Page 5 of Fade With Me

After a long shift, I headed home, but my feet had other ideas, taking me straight to Charla Mae’s boutique. I stopped in front of the window, completely caught up in the beautiful gowns on display. My mind wandered back to the mysterious stranger who’d come into the diner earlier. What kind of woman would catch his eye? Maybe someone who wore these dresses with the kind of confidence I could only dream of.

I imagined him walking out, likely thinking little of me, just another small-town girl in a worn-out apron and a homemade dress trying too hard to be stylish. Did he find me laughable, an amateur attempt at glamor that wasn’t fooling anyone? He’d probably fled as soon as his meeting ended, eager to leave our town in the rearview mirror. Honestly, I envied him. I wished I had the courage to pack up and leave, too.

I lingered too long, lost in my thoughts, caught in the web of my own imagination. Finally, I forced myself to turn away, tearing my eyes from the gowns that seemed to whisper secrets in the wind. With a sigh, I made my way home, the memory of his piercing stare still lingering, like an echo in the darkness.

When I reached the farmhouse, a familiar unease settled over me like a suffocating fog. It had always felt wrong, this house. It was Reggie’s family home, but it felt more like a prison than a place to call my own. The air smelled of decay, stale and musty, and there was always a kind of uneasy energy about it, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

The walls groaned and buckled, the paint peeling in strips, and the once-beautiful wooden beams sagged, threatening to collapse at any moment. The flickering shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and writhe, turning the decaying walls into something sinister. But I pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the mundane task at hand: dinner.

I shuffled into the kitchen, the worn linoleum creaking beneath my feet. The room, a maze of old appliances and dusty cabinets, had become familiar over time. As I cooked, the savory aroma of sizzling vegetables and meat filled the air, pushing back the stale scent of neglect.

Reggie was already on the couch, lazily flipping through channels, his posture sprawled, feet restingcarelessly on the ottoman. He seemed to sink into the cushions, like he was trying to disappear into the TV. The dim, changing light from the screen danced in his vacant eyes, and the air between us was thick with an invisible tension, one that never fully dissipated, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

“Brynie, finally! I’m starving!” he called out, his voice carrying a note of playful annoyance. “What took you so long? I was starting to think I’d have to heat something from the fridge myself.” His words felt more like an order than a greeting.

His eyes never left the screen, but I could feel them on me, a pressure that settled on my shoulders like a physical touch. The way he lounged there, comfortable and oblivious, made something inside me twist with disgust.

“I lost track of time at the diner, stayed later than I meant to,” I said, trying for a tone that sounded casual. I wouldn’t dare admit I’d spent those extra minutes lingering by the boutique, fantasizing about dresses I could never afford. Reggie would’ve had a field day with that, dismissing me as pathetic, just like he always did.

He sat up straighter, his brow lifting in skepticism, his eyes flashing with a faint, contemptuous gleam. “Is that so? Sal’s working you ragged, huh?” He fixed me with a cold, calculating stare, trying to catch me in a lie. “Poor thing.” He pretended to have sympathy, but his voice betrayed none—only mockery.

“You know Sal,” I replied with a half-smile, my lips curving into something brittle. I knew exactly how to provoke him, and just as well how to avoid his wrath. It was a delicate balance, one I’d perfected over the years, though it drained me like an exhausting, never-ending dance.

Reggie’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer before, with a dismissive wave, he sank back into the couch. He grabbed the remote again and resumed aimlessly flipping through the channels, as if nothing I felt could touch his world.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll handle things.”

His voice was smooth, almost serpentine, with a chilling edge that slithered under my skin. I knew he wasn’t really concerned; his kindness was just an act. Reggie didn’t care about anyone, least of all me. His world revolved around one person: Reggie. Yet, despite everything, a small, treacherous part of me wondered if, deep down, there was even the faintest trace of compassion for me.

As I moved through the kitchen, the scent of roasting meat and fragrant spices enveloped me, grounding me in the warmth of the familiar. The cozy, comforting aroma of dinner filled the space, offering a stark contrast to the coldness of my thoughts.

When the chicken was finally ready, I plated it and brought it to Reggie, who was waiting with exaggeratedanticipation. He leaned forward, his posture rigid, fighting to contain a childlike excitement. He inhaled deeply, his gaze locking onto me with unnerving intensity, his lips barely parting as he savored the scent.

“Mmm, that smells incredible, Brynie girl,” he said, his voice heavy with expectation. “Here’s hoping the chicken isn’t overcooked for once.”

I shot him a glare and headed for the fridge. “Let me grab you another beer. Who knows, maybe after a few more, your taste buds will be numb.”

He let out a low, humorless chuckle that made the walls—and my nerves—rattle, causing me to flinch. “Might take more than that,” he said, showing no effort to spare my dignity. “Better grab a six-pack, just to play it safe.”

At least then you’d pass out, and I wouldn’t have to deal with you,I thought, though I wisely kept it to myself.

After dinner, Reggie disappeared into his lair without so much as a thank you, leaving me to tackle the mountain of dishes. I scrubbed and rinsed, feeling like an underappreciated servant in my own home.

Finally, retreating to my bedroom, exhaustion settled in. I grabbed my book, its pages a welcome escape, the words slowly unraveling the knots in my mind and soothing my tired body.

As I sank deeper into the story, time slipped away unnoticed. Reality and fiction blurred. The stranger from the diner, with his piercing eyes and sharp jawline,slowly morphed into the dashing hero of my novel. My imagination, ever the accomplice, wove him seamlessly into the narrative, his presence lingering in the corners of my mind like a restless spirit.

The room darkened around me as the hours bled into one another. The soft rustle of pages was the only sound, carrying whispers of secrets that only the night could hold.

Suddenly, I snapped out of my reverie, my heart pounding with a mix of embarrassment and alarm.What the hell was I doing?I’d met this guy for all of a minute, yet here I was, making him the star of my romance novel like some kind of obsessed fanfiction writer. The absurdity of it made me feel like a complete creep.

A hot flush spread across my face as I slammed the book shut, shoving it under the mattress to hide the evidence of my ridiculous daydreaming. I flicked off the lamp, closed my eyes, and let sleep pull me under, hoping tomorrow would bring a clearer mind and a much-needed dose of reality.

three

Idragged myself into the diner, still half-asleep after last night’s marathon reading session. My legs felt like lead, my brain even worse. But then I caught my reflection in the window and paused. The fatigue didn’t vanish entirely, but something shifted.

The dress I’d reworked was a game-changer. Wearing something I’d made, and made well, sparked a quiet kind of pride. For the first time in a while, I didn’t just look put together.I felt it.

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