3. Petra

Chapter three

Petra

Every day is the same. I don’t know if it’s a Tuesday or Wednesday when I swipe groceries across the scanner. The fluorescent lights at Mulberry’s make my eyes hurt, but my heart hurts more. Because even though I’m tucked behind the register, I’m a bug scuttling away from Aunt Carla’s stiletto. She leans across the check stand, effusively praising my sister and her youngest baby, and crushes me underfoot.

“We need more kids in the family,” she complains in Italian. Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed, and her bright red nails match her lipstick. “Aren’t you ready to date again, Petra?”

“I don’t need to date,” I snap. My fingers brush against my necklace, and the metal is comforting against my skin.

Aunt Carla must notice my icy tone, because she changes topics. “Something is different. Did you dye your hair lighter?”

I bag her items while she punches in her phone number for rewards. “Same brown as always.”

She hums and touches my hair as if she thinks I should. “Come to Rosary tomorrow. We’d love to see you there.”

Rosary is a weekly hour of prayer that Mama and Carla attend without fail. I can’t bring myself to attend Sunday Mass, much less pray the rosary. It’s been years since I’ve gone. God and I don’t talk anymore.

I shrug, and Carla’s face falls in disappointment. I make my excuse in Italian, hoping it will ease the offense. “Maybe next week. Your total is $97.32, Zia Carla . ”

She forces a smile that warns I’ll be the subject of a group chat before she even gets in the car. “See you for Sunday dinner, then.”

She believes I’m thirty-three and heartbroken, slinking back to my den to lick my wounds. She’s only half-right. I hate living here. I got out once, but I never published, never married. Though I lived in Los Angeles for nine years, I’m so far removed that it might’ve been a dream.

I’m doomed to a slow demise in Swift River, Oregon, single until I die, when I’ll be buried next to the rest of my family in the local cemetery.

I take my lunch break with a deli sandwich in the break room with my notebook. It’s a tangle of scribbles, with outlines for past, present, and future books. I note improvements for my current storyline in the margins while I eat. I’m restless, wishing for my laptop so I can add them into my chapters.

If I could spend all day in my imagination, with the comfort of a sound machine in my ears, I could tolerate living in Swift River. Maybe.

My phone pings, the sound of a rare, fresh email in my inbox. A spark zings through me, peeling away at the dull varnish of the world until a shinier one peeks through.

Daddy Knight Productions: New upload available. Be my good girl. Click here to listen.

Eagerly, I tuck in an earbud, volume on low, to preview what the scenario will be. Knight’s voice rumbles into my ear, warm and deep. The familiarity of it surrounds me as I close my eyes.

“Hey babe, how was your day?” Knight is a special performer. His recordings are intimate, like he’s talking directly to me, not a faceless listener. Each word is measured, every syllable a caress, and the audio quality is impeccable. “It was rough? I’m sorry to hear that. Wow, you are tense. Can I work these knots out for you?”

My tension shifts to build in other places, while anticipation warms my blood. Knight’s sweet and caring audios are always my favorite at this point in my cycle. Post-Period-Petra is a sucker for Sweet-Knight. Different from Ovulating-Petra, who wants Daddy Knight to pin me down and make it rough.

“Hey, Petra?” a voice breaks in.

“Shit!” I swear, jumping out of my seat. I close out of the app with a wince. “I mean—sorry, Ray, you scared me.”

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” my manager says. His salt and pepper hair shines under the harsh lighting. “I hate to cut your lunch short, but we could use a hand.”

I hope Ray can’t see the guilt on my face. “No problem.”

I shove my headphones back into my bag—and the audio out of my head—and weave through the busy aisle to open a register. Tina, who I’ve known since kindergarten, pushes her way through the line. She unwraps a fruit roll up from an open box to give to her screaming toddler, but he chucks it to the ground and cries harder. Tina seems five seconds from ripping her hair out.

“I should’ve stopped at two,” she grumbles. She’ll deny it till kingdom come, as she is queen of the PTA, but I hear her. My heart squeezes in my chest, followed by a fierce, throbbing ache. She’s having a rough day, but some people would give anything to struggle through those moments.

After the initial rush, the space between customers stretches until I’m left with my own loathing thoughts and broken heart. I pull out my second notebook—a smaller one for notes, squiggles, and poems. It’s my version of a diary, and I scrawl toward the bottom:

Losing a limb might be easier to recover from. I say that because I haven’t lost a limb, and those who have must think otherwise. Is there a bigger word for this grief than brokenhearted?

