Page 12 of After Our Kiss

- Chapter Four -

Georgia Mary King

Nine Years Later

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Trash. Trash. Water bill. Trash.Sighing, I fanned out my stack of mail. It wasn't like I expected anything really interesting. I just wept for all the trees being repurposed to try and sell me Mike-George's Auto Care and other junk.Hmm, flier for a local book swap meet.That could be interesting-worth hanging on to for now, at least.

Stepping back inside my apartment, I double locked my door without a thought. My third floor barred windows brought in the hazy glow of the streetlights. I could see every corner at once, no matter where I stood. I could have afforded more but it was perfect for me.

Quaint.

Efficient.

Easy to spot danger.

Humming to myself, I opened the drawer under my computer desk. It was where I tossed things I wanted to look at when I had more time to dedicate to them. Usually it was filled with coupons I'd forget to use, or poetry I'd clipped and saved because my mother had asked me to.

I paused when I dropped the white envelope inside. There was a matching set wrapped in an elastic rubber band in there. They looked no different than my water bill, but they were night and day. A stiff reminder of who I'd been and who I stillwas.

My story on the news was brief and open ended. No gory details—just a teenage girl escaping a dangerous man. Countless TV personalities asking, “Haveyouseen Facile Adams? Doyouhave any information to help solve this case?”

I'd expected phone calls. Hot lines with tips. Even harassment.

I received none of it.

Then, a month after people stopped talking about me, the first letter arrived.

I touched it now, feeling the crinkles from being read and re-read. My mysterious pen pal had never given me their name or home address; just a simple P.O. box. But for a little while, there was someone to talk to about my experience... and about Conway.

I even wondered if it washimwriting to me. Except the questions were too focused on things he'd already know. Personal details no one else cared about.

After my mother moved us closer to Memorial Ketter Hospital here in New York, the letters stopped. I hadn't tried to restart communication. I'd had other things to worry about.

A loud knock came at my door. Placing everything carefully back in my desk, I shut it and hurried over to peer through the peephole cautiously. The girl waiting outside was tall, raven haired, and pushing the limits of everyday street-wear with her chocolate colored dress covered in zippers.

Chelsea Casey: fan of a thousand Pinterest boards, organic anything, and petting all the dogs. My one and only very close friend. I knew why she was here, and I groaned as I opened the door. “Hey,” I said, “You're early.”

“Oh no. No, no, no, my dear.” She dropped a plastic bag on my kitchen table. “You said you'd let me take you out. That means we do itmyway.”

“But the party is in two hours!”

“And I'll need every minute to help you get ready,” she said, winking. Strutting to my closet, she threw it open. Putting her hand up, she recoiled in horror. “Maybe I should have gotten here yesterday. Do you really have no other clothes?”

“Of course,” I said, waving at myself. “I have these, too.”

“Hardy harr,” she said, digging through my outfits. “I should have brought some of mine.”

Picturing myself in the avant-garde contraptions she adored, I sank into my couch. “The world isn't ready for that. Or I'm not, anyway.”

“Mm hmm, mm hmm, very—ah! Here, this is perfect!”

“I forgot I had that,” I said, eyeballing the dress she'd yanked free.

She spun it in a circle. “It's sexy. Why have I never seen it?” Pausing, she fiddled with the zipper, revealing a piece of paper. “It still has the tag on! Have youneverworn this?”

Flopping backwards, I pushed a pillow to my face. “I bought it in a fever dream of an online sale. It's not something I ever expected to really wear.”

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