Page 52 of Boardroom Mask

19

JILLIAN

“So I will wait for the next time you want me”

— “Moon Song” by Phoebe Bridgers

I leave the playground before the last family does. I don’t want to be the woman standing alone at a fence in the dark. And God forbid someone ask me if I’m okay. What would I even say?

Thanks for asking! No, I’m not okay at all! In fact, I’m deeply depressed and fucked-up in ways I cannot even begin to describe! I have PTSD and my trauma has trauma, I sleep with the lights on, I am developing strange fetishes for masked men with domination kinks, and I think I’m subconsciously blowing my life up because deep down, I don’t believe that I deserve great things! But I so appreciate your question!

I put my headphones in and turn the volume up until the music is so loud it hurts. Phoebe Bridgers is the songstress of choice this evening. Not the smart choice when you’re already a mess, but I’m clearly not making smart choices today.

The grocery store on Broadway is basically deserted. I’m surprised it’s even open. Thanksgiving, of course, means that everyone’s happily at home, sitting around tables with people they belong to. I grab a basket and walk the aisles without a list, grabbing items at random. Eggs. Bread. Milk. Clementines. I add yogurt and a box of granola bars and a bottle of cheap red wine that I’ll drink tonight on my couch while I put my mental screensaver on and try not to think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

The checkout girl has tinsel in her hair. She wishes me a happy Thanksgiving and I say “you, too” and smile, even though the effort it costs me to smile feels like pushing a boulder up a hill.

Outside, the cold stings my wet cheeks and I realize I’m still crying. Not too bad, not the kind anyone would notice, but definitely, undeniably tears. I’ve sprung a leak and it won’t stop, no matter how many times I wipe my face and curse myself.

It’s the playground that’s doing it to me. That was a stupid detour and I should’ve known better. I don’t let myself do this often—not just the playground drive-by, but the other stuff that always comes with it. The math, the imagining.

I hope she looks nothing like him, wherever she is.

I shift the grocery bag to my other arm and walk faster. The music drowns out the street noise and my own breathing and everything else I don’t want to hear right now.

Home. Wine. Couch. That’s the whole plan. It sounds blissfully dull, and I couldn’t be happier to do it?—

—until a hand grabs me by the elbow and drags me into the dark mouth of an alley.

I’m so surprised that I let go of my groceries. The bag hits the pavement and all the eggs crack, wine spills, and clementines go rolling everywhere. But I can’t even spare a thought for my poor lost fruits, because there’s a tall, dangerous man who’s demanding my full and undivided attention.

I know it’s him before I even turn around. I’ve felt this exact gloved hand on my body enough times now to recognize it. I yank my arm free and spin.

He’s standing in the alley in full gear. Black jacket, hat on, and the mask. The fucking ski mask, right here, on a public street in Manhattan.

“Are you out of your mind?” I hiss. “Have you been following me?”

He just breathes and stares at me.

“Hey.” I shove his chest. It barely registers. “I asked you a question. Have you been following me?”

He nods silently.

“For how long?”

He shrugs.

My hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear. It’s rage. Uncut, uncomplicated rage, and God, it feels good to feel something clean for once.

“This wasn’t the deal,” I spit. “You come to my apartment. That’s it. That’s where this happens. That’s—that’s the container, okay? That’s what makes it manageable. You show up at my window, we do what we do, you leave. That’s the arrangement. You don’tget to follow me around the city in a ski mask and drag me into alleys.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

“You couldn’twait?” I repeat. “What are you, a child? You couldn’t wait a few hours?”

He shakes his head.

I press my back against the brick wall and fold my arms across my chest. My wired earbuds got ripped out when he grabbed me and Phoebe Bridgers is tinkling faintly from where they dangle against my coat. I pull them out of the jack and stuff them in my pocket. “Someone could see you, you know.”