5. Reed

Chapter five

Reed

I drive to the coast, but don’t take in much of the scenery. I’m still envisioning Petra’s laughing, kaleidoscopic eyes. The guilt of my actions sits, hot and heavy, like molten lead in my stomach. My gaze flicks over to the passenger seat for the thousandth time, where Petra’s notebook still hides inside the brown, paper grocery bag. I’ve been staring at that thing for two days, praying it would magically go away. It hasn’t.

Jesus. Two minutes with her and I forgot all my rules. I forgot myself. She was laughing and embarrassed, and I slipped on the Daddy Knight mask to watch her squirm even more. Flirting with her came as natural as breathing. For a moment, I didn’t loathe the character I’d created, the company I’d built on it, and the face of it that I’d become.

But then panic hit right before I left. Petra recognized me. What if those handful of minutes lead to the same fucked up shit Kinley put me through? When I saw the paper with the quick scribble, Vivid imagination, or mental illness? Who knows? I snatched it without thinking. I slipped it into the bag while Petra was distracted, and was gone before she realized what I’d done.

Judging by her reaction, I’m 90 percent sure she subscribes to DKP, not the boyfriend audios I put on YouTube. Quiet women crave the kinkiest scenes: bullying, stepdads, degradation. Stuff I never considered until I built up my fanbase and took requests.

It immediately put her in the dangerous category. What if she’s a stalker? What if she’s unhinged? What if she writes fantasies about meeting DK and claiming him for herself? If she does, reading her diary would be justified. But if I stole an innocent woman’s notebook filled with important things, what does that say about me? What if it’s her monthly budget? What if there’s a note about a doctor’s appointment that she’ll miss? A love letter? A photograph she treasures? What if my paranoia got the best of me?

I hate both options, so I steadfastly ignore the notebook that I keep glancing at.

I stop on a farm road where the sheep are close to the fence, and pop open the back hatch to sit and watch them while I eat lunch. They bleat at first, but quickly forget about me. The rustling of grass and the lambs frolicking in the pasture eases the prickling along my skin. I scrub at my sleeve as if I can make the sensation go away completely, but it’s fruitless. Eventually it will drive me to madness.

My phone rings, forcing me back into the present, and the itching overwhelms me. “Mom,” I greet, but my irritability is obvious. I grimace, wishing I’d started this off better. “Hi, how are you?”

“Fine,” she says, but she’s snippy. “I was trying to get my update straight from you instead of via Amanda.”

“I’ve been meaning to call, but I’ve been—”

“Really busy?” Her sarcasm is as dry as sawdust and goes down just as harsh. Mom and I aren’t great communicators. Dad’s drinking problem destroyed her, and I became her child protector. I hide things—Daddy Knight Productions, that I loathe coming home, and most of what happened with Kinley—half because she can’t handle it, and half because I’m uncomfortable sharing.

We’re far from perfect, but love doesn’t require perfection.

“I don’t want it to be a chore,” she sighs. “Maybe send me a recording? Your favorite one of the day? Something that tells me you’re alive.”

It’s an easier request than a daily phone call. “I can do that. In fact, I’m sitting across from a dozen lambs who think everything is a jungle gym. I’ll send you a video.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good day. ”

Mom and I don’t talk long, but I do send her a video of the lambs, which gets several text messages in response. My mind circles back to the notebook, and I pull it out as gingerly as I would a ticking bomb. It’s Schrodinger’s notebook, and I wish I could keep it that way.

No matter what I read, there’s no winning here. I flip through the pages, trying to find the scribble I saw in the store.

It’s honestly better in fairyland than here. Vivid imagination, or mental illness? Who knows?

A passage near the bottom of the page catches my eye:

Is there a bigger word for this grief than brokenhearted? It can’t possibly convey the weight of the dead heart frozen in my chest. It leaves me as numb as if my veins were flooded by melting glaciers. Brokenhearted can’t begin to describe the daily torment that’s become routine and leaves me listless.

