HER: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  It’s evident in the way I am staring at words on a page, words that have lost their meaning, when I glance up, and what little wind I have in my sails is knocked out of me. Shit. I avert my gaze to the disaster headed my way and say a silent prayer that I’m doing as Ethan says—imagining things.

  But no. When I look up, what I see is real, and she is, in fact, coming down the aisle toward me. It’s all I can do to study my list and pray, pray, pray that she moves along.

  Obviously, she doesn’t. Instead, her far too cheerful voice reaches into the depths of my soul and gives it a slight tug. She doesn’t even have to speak for me to understand the power and the pull she could execute over my life, if I let her.

  “Excuse me?” she says, forcing me to acknowledge her. I shouldn’t be surprised. I suppose this meeting was inevitable. This is a small town. Not that small really in terms of size, just small-minded. I knew I’d run into her eventually. But I’ve done well for myself; I’ve managed to avoid it for months. Months. It helps if you hardly leave the house—and yet here we are.

  “Ma’am?” Her voice is hurried. Almost desperate.

  A smile pulls at the corners of my lips. That’s how bad I must look. She actually just called me ma’am. The word feels like shards of glass running across my skin. I should have known. She knows how to cut deep, this one.

  Not that I know for sure or anything. It’s just an assumption. I don’t know her. Not really. “Do you know where the gluten-free aisle is?”

  “Aisle six,” I answer. It is a simple exchange. A basic question with a standard answer. And still, I can’t make myself look at her straight on, peeking instead through the bangs that hide my eyes, my head tilted upward only slightly. In time I will learn—women like her despise meekness as much as they prey upon it.

  She reaches out and balances herself on my cart. “Thank you,” she exhales softly. “You saved me…I got halfway home and realized I’d forgotten the one thing I’d come for. And I’m afraid I’ve worn the wrong shoes.”

  My eyes land on her heels. She is right. No one in this town shops in shoes like that. No one except for her.

  She shifts and finally, I steal a glance at her. A voice laced with that kind of charm does not a forgettable face make. Fierce red hair, not a strand of it out of place, striking eyes. Tall and lean. The same as in the parking lot. But also, different. Not from here obviously, but then no one really is.

  “I should have known you’d have the answer,” she says, motioning toward my cart. My eyes follow, spotting the gluten-free crackers I don’t recall tossing in. Some things are automatic. Grief hits me at my kneecaps, and suddenly I am standing in the ocean, the waves threatening to pull me under.

  “Two aisles that way,” I manage. “About a quarter of the way down.”

  “Thanks,” she replies, her voice laced with cheer. Suddenly, I’m not sure whether I want to throat punch her or become her. No one is that friendly. Not even here. That’s not to say everyone is unfriendly. I know what that kind of thinking can do. Ann’s number one best seller told me that much. Mindset is everything.

  Framing is important. They aren’t rude, Ann. Just too hurried, too caught up in themselves to bother with manners. “You’re a lifesaver,” she offers.

  My palms begin to sweat. When I look down I am surprised to see I am white-knuckling the cart. In her books she says we hold too tight to simple things, inanimate things, when our lives feel like they’re spinning out of control.

  “We’re fairly new in town,” she tells me proudly, as though this is something to be proud of. “I’m hosting a dinner party tonight…and my husband informed me at the last minute—of course—that one of the guests has dietary issues.”

  I look away. She reminds me of someone I might have become if I hadn’t landed here too soon.

  “You look familiar,” she remarks, almost cautiously. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  My pulse quickens. “I don’t think so.”

  She studies me carefully. I hate every millisecond of it. Suddenly, her eyes widen as recognition takes hold. She gets paid well to read people. I am not the exception to the rule.

  All I can do is grip the cart, and hold on tight as everything goes to shit.

  “Wait. I think maybe you live on our street.” A smile plays upon her face. “Penny Lane. Yes, that’s it. You live on Penny Lane.”