I write it all out—the spiraling thoughts brought on by Tina’s frustrated phrase. The ink bears my burden, lessening the heaviness of the chains around my heart. I hold the last of the ache at bay by turning my focus back to the fictional kingdom and creatures of Galin. Dragons and pixies take over the store, leaping over carts, stealing candy, and battling in the ice cream aisle. A hobbling old gnome with a wrinkled mushroom umbrella ambles down the conveyor belt, humming a tune while she walks.

But then a guy smashes her with his basket, and I blink back into this world in shock. I stuff down my gasp, forcing a customer service smile instead. “Find everything you were looking for?”

He gives me a halfhearted smile of his own. He didn’t want to hurt my gnome, so I don’t hold it against him. “Do you carry eel sauce?” His golden eyes hold the heat of Santa Monica pier on a summer day. They complement his toffee-brown hair, and a fine layer of stubble highlights his strong chin and the tall bridge of his nose. But his eyes are somber, and the rough shadows underneath them hint at a lack of sleep—the way mine do.

“No. I’d try Pear Life on Fourth Street. It’s a small Asian market, but it’s your best bet.”

“Thanks.” He lets out a short, deep chuckle. “Pear Life.”

“What?” I ask, distracted by the way his husky voice settles deliciously in my ears.

“You know, Pear Life, like Fairlife milk?” He’s not flirting when he half-smiles and his faraway eyes find mine, but my stomach flutters anyway. His shadows fade as he focuses on me, and a tingling sensation spreads over my skin. Like stretching my legs after being cramped in the same position for a long time.

Like I’m coming alive.

“I’m not from Oregon,” he continues, “but I’m assuming it’s a national brand.”

Maybe it’s because I was interrupted at lunch and my brain can’t wait for the next Daddy Knight scene, but his attention is intoxicating. His voice is sex personified. It melts across my skin like the honey of his eyes—sweet, warm, and soothing. All of my recent orgasms were simultaneous with a voice like his, whispering, “Come for me.”

My nipples tighten under my shirt at the idea of this attractive man murmuring those words. I slap a hand over my mouth, too emphatically in my panic, and his face slowly changes. His eyes brighten and crinkle at the edges .

“Are you okay?” The corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing a dimple that weakens my knees.

“Fine,” I assure him, not at all fine. The heat creeping up my neck is half hormonal, half anxious. The lights in the store no longer wash everything out. He’s warm and inviting, without a hint of gray.

“Do I know you?” He leans against the conveyor belt in a casual, effortless way that makes my toes curl. Closer up, the cleft from his dimple is twice as cute.

This is my chance to break out of the cycle, to flirt with a guy that I haven’t known since kindergarten. Instead, a hysterical laugh builds in my throat. “No, definitely not. Have you been to Swift River before?”

“My first time,” the man says, his knuckles rapping against the conveyor. His voice isn’t as deep as Knight’s, but the comparison has me considering all sorts of things I shouldn’t while I’m working. Heat creeps into my cheeks when he glances down at my figure. I can’t tell if he’s acting normal and I’m reading into this, or if he’s checking me out.

“I hope you’re having a pleasant visit.” My smile is real, and it hurts from disuse. I’m going to be written up for drooling over my customer.

“It’s improving. I didn’t get your name—” He leans in until his fingers brush my collar, and he tugs a section of hair behind my shoulder. It feathers across my neck, and hopefully he can’t see the shiver that races through me. “—Petra,” he says, glancing at my nametag. He pulls his hand back, giving me space, but his smirk tugs up higher to one side.

“Hi.” I’m stupidly breathless. I can’t remember what bra I’m wearing today, but I hope it has a thick lining.

“It’s nice to meet you, Petra.” It might be my imagination, but his voice gets deeper with every sentence. Rougher. Sexier. My brain mixes it with Daddy Knight’s, and my overly-vivid imagination takes over. In my brightly colored mind, the stranger’s large hands slip from my shoulders down to my waist, pulling me onto the conveyor belt and underneath him.

I press my lips together, worried I’m transparent. In my head, his voice is throaty in my ear and he throws my shirt to the floor. “Do you need a bag today?” I ask, as the version of him in my imagination places warm kisses across my neck to my shoulder. Opening my mouth is the wrong move, and I duck behind the counter to hide my face as a wave of embarrassed giggles pours out.

“Petra?” He leans over the counter, dimple out in full force. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yep, fine!” I bite my lip to hold in my smile and keep my eyes down as I scan the last item. “Your total is $34.58.”

