Page 3 of Fade With Me

My hands curled into a fist, nails biting into my palms. “Yeah, sure. No problem,” I gritted out, forcing a strained smile.

“That’s what I like to hear, Brynie girl,” he chirped. “Thanks, I’ll catch you later.” The call ended abruptly before I had a chance to respond.

I relaxed my fist, my fingers uncoiling like a spring released. Gently, I rubbed the crescent-shaped indentations my nails had left behind, a small attempt to soothe my frazzled nerves.

Reggie didn’t realize that I wasn’t planning on losing any sleep waiting for him, no matter how late he decided to stumble in. Let’s be real. He was never really here, anyway. Always “on a business call” or “tied up at the office,” which was just code for “hitting up the bars with Sal.” I knew the drill all too well.

After retreating to the solace of my bedroom, I changed into my nightgown and followed the familiar ritual of brushing my teeth. But when I settled into bed, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and guilt.

Under the cover of darkness, I retrieved the forbidden romance novel from its hiding place beneath mymattress, the one Reggie had deemed unworthy of my attention. He called it a foolish indulgence, a fantasy that would only bring disappointment and heartache. But I knew the truth behind his objections: he wanted to dictate everything, what I read, what I thought, what I felt. This book was my escape, my only refuge from the crushing monotony of my life. I wouldn’t let him take that from me. He could control my world, but he would never take my dreams.

The memory of the first time he’d caught me reading one of these books came flooding back. His eyes had flashed with rage as he snatched it from my hands, treating it like a venomous snake. He justified his actions as “protecting me” from lies that could lead me astray. What he was really afraid of, though, was losing control. Losing me to a world where I wasn’t his.

As I sank deeper into the pages, a nagging thought whispered that maybe Reggie had a point about the elusiveness of perfect love. Still, I let myself indulge in a little daydreaming, allowing the fantasy to take hold. In that world, love was pure, untainted—something real, something true. For a moment, I surrendered completely to the words, letting them sweep me away into the sweet, intoxicating haze of romance.

two

The next morning, I played the part of the dutiful wife, carefully wrapping Reggie's breakfast and stowing it in the fridge for him to grab when he finally dragged himself out of bed. I could already picture the scene: him stumbling out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and reeking of last night's indulgence. But I refused to let that ruin my day.

I slipped into one of my latest fashion creations, a bold ensemble that made me feel like a million bucks. The wedges I wore gave me aconfidence-boosting three-inch lift, and I swept my hair into a sleek, elegant bun, my features sharp and striking in the early light.

I tiptoed into Reggie’s lair—er, bedroom—to check if he was still snoozing the morning away. As expected, there he was, sprawled out across the bed, smelling of yesterday’s excess, still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the night before. I cracked the window open, trying to air out the stench of alcohol that clung to the room. I scribbled a note with breakfast instructions, sneaking in a few subtle digs about his laziness before leaving it on his nightstand.

Reggie,

I left breakfast for you in the fridge. Just heat it up for 2 minutes in the microwave. Should be perfect.

P.S. Might want to consider changing your clothes today. Just saying.

With a quiet sigh, I steeled myself for the day ahead. The walk to work was short and simple, a blessing, especially since it saved me gas money and offered a rare moment of peace before the chaos began. And let’sface it: my car was a clunker, held together by duct tape and prayer.

The bell above the diner door jingled as I pushed it open, a cheery sound that cut through the morning quiet and jolted Sal out of his stupor. The warm, familiar scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee hit me immediately. Grease and comfort mixed in the air, like a thousand mornings spent in this place.

My boss and co-owner of the diner, thanks to Reggie’s “investment” (read: his way of keeping me in line), gave me a lazy, half-hearted grin. “Hey Brynie,” he drawled, rubbing his eyes. “You’re here bright and early. Can you finish setting up the dining area? I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders today.”

His face was a portrait of exhaustion: dark rings under his eyes, his usual swagger deflated. No surprise, really, he’d probably spent the night doing whatever reckless things he and Reggie got up to. I could only imagine the stories he could tell—if only he would. But Sal was a loyal friend, and he knew better than to spill Reggie’s secrets to me.

“Sal, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I snapped, irritation leaking through my words. “You know how much Ihatethat nickname.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. His eyes flickered to the floor, avoiding mine as he muttered, “My apologies. Just slipped out. My mistake.”

I arched an eyebrow, my skepticism hanging heavily in the space between us. Unlike with Reggie, I didn’t feel the need to censor myself around Sal. His smile, weak and disingenuous, was a pale imitation of Reggie’s. But it wasn’t just his lack of sincerity that grated on me; it was his appearance. Sal was a short, stout man with a belly that sagged over his waistband, always disheveled like he’d rolled out of bed just a few minutes ago.

“Uh-huh, sure it was,” I said, my voice laced with disbelief. “You’ve been making that ‘mistake’ an awful lot lately, haven’t you?” My eyes narrowed into slits, locking onto him with a sharp, disapproving glare.

He shrugged, his tone feigning nonchalance. “Come on, Bryn. I was just kidding around. Don’t take it so seriously.” His smug grin twisted into something more calculating, like he knew something I didn’t, like he was in on a joke that I was too slow to catch.

But I saw through it. I always did.

He wasn’t just messing around; he was playing a game. Beneath the surface of his so-called humor was something quieter, slipperier, an undercurrent of control. Like Reggie’s, but messier. A shadow of something darker lingered just out of reach.

Sal was a shady character, always toeing the edge of propriety, always scheming. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that he’d been dipping into my tips when I wasn’t looking, helping himself to my hard-earned money like it was nothing. That’s how he earned the nickname—atleast in my head:SleazySal. He was exactly as slimy as that name sounded, forever skirting the line of decency with a smile that clung to his mouth but left his eyes cold.

I ignored his response, his voice fading into the background as my attention remained fixed on the tables. My hands moved with a practiced precision, arranging them as though I were in my own private world. There was a mechanical quality to my actions, the steady rhythm of preparing the diner almost meditative. It wasn’t like we had a constant stream of customers anyway. Mediocre food and a remote location in rural Kentucky didn’t exactly scream “destination dining.”

Just as I tied the strings of my apron, the door jingled, signaling a new arrival. I straightened and made my way around the counter, offering a smile that I hoped concealed the remnants of a long morning.

But then I saw him.

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