Page 19 of The Perfect Heart

IT WAS MONDAY, WHICH meant the bar was closed, and I had the day off. It was the only day I had off all week, but that was by design—I had asked Nash for just that schedule so I could collect more tips and also so I didn’t have to be alone with myself and my thoughts.

It also meant I filled my days off doing things, and today, I had designated the day to run errands.

I had managed to save enough in tips not only to do some grocery shopping but also to stop by the thrift store to get a few more clothes. It felt like a treat, but I was also afraid the clothes I had now would wear out if I didn’t get more. Or Nash would get suspicious.

Maybe both.

I checked myself in the scratched mirror, adjusting my shirt collar and rucking up my leggings, hoping the rags and double pair of socks would help keep my feet warm.

Nash didn’t know how much he was saving me by driving me back and forth to work. Or, rather, saving my feet.

One last check and I was hit with an odd sense of distortion. Only three weeks before, I had been standing in a closet the size of this apartment, trying to decide which outfit I would wear for a simple outing, shopping for yet more clothes. As if the racks filled behind me weren’t enough.

It had never been enough.

The image in my head of the woman in that gold-rimmed mirror, hair and makeup perfect, dressed in a dress that cost more than some people made in a year was entirely different than the image of the woman standing in front of me now.

How could they even be the same person? Which was reality, and which was a figment of my imagination? The feeling was so odd, the dichotomy so distinct, I felt dizzy for a moment and nearly had to sit down. Instead, I walked away from the mirror and took a long drink of water.

Focus on the present. One foot in front of the other.

Grabbing my keys from the table, I shoved the cabinet away from the door, slipped into my coat and gloves, and pulled Nash’s hat over my head. I caught sight of the pile of paychecks I had yet to deposit on the counter, my hand quivering as I almost reached for one before I snapped it back.

I could have used that money, but the last thing I wanted was to leave a paper trail for my ex, Jack, to find and follow. I had nearly opened a bank account when Nash had handed me the first check, but something had stopped me, held me back, the warning from my dreams ringing in my head: I’ll always find you.

Since then, my paychecks had been collecting dust in a small bowl while I did my best to collect as many tips as possible. Sometimes, being nice worked, other times, all I could do was hope and pray I had a handful of bills at the end of the night I could use to buy groceries.

It was stressful, but it was what I had to do for now. The only thing I wanted to do was get back to the life I’d had before I moved to LA, but I had to do it slowly and discreetly, or I would never get there.

The temperature was frigid, and I had to lean down carefully to place my usual gum wrapper in the door before I closed and locked it, afraid I might slip on the ice that had formed overnight. Whoever took care of Marie’s house while she rented it out had also begun salting my steps, for which I was eternally grateful, but they hadn’t been yet, and I had to make my careful way down. If I slipped and fell and then had to go to the hospital, that would be the end of it all. There weren’t enough tips in the world to cover a hospital bill.

The temperature might have been in the single digits, but the sun shone, making the snow sparkle as I set off. After the business of LA, I cherished the quiet stillness of the winter woods. My boots crunching in the snow and the faint burbling of the Wenatchee were the only sounds around me save for the occasional winter bird. I could see the high, rocky peaks of the snow-covered Cascades through the bare tree branches, a sight so stunning it took my breath away.

Not that I hadn’t loved living in LA, and in some ways, I missed it. After spending my life in a tiny snow town, the city’s energy and weather had energized me in a way I had never felt before. I missed the warm sand of the beach, so different from the chilly, rocky Washington coastline, the sea breezes in my hair, and the sound of the waves and gulls. I missed being able to walk outside in my shorts and flip-flops in the middle of November. I missed the food and endless things to do and see.

And yet, looking back now, all that seemed like a mirage or maybe a mask I used to hide my reality even from myself. It wasn’t LA that I hated—it was the woman I had become.

This, this landscape hushed by snow, was real. It was a part of me in the way only a hometown could be a part of someone. It was in the way I knew every nook and cranny, every back trail and shortcut, and how the high school and middle school bells brought out an impulse to get to class. It was in the way people I had known growing up waved or stopped to say hello in the grocery store. The older man I had lived across the street from growing up had even bought me a candy bar to welcome me back, which had been my dinner that night.

I had come back here without thinking, desperate for what felt like sanctuary. But now that I was here, I knew it was what I needed to get back to myself. And I would get there eventually. Life would, hopefully, return to normal as though LA had never happened.

And I needed it not to have happened.

The mid-morning town was quiet, the tourists just starting to wander out to the shops and restaurants. I passed by the bakery and made the mistake of glancing in the window, only to see row after row of pastries that made my mouth water. I almost caved, but my hand closed around the small stack of bills in my pocket, and I moved on—soon enough, I could have one.

Thankfully, before anything else could tempt me, I saw the sign for the thrift store just ahead. My hand was reaching for the door pull when another dark head appeared, heading toward me. Frantically, I looked around to see if I could duck through another doorway.

But Nicole had already seen me, her eyes narrowing instantly, her face creasing into an unmistakable expression of dislike. Then her gaze slid up to the wooden sign, and one side of her mouth curled into a nasty smirk.

“Okay, now I get this,” she said.

“Get what?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

“This.” Nicole flicked one perfectly manicured nail up and down, indicating me—or my outfit. “This isn’t mudhole chic, is it? This ratty isn’t some fashion choice. It’s just the thrift store. And here I thought you had gone to LA for design school.”

The woman’s smirk grew nastier as she talked, and I felt like shrinking into the sidewalk.

Nicole always wore nice clothes and, as much as I hated to admit it, always looked put-together. She probably went to Seattle to shop for designer clothes. Or something akin to it because I could tell just by looking she wasn’t spending a thousand dollars a pop on her sweater.