Page 46 of Crushed By Love

I walk aimlessly through the city, wandering from hotel to hotel only to be turned away at each one. Someone points me to a homeless shelter, but I don’t arrive in time to be let in. I end up finding a place to rest in a nearby park, hiding out between scratchy bushes. Just as I start to relax, a group of faceless men appear, ripping my suitcase from my hands. And then one of them grabs me too, so tight round the middle my ribs bruise. He picks me up, hauling me away. I struggle against him and cry out––but nobody stops to help. People are everywhere but they all act as if I’m not even there.

Invisible. I’m always invisible.

I wake with a gasp, my skin sticky and my inhales punishing bursts that bruise my lungs. My hands are shaking, my mind so firmly planted in the realness of that nightmare that it takes a few minutes to calm myself down. It wasn’t real. It was a dream. Nothing more.

But I can’t shake it. And the next day, I’m too spooked to go to the ferry.

So I stay inside the Kings’ house, even when Malory texts asking if I took care of it and I respond with a single word.

Yes.

It’s a bald-faced lie, I know that, and my brain tells me I’m taking too big of a risk but my gut says it’s better to stay. I’m safe here. I’m alone. Nobody can hurt me. And besides, I can always try for the ferry again tomorrow instead. I just need to gather some courage first, to make myself believe that my fears about being homeless in Boston aren’t going to come true.

But I don’t go to the ferry the next day either.

And nobody comes for me.

And before long, I’ve been living in this house for a week, eating bits of their food storage to keep myself fed, reading the last of my books to keep myself occupied, watching their television on low volume, and avoiding thoughts about what I’m really doing––staying here until dorm move-in day.

It’s the truth. I’m a liar and I’m staying in this house against their will.

My justification? What the Kings don’t know won’t hurt them, but going to Boston early could hurt me. I’d rather risk taking advantage of a billionaire family with multiple houses than risk my own life on the streets of a big city. Besides, I was contracted to be here until the 25th. That’s in writing, signed on the dotted line.

Is it taking advantage if they’re the ones who took advantage of me first? I never should’ve let Conrad intimidate me into paying those bills before I could really afford to. But I did those things, and now it’s time to deal with the consequences.

They hurt me first, right?

I’m only returning the favor, and it’s only out of self-preservation. If there’s anything I have learned this summer, it’s that I have to be the one to take care of myself, to put myself first, because nobody else will.

But it’s not the only thing I learned this summer and I’d be smart to remember just how ruthless the Kings can be.

Ten days before school starts, I wake to the sound of male voices. Panic nearly bolts me to my bed. Cursing, I hurry to the window and peek through the curtains. The house has a walkout basement and sloping yard but my bedroom is facing the side yard. That means the window has a small window well blocking most of the view. I crane my neck, searching for whoever’s talking but come up dry. The grounds crew are here weekly to take care of the grass and plants, so it could be them, but they were here a few days ago, and besides, they’re usually accompanied by the buzz of lawn mowers. I don’t hear any lawn mowers.

Could it be the pool guy? He comes weekly too, but he’s quick, in and out, and he’s always alone.

I take a deep breath and go back to the bed, lying down and staring up at the ceiling. I tell myself to calm down, that nobody knows I’m in here, and slow my breathing back to a normal cadence.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I squeal and jump back up, sprinting out to the hallway and toward the source of the noise. Keeping to the modern design of the house, the windows are tinted, so it’s unlikely anyone will be able to see me in here unless their face is pressed against the glass, but I keep my head down just in case. I peek into the downstairs family room, ignoring the plush leather couches, huge television, and pool table. It’s blessedly empty, but two men are standing just outside the rows of glass doors and windows.

Modern or not, the house still has outdoor shutters, and they’re covering the windows with them now.

The banging resumes. I watch, transfixed, as they go from one window to the next, darkening the basement. When they get to the glass door that opens to the pool, they haul a piece of plywood from a nearby pile and nail that over the glass. For a brief moment, I imagine them nailing me into the house, but I know that won’t happen. The upstairs doors aren’t glass, neither is the side door without the camera. I could always make a run for it if needed since they’re just covering the ocean-facing glass doors.

I go back to my bedroom and grab my things, bringing everything into the bathroom with me. I lock the door, turn off the light, and crawl into the empty bathtub with a pillow and blanket. It takes hours, but eventually the hammering stops. The world grows eerily quiet, and once I’m sure they’re gone, I leave to explore the house.

All the glass has been covered. I can still see through the cracks in the shutters, but the house is cast in shadows. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like August anymore.

Two things come to mind. Either this is typical and they board up the house every year when they leave to protect it from the elements, or a hurricane is headed toward Nantucket.

Massachusetts rarely gets hurricanes.

It’s the beginning of hurricane season but big storms don’t typically make it this far North. Still, it can happen from time to time. Even a tropical storm can damage any house perched on the Atlantic. I haven’t looked at the news or a weather report in ages, haven’t even been outside. I’ve been holed up in here like a little hermit crab, assuming I was safe.

I race to the television and find the remote, flipping through the channels until I get to the local weather station. I cringe at the screen: a satellite image of a swirling hurricane headed straight for Nantucket. The bright blue skies outside are going to give way to a level four storm in less than two days’ time.

Suddenly Boston doesn’t seem so bad.

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