All of him shifts until he grows taller, more confident. Something slips over his face, a gleam of something hot but also… I can’t put my finger on it. “Are all the clerks here as bubbly as you?”

I should say something flirty, but I’m out of practice and I’ve forgotten how. “All of them.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” He digs his wallet out with a pondering hum. My traitor body responds to the sound as it travels through me like the rumbling tremor of an earthquake. Gripping the counter, I cross my legs as discreetly as I can. His eyes follow me from head to toe as he swipes his card, and he chuckles. “Can I fuck you in the breakroom, Petra? I’ll make it good for you.”

I blink away the hallucination as my face heats. “Sorry, what?”

His dimple deepens as his smile grows. “Are there any good restaurants in town, Petra?”

I shake my head, unwilling to let any more embarrassing sounds out. He leans on the little check writing stand, and his laser focus picks me apart like I’m a series of chains and cogs. Is he enjoying the way I flounder?

“No? Not a single one?”

“Petra!” Ray joins us. “What would your mom say? Forgetting to recommend Bella Vita ? ”

“Fairlife and Belvita? What world am I in up here?” the stranger asks.

“Best Italian restaurant around, right, Petra?” Ray asks with a wink. “Speaking of, I wouldn’t mind if you brought in your mama’s panna cotta.”

“Sure.” I focus on Ray instead of the piercing brown eyes across from me.

The stranger hums, drawing my attention. “Maybe I’ll try it. Thanks again, Petra,” he says, and my pulse flutters. His bags crinkle as he picks them up, and the sound is deafening while I squirm under Ray’s discerning gaze.

“You’re welcome,” I say, but he’s already halfway to the door.

Holy hell. I haven’t been this turned on by something other than a speakerphone in longer than I can remember. I wait for the prickling heat on my chest to fade and the humiliation of my obvious reaction to pass, but it doesn’t. Ray shoots me another look, eyebrows raised, which I blatantly avoid. “Uh, Mrs. Robertson, do you need help reaching the ice cream?” I call out, scurrying away from Ray’s knowing face.

My cheeks flame periodically during my shift, and my awkwardness makes it a million times worse with each infraction. I’m beyond relieved to put it behind me when I close my register for the day. I reach for my journal, but it’s not there. I huff, crawling under the counter to retrieve it, but it’s not there either. I check the other registers, wondering if I’d switched and left it behind, but don’t find it.

It’s the icing on the cake of an embarrassing, emotional day, and something hot burns in the corners of my eyes.

I don’t bother with the sleeves of my raincoat, holding it over my head as I dart to my blue sedan and dive inside. I crank up the heater, letting waterfall sounds trickle from the speakers. With nothing to distract me, the conversation with the stranger in the market plays on repeat the entire drive to my parents’ house near the creek. Their house is midsized, pretty, and plays on the earthy, green elements that come naturally in Swift River. The only downfall is that I live here.

The loss of my notebook aches, and I pull into the driveway and rest my head in my hands. I try to see the bright side, because at least I have my Galin notes. If my stories went missing, I would be devastated.

While I carry my things inside, I pop in a headphone with gentle ASMR whispers to clear out my brain. Galin usually calls to me like an unread text as soon as I clock out. On ordinary days, I’m dying to get inside and lock myself in my room where my fairy world comes alive. But my diary is gone. Without the outlet for my complicated emotions, Galin seems more childish than normal.

I rummage through my desk for a new notebook. The blank pages dare me to write something different. To write the kind of scenes Daddy Knight comes up with. It’s easy to imagine the attractive stranger pressing his lips to my skin, or yanking my shirt over my head to take me hard and fast behind the register.

I shake off the notion. It’s embarrassing that I subscribe to erotic audio—no way I’d write it. Mortification mixes with arousal, and it all squirms in my stomach. I shove it into a mental box and write my first scribble:

Today was a mess. Feeling alive was great for about half a second. What followed is a great reminder as to why I’d rather be numb. I end it with a quick little drawing of a bird in flight. Something I wish I could be, just to get away from myself.

With my pity party out of the way, I open my laptop to dive into my fantasy world. As soon as I do, my pixie girl flutters down next to me. “Where is Nonna? Is she okay?” Natalia asks, tears welling in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, piccina ,” I tell her, stroking her cheek. “She’s tougher than one little smush and will make a full recovery, but foraging a new mushroom umbrella for her might help her feel better.”