For one innocuous phrase to remind me of a future I will never grasp is an infinite and unbearable torture. It wraps around my throat like an iron collar and drags me under arctic waters. My survival reflex should awaken. I should kick and scream and fight against it. But I don’t. I wish it would pull me down. And yet, I continue to exist, bent so far that I can’t break any furth—

I snap the notebook shut, but Petra’s words echo inside me. The lead in my stomach shifts from molten to freezing. Guilt hardens around my ankles like cement and pulls me below the surface of the very same arctic ocean.

Just like her, I hope it drowns me.

I should’ve known better. Should’ve seen her. Petra has small wrinkles between her brows that speak of sadness. Sadness that lives in her like a parasite, eating her from the inside. Sadness that I’d brushed off because of the way she laughed, wry and embarrassed.

My own parasite catches in the light, and I yank my sleeve down over my tattoo. Fuck.

…Am I turning into Kinley? I’m the one unhinged, not Petra. Kinley infected me; burrowed so deep into me that I’m behaving like her. Justifying my actions. Stepping over boundaries that any sane person would respect.

But Kinley isn’t sane, and I might not be either. She fucked it all up for me. I fucked it all up for me, the minute I let Kinley in my bed. Never again. I’ll gladly sleep alone for the rest of my life.

Carrying around this anxiety and resentment is exhausting. I wish I could shed my past like a moth emerging from its cocoon. I want nothing more than to see the world with new eyes and lift my wings to the breeze. I want to watch my fears shrink away to nothing.

But I can’t do that with this hanging over me.

I dial Amanda’s number, but shame burns hot up my neck and into my cheeks, and I hang up. I don’t want to tell anyone. I want to leave this notebook on the side of the road for the lambs to eat, and pretend that I never took it in the first place. But I can’t. My writing is everything to me, and I’ve stolen these words from someone’s soul.

I groan, rubbing a hand over my face. I’m a horrible person. I’d be a worse person if I left Petra’s diary here to rot. Maybe one action doesn’t make a horrible person, but those actions pile up. Can I continue justifying and taking and ruining, until I hate who I am?

Fuck. Fucking Fuck. I hate this. I hate me . I hate everything . Rage builds up and I want to stomp and yell like a toddler to let it out. My shaking fingers press into the paper. I swallow hard, forcing them to relax.

It takes a minute to unclench, and I smooth out the wrinkles my anger left behind. My thumb traces over her words, And yet, I continue to exist. I could’ve written that. The familiarity of them throbs in my chest. Her ink sinks beneath my fingerprint—an invisible tattoo to carry with me. One I’m choosing this time.

I close the book and carefully lower it back into the bag. I can’t take back what I’ve done, but I can give Petra back her words. I can offer her something that Kinley will never give me: an apology. It’s not enough, but maybe I’ll hate myself slightly less .

The number for her store is easy to find online, and I dial it with lumps curdling in my stomach.

“Mulberry’s, this is Ray,” a man answers. Not exactly what I was hoping for. “How can I help you?”

“Could I speak to Petra?”

“She’s not in until noon,” he says. “Can I take a message?”

Don’t you know not to give that out randomly? I want to reprimand him, but it won’t do any good. “No, I’ll call back.”

But I don’t.

It’s over an hour drive to Swift River, and it manages to pass in seconds while also taking entire days. I don’t notice any of the scenery while shame and anxiety build in me. It bounces out of my fingers and legs with rapid motions that do nothing to ease the tension.

I pull up to the mostly empty parking lot and dart through sleeting rain to the front doors. I stop in the doorway, because Petra is right there in the front of the store, oblivious to my arrival. I’m frozen, searching for some clue to the puzzle she’s become.

Petra is shy and bold. She laughs though she hurts.

She’s a reflection of how jacked up I’ve become. A victim of my rash, panic driven actions.

I swallow my pride, and step forward.