  “Oh—right,” I stutter. I can see she is grateful to have solved the puzzle. “Penny Lane…that’s me.”

  “I have to apologize,” she tells me. “I’ve been meaning to get down there to introduce myself. I hate to make excuses—but with the move and with the holidays coming…well, I’ve been a little distracted.” Finally, she extends her hand. “I’m Ann.”

  Her grip is warm and friendly, welcoming. The opposite of who I hoped she’d be. She’s a master of reinvention. It never looked so good on anyone as it does her. Something I’d learn more of in time.

  “Sadie.”

  “Tell me, what do people do around here, Sadie? For fun? We’ve lived here a few months and still—for the life of me—I can’t figure it out.”

  The thing about Ann is she has elaborate ways of saying almost everything. She’s a writer. Basically, she lies for a living. She’s very good at it. Everyone says so.

  “I don’t know about anyone else,” I say glancing around the store. “Me, I read, mostly,” I add because despite my attire I’m pretty sure she isn’t expecting me to say yoga.

  “How wonderful.” It’s nice that she leaves it at that. She doesn’t tell me that she, too, is an avid reader. But I guess the most important things we keep close to our chests.

  “Do you have plans tonight?”

  I cock my head and try to come up with something, with anything.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” she quips. “This dinner party I’m hosting…a couple of neighbors are joining us…so you really must come.”

  “I—”

  “Appetizers are served at six. Dinner is at seven. We’re at 22243.”

  I want to accept her invitation. Just weeks before, I would have killed for it. “I really wish I could,” I say, apologetically. “But I have all of this cooking to do.”

  Her expression goes blank for a second, and then there is something else, almost like a gate between us has closed. Whatever she is thinking, whatever I have said, the shift is palpable. She straightens her back and takes two steps forward. “No pressure. But if you can stop by, we’d love to have you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, swinging my cart to the right. I have to get out of here before I mess anything else up. Some things you can’t undo. “It was nice to meet you.”

  She nods and I nod. I would curtsy if it meant extinguishing the look of disappointment on her face. Ann Banks isn’t the kind of woman who is familiar with rejection. She’s said so herself. That’s why she’s so successful.

  “A pleasure,” she replies. “It’s been harder than I thought to get to know people in this town.”

  I offer a tight smile. It’s the best I can manage. How cute that she wants to be relatable. How very like her.

  “Oh—and it’s nice to know—the whole gluten issue isn’t just made up.”

  “That’s the thing…” I reply. “I’m starting to think it might be.”

  “I hope I’ll see you again,” she says.

  I nod. You will. My future happiness depends on it.

  Her features soften as she looks back over her shoulder. “This evening would be lovely.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  And just like that, we officially meet. A chance encounter that was fated to happen. It was less painful than I thought. All things considered. Conversation flowed. An invitation was extended. Neither of us mentioned what just happened in the parking lot. Ann isn’t like that. She pushes onward. Onward toward her perfect new home, with her perfect husband and her perfect children. I leave the grocery store, like Ann says in her book and all over the internet, faking
it until I make it. The thought makes me smile. I don’t know what kind of person meets a stranger in a supermarket and invites them to their home straightaway. But as it turns out, Ann Banks is exactly that kind of person.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SADIE

  I’m loading the bags in my car, wondering what I was thinking. Even on a binge, I could never eat all of this. Even if I could, I can’t afford it. Not now.

  I take a deep breath. Ann’s book says breath is one of our most important assets. Seems like a simple concept to me, but people pay her good money for such simplicity—reminding me that common sense isn’t always common practice. Anyway, I breathe and I remind myself that my intentions were pure. The point was—to do normal people things. Things like cooking and making friends in the grocery store. Just in case my husband shows up. Which he probably won’t. But just in case.

  I want him to see that despite whatever has happened, I can be the woman he fell in love with again. She’s still me. I’m still her.

