Tugging the threadbare towel off the rail, I dry myself and slip into my
work clothes as quickly as I can. I pause. My black jeans feel tighter than
normal. It probably shrunk in the washing machine. It has been happening a
lot lately, my clothes fitting differently.
The onslaught of thoughts about the Faceless Man pushes the mundane
issue out of my head. I can’t seriously be thinking about my clothes when
my stalker might have been standing on the other side of the curtain while I
showered.
I rush to the kitchen, as fast as my feet will carry me without alerting Evan
to my disheveled state. My body thrums with nerves and pent-up need—
need for what, I don’t know. It doesn't feel like I can breathe until the
familiar flimsy plastic bottle is in my hand and Dr. Mallory’s white tablet is
being washed down with water.
The sidewalk on the other side of the street is visible from this spot in the
kitchen and so are the apartments directly across from me. I can’t count
how many times I’ve fought the urge to knock on their doors to ask if they
saw the Faceless Man in my room.
I won’t bother asking Evan if he saw the man, or if he heard him whisper
those three words. The answer will be a solid no.
“Is this all?”
I lower the glass of water onto the table and turn to Evan. “What?”
Just say it, Lili. Just say those five words: I’m breaking up with you.
He holds up my black wallet, with the PU edges peeling and the threads
fraying. “Are these all the tips that you made?”
Just say it, I think to myself. “I had to see Dr. Mallory.” Damn it, Lili. I
cringe inwardly. Come on. You know that he’s dragging you down. You’ve been meaning to say those five words for months now and you still haven’t.
He sighs and rakes his hand through his sodden gold hair. The soft morning
light filters through the window, washing his face in an ashen glow. When
did he start looking so depleted? He used to be so beautiful, so full of life
and love, always insisting we go on adventures and drive up and down the
coast, camping out in the back of his truck. Until I became too scared of
driving out of the city. Though I was never really happy with that life; it
always felt like something was wrong or missing.
Say it.
He sighs disappointedly. “I told you that they’re dropping my hours and that
you need to make more tips.”
I frown. “I’m a barista, Evan, not a waitress. I stand behind a machine and
make coffee, there’s not much I can—”
“Maybe you should try a little harder.” He throws up his hand. “It doesn’t
hurt to maybe smile more or actually talk to the customers. It isn’t their
fault that you haven’t given them a reason to tip you more.”
I lower my voice to dampen any emotions before they overflow. “I needed
to see Dr. Mallory.”
Dr. Mallory. Medication. Rent. All the reasons that meant that I never had
more than a loaf of bread and a packet of pasta in my cupboard and
powdered milk in my fridge because it works out cheaper than the real
thing.
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