? The cuts and all. Think I could check later, see how they’re healing?”
I halt mid-chew, my hand gripping the fork harder. I study him, unsure if it’s a trick or genuine concern. His expression gives nothing away, but it’s not threatening, so I agree with a hushed mmh.
He’s not pushing conversation, and I’m glad. Sitting here with him is both uncomfortable and oddly peaceful. We both take the chance to size each other up, trading glances and tracking every move.
After a while, the fork on my plate clatters as my knee begins to bounce, causing the whole table to vibrate.
“What?” he asks, sounding more curious than demanding, a tiny grin tugging at his lips. He tilts his head, silently encouraging me to speak, and then I can’t help it. “What would you have done,” I ask, staring at the lake, “if I hadn’t come out?”
He laughs under his breath. “Had a really big breakfast.”
I tilt my chin down, hoping he doesn’t pick up on the almost-smile creeping in.
The hint of lightness between us fades.
“Did you think about what I said? I need your word you won’t do anything that puts you, or anyone else, at risk.”
I know what he’s referring to, what he’s asking. I take a moment before I answer. Being difficult does not equal being a liar, and I may be considered one, but I’m certainly not the other. If I give him my word, I intend to keep it, and I want to be sure I can.
“I guess that includes running away?” I ask, testing the waters.
“Yeah, it does,” he answers as fast as I can get the question out.
Before I retreat too far into my head again, he keeps talking. “Listen, I’ll try to make your stay here as tolerable as I can for both of us. It would be a lot easier if I could trust you at least a little bit. Can I?”
I swallow hard before forcing out a weak “okay.” It costs me, that word. Surrendering is like tearing away a part of me I wasn’t ready to let go of. My pride, maybe, or everything I fought to become.
There’s a pause, and then he holds out his hand. “Deal?”
My gaze drops to it, then lifts to him. Nothing in his gesture demands anything.
It’s an offer. My fingers brush his as I reach out.
In contrast to my hand, his is warm and firm, completely enveloping mine, sending heat through my veins.
For the first time, touch means more than force or pain.
It makes my heart thump in a way I don’t comprehend. Must be nerves.
We finish eating without saying much else, and it’s not terrible. When we’re done, he stands and invites me inside. “Wanna see the rest of the cabin?”
“Sure, but can I... shower first?” It comes out too soft. I hate how insecure I sound. “Alone,” I clarify.
His face doesn’t change. “Go ahead. I’ll stay out of your way. Call me if you get dizzy or anything. I’d rather not risk you getting hurt again.”
There’s a trace of remorse in his voice, but it’s obvious what he really means. Me making stupid choices, that’s what he doesn’t want to risk.