Page 9

Lilah looked focused, peaceful, and free. Her brows furrowed, her nose twitched as she tilted her head from side to side before resuming her work. I was dying to see what she was painting, but given the option of watching her face, I couldn’t pass up the true work of art. None of what I had seen that day did anything to calm the fever inside me. It only added more layers and questions that I was even more desperate to know the answers to.

I could watch her paint forever. It was the only thought in my head as I stood in the shadows, watching her like the creep everyone accused me of being. Realizing the class had to be ending soon, I regretfully returned to the parking lot, helmet covering my face as I waited for Lilah to return to her car.

Instead of returning home, she wound back into town, parking only a few blocks away from the coffee shop I had sat in front of that morning. Lilah got out, reaching her arms above her head as she stretched. Her back arched, and her long hair was dangling. After yawning big, she reached into the back seat and grabbed an apron with the logo of the local pub on it. Wrapping it around her waist, she locked the door before heading in to start what I had to assume was another work shift.

Lilah had left her house at five, and the only time spent off her feet was the driving in between. Even during her class, she was standing. I couldn’t imagine how tired she was, but to add another shift? She was going to make herself sick running around like that. The house she lived in was nice, but I knew it was a rental.

What does she need money for? Is it for school? Not to mention, isn’t she a little old for college? Not that it meant shit to me. I never went. I just thought she looked closer to my age. Not exactly fresh out of high school graduation. The decision was made in my head before I even realized I was on my bike and back on the road.

Parking at Mom’s, I walked the few blocks between her house and Lilah’s. Heading around back, I was able to get the door open in a few minutes. I gritted my teeth at how easy it was to get in and at the realization there wasn’t even an alarm set. She needed new locks and a full security system in that place.

Taking my time, I walked through the kitchen. The house smelled like flowers—a soft scent present in all the rooms. There were no photos on the fridge, no invitations or notes. As I made my way further into the house, I realized the lack of photos was a common theme. There were three frames in the living room. One was of a couple on their wedding day. Based on their outfits and the yellow tint to the photo, I would assume it was from the forties.

The next photo had Lilah as a small child, sitting with who I assumed was the woman in the wedding portrait. In that photo, her hair was grey and wrinkles littered her skin, but the smile was the same. An older man stood behind the two with ice cream cones dripping onto his hands. All three were laughing, and I spent extra time studying Lilah’s face there. Carefree and happy. I hoped most of her childhood was like that.

The last picture looked like it had been professionally done. An austere-looking couple dressed in suits stood pin-straight behind two small girls, one blonde and smiling, the other dark-haired and looking off camera anxiously—a family photo, I assumed, but the distance between the members was tangible.

Putting the photos down, I made my way into the bedroom. Turning the light on, I was overwhelmed with all of the personal touches. The bed was unmade, the blankets tossed back as if she had gotten up quickly. The silky sheets were bright purple, and the comforter was equally as vibrant. The smell of flowers was stronger there, mixed with something warm and alluring, something purely Lilah.

Drawers were still pulled out, a few tops laid out on the bed on hangers. The house wasn’t dirty; it was loud, mismatched, and messy. It fit her perfectly. Stepping into the bathroom, I noticed the steady drip of her sink. Before I could think too much about it, I decided to check the pipes. Moving tampons and other items to the side, I quickly located the loose washer causing the leak.

Needing a wrench, I headed downstairs to try to figure out where it might be. Off the kitchen was a storage closet that was full with jackets, boots, shovels, and beach chairs. A red toolbox on the top shelf caught my eye, and I grabbed it, unintentionally dragging the folder it was sitting on with it.

The folder dropped at my feet, ejecting photographs and handwritten notes. Bending down to clean up my mess, I froze. Dropping to my knees, I gently flipped the folder open, pulling the contents out and examining each piece one by one. Printed photographs. The first one was of her face, her cheek red, the clear mark of fingers dimpled her temple. Small cuts dotted her forehead and face, as if shards of glass had been thrown at her. It was dated next to the name Kyle Spencer.

Printed emails where Kyle alternated between begging and threatening Lilah to come back to him. The final punch in the gut was the wedding invitation for one Lilah Wright and Kyle Spencer tucked behind it all. The date was well over a year before, and by the looks of things, it hadn’t happened.

I had to know more. I had to know if she was safe. What else did he do to her? Whatever it was, it was scary enough that she had uprooted her entire life and moved there, alone. I made sure everything was back in place before returning the folder to the top shelf. Grabbing a wrench from the toolbox, I went back upstairs, making quick work of fixing the sink and tightening her shower head while I was in there.

I wished I could hold her, make sure she was okay. Find Kyle Spencer and show him what it meant to hurt women in my world. For the moment, I would do my bit from afar. Lilah wasn’t alone anymore. I’d make sure she was safe—even from me.

Chapter 6

Lilah

Payday. I let myself enjoy the brief feeling of accomplishment as I counted the collection of checks and tips from both of my jobs. It was the only way to feel a tangible reward of my hard work. By the time my checking account processed the new money, though, it would be leaving just as quickly.

Rent, utilities, tuition, and car payments would dice through it with ruthless precision. And those were just the necessities. Never mind the list of nonessential items I still desperately craved. If there was any money left after paying my monthly bills, I did my best not to spend anything extra. Every so often, though, I treated myself to a little something just for me.

Usually, that meant art supplies, but occasionally, it was clothing or hair dye. I was still trying to find myself, figure out who the real Lilah was, after being stripped of the albatross that was my family and their rules.

Too curvy, too quiet, too distracted. I was never good enough when it came to my family and their expectations. Their judgment was like a weight pressing down on me, flattening me out. It smoothed all the wrinkles until I was one-dimensional, muted to be palatable for high society.

So, each month, I tried to find something that called to me in a way I would have shoved down before. Loud, colorful, unknown. I wanted that feeling of excitement, of getting closer to learning who I really was.

My family, the people I considered acquaintances from my old life, were undeserving of my headspace and concern. They didn’t value me. I didn’t think they even loved me. Not in a way that didn’t cause pain.

That last time I saw my family in person was when I told them I had canceled my engagement. They were apparently quite shocked that I had chosen to stand my ground, even when they followed through with their threats to cut me off.

My sister had reached out over social media, but I was never big on those apps. Once I saw the messages from her, I went ahead and deleted those accounts as well. There was nothing they could say or do at that point to repair the chasm in our relationship. There was no mutual love, respect, or concern among us. At least I was honest enough to admit it and acknowledge that I wanted more for my life. For me.

Done with chasing their affection, I was finally focusing on my own wants and needs. The hardest part of that new phase in my life was trying to love myself—something I was still working on. It felt wrong, and it was painful, a foreign and guilt-inducing feeling I was constantly fighting.

I didn’t have to work at the bar that night, so instead of driving straight home after class, I decided to park in town, take a walk around, and see if there was a treat I could get for the weekend. Maybe a book or new art supplies. The sun was setting, but it wasn’t too chilly, the early April weather mild. Shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, I strolled through town, stopping to look in windows, but nothing was calling to me.

There was one locally owned bookshop, and the big chain store was over thirty minutes away. I like this place better anyway. Books and Baubles sold a mix of things, and there was always something I could talk myself into purchasing.

Taking my time, I walked through the aisles, pulling out books and flipping through pages, trying to figure out what I was in the mood for. That was one thing I noticed since I had been on my own: my extreme indecisiveness.