Mr. Grant responds to Kenneth in stride. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kenneth. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was asking Charlie if she could pick me up some weed killer, pulling them out from the ground is killing my back. I offered to give her some money.”
“I was about to come in and ask you if that was okay. I know I need to be back by a certain time,” I explain as I step out of the truck. I’m so damn nervous right now. It could be okay now but when I get back, he’ll make sure I never talk to Mr. Grant again.
“Of course, it’s okay. You never have to ask to help a neighbor. Just pay us back when you get the chance, Mr. Grant. It’s no problem at all.” Kenneth gives the older man his charming smile that works on anyone and everyone, but not Mr. Grant.
He gives my husband a tight grin. “Thank you so much. I think I’ll head inside now. I get tired so fast these days.”
Liar. Mr. Grant can run circles around me.
“You think about my offer, Charlie. I do need help in the yard with my old age and all, okay?”
Dang, he’s good. “I’ll think about it, Mr. Grant,” I reply as he begins to walk away, pretending to limp as if he is in pain.
“Do you need help, Mr. Grant?” Kenneth calls out and heads down the steps.
The kindness is such a lie.
I grind my teeth together in aggravation and hope Mr. Grant doesn’t fall for it. Kenneth is great at bending people to his will.
“No.” The pink-speedo-wearing-neighbor waves his hand dismissively. “I need to walk while I can without help. Thank you, Kenneth. I appreciate it. Have a good day everyone.” Mr. Grant stops by his front door where Kenneth can’t see him since the entryway is further back than the rest of the brick that creates his home.
He’s watching me to make sure nothing happens.
Kenneth’s smile falls instantly and his eyes narrow as he turns his head to stare at me through the windshield of the truck. I give him a wave, but he doesn’t return it. He turns around and heads inside the house.
Kill him.
Oh, how I want to.
When Kenneth is out of sight, I wave to Mr. Grant, and he gives me a sad smile. He returns the wave and crosses his arms, watching me as I reverse out of the driveway.
I jerk the truck into drive and the diamond ring on my left finger shines as the sun penetrates the glass window. If I could go back in time, I never would have said yes.
I’ve watched my life pass me by in slow motion. Dreams have been crushed. Hope has been banished. Love has been damned. Life is nothing how I envisioned it would be, and it won’t be as long as I stay with Kenneth.
Kill him.
In between the lining of my purse, there is something Kenneth doesn’t know about. I’ve been saving every dollar I can over the last few years and hiding the cash there. It isn’t much, maybe two thousand dollars, but it’s a start.
I could drive and never look back.
He’d find me and kill me.
So it’s only fair if I do it first.
I don’t even remember driving to the grocery store, but I pull into the parking lot fifteen minutes later and park between a smart car and a moped. I’m shaking for some reason, and I press my head against the steering wheel, wondering when my life became a game of survival. “Just do it. Just kill him, Charlie. Prison will be better than another second spent with him.”
The money in my purse burns, tempting me to go to a pawn shop to buy a gun.
“You aren’t a murderer,” I say, trying to convince myself that I’m a good person. I do not plot murder.
With a heavy guilty heart, I climb out of the truck into the dry Vegas air and pass the employee gathering all the carts. “I’ll take that one,” I say before he can grab the cart shoved over a section of the curve.
“Have a great day,” he smiles, chipper and shit.
I’m not in the mood for positive people.
Positivity is a facade too. People tell themselves to be positive, to plaster a smile on their face, and to think of the bright side of things, but you only tell yourself that when you’re feeling dark and negative.
Humanity can continue to fool itself. They are negative, no matter how much they pretend otherwise.
I toss my purse in the seat built into the cart for kids and pull the zipper across to retrieve the shopping list. I have a few hours before I have to be home and I’m going to take my time. I have a system. I head down the aisles first, then the produce so the fruit doesn’t bruise with all the random boxes and cans, then get frozen and cold items so they last longer.
There’s a crying baby screaming its lungs out and a tired Mom eyeing the formula. My heart aches. I’ll never have that, and I wouldn’t want to have a baby in the situation I’m in. Kenneth doesn’t want kids, and I don’t want his kids.
I reluctantly roll the cart down the aisle and grab Italian dressing- his favorite. I like it, but I like ranch more. Not that I’m able to tell him that.
I relax the longer I shop. I assume some people, like the new mom, don’t like grocery shopping but I do. The peace is nice, and I hate to leave it every time.
“Funny running into you here.”
The familiar voice has me dropping the jar of pickles in my hand. The glass shatters on the floor and dill pickles roll along the ground through the pickle juice.
I’m quickly picked up and twirled around, then placed on my feet safely away from the glass.
“Clean up in aisle three,” is announced over the speakers.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just an accident.”
Nothing is ever just an accident.
Accidents can be avoided if one pays attention.
Kenneth’s voice echoes in my head.
“Clean up in aisle three.”
Clean up my dignity while you’re at it.
The repeated announcement yanks me from my daze, and I lift my eyes to see the man that had me dropping a jar of pickles.
Dark hair, dark eyes, the scent of leather and laundry.
Whistler.
And he is way too close to me.
Yet, I don’t move away from him either.
It’s not stalking if I’m at the same place she is.
I really had to get some groceries, and this is the best fresh market in the area.
“Are you okay?” She’s visibly shaking, her eyes are darting back and forth to the shelves. She jumps when the mop hits the floor and when she realizes it’s not a threat, she holds a hand to her chest and breathes a sigh of relief.
“Wow, that startled me,” she says, crinkling her nose at the smell of pickle juice.
My eyes drop to where her hand is against her chest and my blood turns to raging hot lava when I see the red mark around her neck. “Is that why you haven’t been to work in two weeks?” I growl, biting the inside of my cheek not to reach out and stroke the irritated skin. All I want to do is show her that someone cares.
“No. I had the flu. This is just a rash,” she explains.
Ah, the excuses.
“You might be able to fool someone else with that lie, but not me,” I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. “Are you okay? Did glass hit you? Are you cut?” I look her up and down, happy that she’s wearing jeans to protect her legs.
She cocks her head and seems confused by my question. “Um, no, I’m fine. Th—Thank you,” she stutters and wraps her arms around the middle of her waist. “I don’t know why you care.” Her tone isn’t rude. It’s soft and curious. She genuinely doesn’t understand.