  Speaking of, I check the time, which is really an excuse to see if he’s called or texted. He hasn’t.

  It isn’t until I go to lift the last of the bags into the trunk, that I see it. Like a bad omen, on the edge of my periphery. A kitten as gray as the day, as gray as my mood, is crouched next to my tire. It’s a tiny thing, scraggly and so dirty that at first glance, I almost mistake it for a piece of discarded trash. Squatting down, I speak softly. “Hey there.”

  As I move closer, I expect it to cower. It only blinks. I’ve always found cats interesting. Ethan is allergic. They carry disease, my mother always said. Not that she ever let me close to one. Better to be safe than sorry.

  I’m hoping it will run. But it isn’t scared. It doesn’t move. It just peers up at me. It doesn’t even make a sound, and for a moment I consider that it’s just another one of those illusions I’ve been accused of having. Maybe it’s hurt. It’s chilly out, and the thing is so tiny. I lean in close, checking for visible injuries. Maybe it’s been hit.

  No. It looks fine to me.

  My heartbeat cranks up a level. In a crisis, I’m amazing. It’s the little things I can’t manage. My husband used to tell me this all the time. I push myself up and search the lot. I don’t know what to do. I can’t very well back out with it under my tire, so I turn back and try nudging it out with my foot. Go on, I say. But nothing happens. It doesn’t move.

  I nudge it again, this time a little harder, until finally it makes a faint squeaking sound. Still, it stays put.

  Again, I search the lot. There’s a part of me that thinks maybe Ann Banks will materialize and fix this too. But even I know my luck isn’t that far-reaching.

  Quite the opposite. Instead, it feels like I’ve landed in one of those terrible animal commercials you see on late night TV. In the early days, Ethan and I used to watch those infomercials together. He said it made him feel like his problems weren’t so bad, considering the alternative. He liked the emotion. I just liked the music.

  Fuck, I think, throwing my hands up. I realize I can’t just leave it there without it going splat for the next person that pulls in. That’s a good way to ruin a person’s day, for sure. When I look up two women have stopped and are staring. I crack my knuckles one by one, and they go on their merry way. I can do crazy really well, or so says my husband.

  I’m not even a softie, and yet, I can’t force my foot to connect with it again.

  Perfect. Now, it looks like I have both food and a kitten I don’t need, and if only there were a two for one shelter that would accept them both, all of my problems would be solved.

  Almost.

  I spot my husband’s scarf in the backseat. In an instant, the decision is made. This is how I’ll rid myself of it. This is how I let go. Little by little, piece by piece. I’ll save the cat and the stranger from their respective bad days with the scarf, and then I’ll toss it. Easy-peasy. It’ll save me hours anyhow, no longer sitting in the car, crying into it, long after the engine has stopped running.

  I bring it to my face and inhale deeply. His scent still lingers on it. It’s hard to erase that. Oh well. One less reminder of what used to be but no longer is.

  There are little pieces of him everywhere, landmines left for me to trip over.

  Speaking of landmines, I recall the old towel in the trunk left there from our last beach trip, and I decide I should cover the seat, in the event that he does come back. Ethan is deathly allergic to cats. Probably better not to take the risk. As I shake it out, grains of sand dust the pavement. Memories follow suit. Although, that beach trip was months ago now, for me, it could have just as well been yesterday.

  It was one of my good days. I’ll never forget how it felt to have the sun and my husband’s grace shine upon me. Or the manner in which we laid side by side on our backs, soaking it in. We listened to the waves grow closer and closer, both of us careful to keep our eyes steady on the birds overhead. I realize now this is just my version of that day, of course. It’s likely he was plotting his escape even back then. They say a person does, at least dozens of times, before they actually make their break. Separation never comes as a shock to the one doing the leaving.

  The memory is as clear as ever today; it’s the visceral kind. The kind that hits you out of nowhere. The kind that’s good enough to bottle and sell.

