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I gave Ken plenty of space that morning. I waited until he was out of the bathroom to go brush my teeth. I took my time getting ready, applying an extra-bold swipe of liquid eyeliner and going back and forth over whether I should tuck my rumpled burgundy bob behind one ear or just brush it all forward and hide behind it like Cousin Itt from TheAddams Family.
I went with the single ear tuck and a hefty helping of false bravado. Pulling on my favorite ripped jeans and a black Ramones T-shirt, I took a deep breath, held my head high, and sauntered down the stairs like the badass punk rock princess I was always pretending to be.
Fuck Ken Easton. Who the hell is he? Just some hot, smart guy with a killer bod and a gorgeous house. Pssh. Whatever. He doesn’t even have any tattoos. I refuse to get upset over a guy who has anything less than a full sleeve. And at least three piercings.
“Good morning.” I beamed as I crossed the living room into the kitchen.
Ken was sitting at his sun-drenched breakfast table, eating a bowl of cereal. His hair was still damp from his shower. I could smell the Irish Spring soap on him from across the room. And he was wearing a light-blue button-up shirt that made his eyes look like a pair of tropical lagoons.
Eyes that were trained on the television in the living room where a man in a suit was announcing stock market projections.
“Cinnamon Toast Crunch, huh?” I teased, casting a judgmental look in the direction of the box on the table. “I figured you for more of a dozen-raw-eggs kinda guy.”
Ken’s aqua gaze lifted to mine. “Breakfast of champions,” he said with a half-assed smile. “Want some?”
My stomach growled—no, snarled in response. I’d atoned for all the damage I’d done at Gusto’s Trattoria on Valentine’s Day by successfully abstaining from food the entire next day, but now, we were going on day two, and that was pushing it. Even for me.
I could feel my mouth begin to sweat and my hands begin to tremble as I stared at the box full of empty calories on the table. With that simple two-worded question, a familiar battle had begun. The one between my basic need to survive and my irrational need to be Kate Moss. Pangs of hunger clawed at the walls of my stomach, but they didn’t have the desired effect on me. I liked the pain. I liked to see how long I could hold out before it became unbearable.
Maybe Ken and I weren’t so different after all.
“No, thanks,” I replied after swallowing a mouthful of saliva.
Ken narrowed his eyes at me. “Not a breakfast person?”
“Nope.” I met his questioning gaze with one of stubborn defiance.
Shrugging, Ken stood up and carried his bowl over to the sink.
He hadn’t touched me since we woke up. Hell, he’d hardly even spoken to me.
I stood in the center of the kitchen, feeling awkward and unwelcome, as Ken placed his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Opening a drawer next to the machine, he began removing tiny objects and putting them into the pockets of his low-slung khakis—his car keys, his wallet, a blue pen, maybe a pack of gum. Then, he paused before removing one last item from the drawer.
Turning toward me, Ken’s face was all business. I didn’t like his vibe. I imagined it was how he regarded his employees whenever they fucked up. Impassive. Impersonal. Impervious to their emotional bullshit.
“I gotta go,” he announced, placing the last object on the kitchen counter. “Lock up when you leave, okay?” Ken pulled his hand back, revealing a single…silver…key.
My mouth fell open. My wide eyes flicked to his. And my brain screamed one long, high-pitched syllable that sounded a lot like the word, KEEEEYYYYYYYYY!!!
I nodded vigorously. “Okay,” I squeaked.
Then, I jumped him.
After sending Ken off to work with nude lipstick smeared all over his pretty face, I locked the front door and turned to find myself in Oz. The sun warmed my pale skin. The birds sang a collective chorus. A patch of cheery yellow daffodils was beginning to bloom beneath the large Bradford pear tree in Ken’s front yard. Winter, that bitch, was finally releasing its hold on me.
In December, my relationship with Hans had crashed and burned, taking with it a few close friends and my first taste of adult independence. In January, I’d retreated into the protective shell of my parents’ house, becoming a streetwear-folding, term paper–writing, psychology-studying ghost girl. But, that February, as I drove home, admiring the shiny new key hanging next to the can of mace on my key ring, I felt something I hadn’t in a long, long time.
Hope.
I tried to tiptoe across the threshold of my parents’ house, but it was no use. I was busted.
“Brooke Bradley, come in here and sit down.” My mother was standing in the kitchen with one hand on her hip and the other pointing at a barstool, a rare show of authority coming from her. Her long red hair was pulled up in a high bun, and she had on her usual Sunday attire of yoga pants and a tie-dyed T-shirt.
I hung my head and did the walk of shame down the parquet hall.
Sitting where I’d been told, I dropped my overnight bag and purse on our sad excuse for a kitchen island.
“This whole coming in at all hours of the night thing has got to stop,” she announced. “I know you’re an adult now, but when you don’t come home, I can’t sleep. I stay up all night, worrying about you.” She began to pace across the linoleum floor, throwing her arms this way and that. “If you’re gonna keep living here, we’re just…I don’t know…we’re gonna have to go back to a curfew or something.”
