Page 55

I don’t argue when Rogue has made up her mind; it’s final. She won’t budge, and I am just glad she didn’t fire me. If I had to find a new job, I don’t know what I would do. I barely have enough savings to survive the week off, let alone losing my job.

The nights have gotten cooler the last few days, and I pull my jacket on before I walk outside. I take the long way home, needing to clear my head, and I am in no hurry. I love having my own space, but sometimes it gets lonely, and I think that’s why I stayed with Kyle for so long. His apartment was comfortable, and while I knew he was cheating for at least half of our relationship, it was nice not to be alone.

When I’m still half a block from home, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I know the feeling of being watched; it comes with the territory of working in a bar, and I can feel when eyes are on me. I scan the area but find nothing out of the ordinary. The street is empty, it’s late, and I’m tired. I don’t normally scare easily, but my nerves are on edge after the other night, so I pick up my pace. Once I round the last corner, turning onto my street, the feeling vanishes, and I laugh at myself.

Mabel is on the front step, which isn’t unusual. Sometimes the older women in the neighborhood get together for what they claim is a book club, but I never see a book—only wine and snacks.

“You’ve got a secret admirer,” she says as I reach the bottom step, holding out a bunch of yellow flowers.

My stomach drops, and I am transported back to the one time in my life I would rather forget, or rather a person—Aaron.

I thought he was the love of my life, and he saved me from living in a toxic home. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but I was never good enough. I’m still not, but I have come to terms with that. Aaron used to bring me flowers to say sorry, but he was never truly sorry; it was a performance, a way to keep me quiet and sweep our issues under the rug. At first, I believed him, but then he kept doing it again and again.

I never saw the pattern. I wasn’t taught to look out for men like him. So when he commented on my clothes, it was in a way that made me feel good at first. He told me how beautiful I looked in certain outfits, but over time it shifted into how bad I looked. Without realizing it, I dressed in clothes he wanted me to wear, but I was so blind to his manipulation.

“Thank you,” I say to Mabel, then make my escape upstairs. I refuse to cry in front of anyone when it comes to him; he doesn’t deserve my tears.

The keys jingle in my hands as I try to open my door.

For fuck’s sake, Kayla, get your shit together. Aaron is long gone.

The air is thick as I finally push the door open and step inside, slamming the door behind me and backing up against it.

Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

I repeat the mantra over and over, clutching the yellow chrysanthemums to my chest.

When I finally feel like I can breathe, I slide down the door and pull out the little white card, flipping it over.

I’m sorry.

Yeah, me too.

I’m sorry I let myself think I was ready. I’m sorry I could see myself falling for him. I’m sorry for the things I said. Yet I miss him, actually. If I’m honest with myself, I miss them all, and that pisses me off. Though I barely know them, a bunch of men with visible red flags have me all up in my feelings.

I compose myself and push up off the ground, muttering a curse—I promised myself I would never cry over a man again.

Even if I’m angry and hate apology flowers, they did nothing to me and deserve to be put in a vase. Since I don’t own a vase, I find a jug and fill it with water and put the flowers in there before finding a bottle of red I have been saving. I’m not really a wine girl, but it is my go-to when I feel down.

The flowers catch my eye as I take a sip of my wine. Aaron always sent me red roses, and I realize now they were never about me—it was all about appearances.

There is no way Vero could know I hate receiving flowers; he isn’t Aaron and has sent these because he is genuinely sorry. But due to my past, sorry is just a word to me, one I have heard so many times before.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.

I’m sorry, but you made me angry.

I’m sorry, but I did it for you.

Sorry, sorry, fucking sorry.

I spent years with a man who made me feel like his abuse was love, and I am still trying to unlearn what that taught me. I can’t think about the night in the bar and not worry. Not because I think Vero is dangerous to me like Aaron was, but because Vero loves hard—I see it when he is with Brawley. I can’t ignore that my life was simple for the first time in so long until these men bulldozed through that so easily and quickly, waving their red flags. Though I was okay with it, since I was in control—for the first time in my life. But that night in the bar it felt like I was back with Aaron, with no control. I can’t feel like that again.

I did the right thing, or at least I think I did. But then why do I feel so shitty about it?

One glass of wine turns into another and another until I pour the last of the bottle into my glass. I see my window shift, and I shake it off—maybe I’m tipsy and imagining things.

Then I watch it slide up.