  Birds squawked, children played, we stared straight up at the sky, both too content and too afraid to break the spell. It feels like a dream looking back. One good day sliced into a reel of a bunch of shitty ones. I can’t blame him for wanting that version of us more than what we had become. I hold tight to that image too. Two lovers on the beach. Happy. Content. Safe.

  Ethan’s fingertips reached out and just barely brushed mine. I thought it was his way of telling me that things would be all right. But then, he couldn’t have known that, could he?

  My breath caught when he squeezed my pinky, just the tip. It felt like an unspoken promise. Afterward, he’d placed his hand over mine and rested it there, and it made me believe. It was all still there. Just buried. I could have stayed like that for hours. Forever, maybe. Ethan had a way of anchoring me to the earth. Otherwise, I would have been just as happy to float away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SADIE

  Ann Banks saved a human. Big deal. I’m saving a cat. Something that sounded like a good idea until I’m firmly in the middle of it.

  The thing is hell-bent on touching every surface in my car, thereby marking it as its own. No good deed goes unpunished. Great. I’ll have to spend the rest of my life making sure I erase any evidence it was ever here. Ethan would kill me.

  There’s a veterinary place on the way home. I plan to drop it on the doorstep and hightail it outta there.

  They say animals use more of their senses than humans, and I believe it. I can tell by the way it refuses to stay wrapped up in the towel despite how many times I place it there. Apparently, it doesn’t appreciate the memory of that beach day as much as I do. Stay, I say. But it doesn’t appear to understand English nor care to try and we’re not even halfway there.

  Cats carry disease. I can hear my mother’s warning, clear as day. I mean, she’s dead—but the dead can still be right.

  When I was three I got ringworm from a neighborhood stray, and my mom had to shave my head. There are pictures somewhere. People thought I was a cancer patient, which horrified my mother. That horror was only superseded when anyone assumed I was a boy.

  I can recall in vivid detail the day she took me in for blood work just to make sure about the cancer. Ringworm could have been anything, she said. Technically. She sat me down and explained I might be dying. She was sorry, she said. She might have guessed wrong, and it might be too late. Even if it wasn’t, we didn’t have insurance, and cancer treatment is very expensive. So many lessons in one conversation. That was my mother.

  The kitten yawns and stretches, and then it hops onto the seat and crawls into my lap. I move my hips, wiggling in my seat, any
thing to make it go back where it came from. It doesn’t budge. Instead, it curls its tail under its body and settles in for a long winter’s nap.

  This forces me to steer with one hand while finagling the sleeve of my shirt over the other. It takes a bit of effort but eventually I’m able to lift the cat from my lap and once again place it back on the towel without it touching my skin.

  We drive on.

  When we arrive at the vet, I’m faced with the crippling reality that dropping it on the doorstep isn’t going to be as easy as I’d envisioned in my mind. For one, there are windows everywhere. Two, people seem to come and go nonstop. I consider asking if any of them would like a free kitten. But they probably don’t, and I hate rejection.

  Ultimately, I go through the usual speech I have with myself before walking into a new experience. First, I count to ten. Then, I go through the alphabet. Somewhere around W, it dawns on me there’s food in the back that will spoil. I finish on Z and suck it up. I wasn’t always like this, in case you’re wondering.

  Ann Banks says in her book you should always look forward, never backward. This is useful in that I realize I should have considered what I’m going to say about the kitten on the way here instead of recounting my life story.

  “It’s never too late for a fresh start.” She posted that on Instalook the other day.

  I scoop the kitten up, along with the towel and cup it in my hands. “Sorry,” I say. “But you’re getting a fresh start.”

  You can’t be a hero all the time.

  Speaking of heroes, I could sure use one now. I’m not sure what I’m expecting when we reach the counter in the vet’s office. Help, perhaps. What I’m not expecting is to be yelled at. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to move the kitten. Apparently, its mother might have come back for it, and apparently I have ruined everything, including the circle of life.