Page 65 of Protect Me
Had to face this hurricane.
A pair of subdued black-rimmed glasses pulled my hair away from my face, out of my eyes. I’d shoved them behind my ears the moment I woke, ready to screen myself from the world. Vikram’s retreat to his bedroom for the night certainly hadn’t helped my state of mind. I’d hidden from him, too.
The thought that I may have just ruined everything haunted me all night long, escorting the compulsive urge to hide behind my glasses to the forefront. All my courage had nearly dissipated when I stumbled into the bathroom this morning. Vik’s bedroom door lay open, the bed made. No sign of him lingered in the house, except for a red heart written in dry-erase marker on the mirror.
It sent my chest fluttering almost as much as our kiss.
What did that mean? Something, certainly. I’d just convinced myself into the idea that Vik would kick me out, ask me to leave, when he forced me to consider an alternative.
Maybe helikedthe kiss.
Vikram had always been a relentless flirt, but he hadn’t always put forward something that could be construed. With Vini’s reassurances still in my head after our conversation, I clung to the hope that his gesture in marker meant more than my brain downplayed.
Yet, I didn’t have the courage to text him about it. This conversation needed to happen face-to-face. No matter how much I feared it.
Leslie bustled in and out of her office in the hallway all morning, pulling down summer decorations, putting up new ones. Pinning a banner about wildfires to a community board and removing business cards. The methodical movements of the day allowed me to think more clearly.
“Gotta grab a few things in Jackson for the HomeBnb restock.” Leslie drummed her fingernails on the counter as she swept by. “You okay to manage by yourself?”
“Yep. Got it.”
“See you in a few hours!”
Sunshine glinted off her blonde hair as she stepped outside, purse tucked under her arm. No customers lingered while I scrubbed down a few machines, so I sank further into the quiet with gratitude.
A happy shout rang outside. I peered out the drive-through window to see a few kids scamper by, where the lake lingered not far from the shop. A lightly pebbled beach gave way to murky mud and trees here and there. A family strode by, headed to the rivers that converted into the body of water.
Behind them, lurked a figure.
In the water, up to his ankles, stood Timothy.
My chest seized. I ducked out of sight with a sharp breath, my stomach dropping to my ankles. Then I peered back out from the very edge of the window with one eye. Timothy didn’t seem to have noticed me.
In fact, he didn’t seem to be doing . . . much.
He wore baggy jeans, a beat up pair of shoes, and a ratty old t-shirt. Dirt caked most of his clothes, as if he hadn’t washed them in awhile. The sun bore down on him as he stared out at the water. Several brown bags lay at his feet. Alcohol bottles inside, perhaps? Based on the vague packaging, I couldn’t be sure.
Tucked away where he didn’t see me watching, I took advantage of the moment to adjust to this new reality. I remained back, out of sight. Did he know that I worked here? Where did he live now? The questions populated endlessly as I stared at him, sick to my stomach. If he was drunk . . .
Five years ago, I’d been a vulnerable, young girl. The ways of violent men and drug cartels weren’t new to me—my aunt had introduced me to that way of life very quickly after my mother died—but Timothy had been something I didn’t expect. In a flash, he’d taken what felt like everything.
Yet, it wasn’t.
Years of therapy reminded me of core truths. I wasn’t defined by the actions of others. He didn’t change my value with his drug-addled, violent assault. Timothy would wallow for the rest of his life in terrible decisions and bad situations and I would choose something better.
But it didn’t stop the memories.
Recalling the night was inevitable; I knew this day could happen. While Timothy stared, unmoving at the edge of the lake, I didn’t look away. Imademyself see him. Acknowledge his existence in this world. A fact that, until now, I tried to pretend didn’t exist.
The ability to see him while remaining hidden was an uncanny gift. A chance to process and step forward, but without the pressure of his rage-hardened eyes.
Still . . . memories.
Overwhelmed now, I stepped further away from the edge of the window. If he looked over his shoulder, he wouldn’t be able to see me through the drive-through panes, but I stayed hidden anyway.
Another person appeared a few steps away, in a similar state of shabby disarray. He stepped up to Timothy, who greeted him with a jerk of his chin. They spoke, but I couldn’t hear. An exchange of something occurred right before the man picked up the brown bags, tucked them into a backpack, and left.
Timothy didn’t budge.
