Page 31 of SnapShot

Charlie left early this morning heading to the restaurant. He says everything has been fine without him there, and I truly hope that he isn’t lying. The guilt of taking him away from his baby would eat me alive. I’m glad he’s finally getting back into his routine instead of living in a constant state of worry over me, though I appreciate our relationship more now because of it.

The officer informed me on our last call that my order of protection case against Brad was rejected. Their reasoning for doing so stemmed from a bunch of upper class men saying that I didn’t have enough evidence stacked against him to warrant such drastic measures. His mommy probably paid off the damn judge, honestly. He comes from a family with plenty of money to throw at things like this which makes me believe even more that I wasn’t his first victim.

It’s such bullshit how people can do these awful things and just be set free like nothing happened. But it makes sense why many women don’t seek legal repercussions after assaults. The pain and suffering isn’t worth it to end up with no one on their side.

Today is the first day that I’ve been able to go back to work since everything happened, and I’d be a fucking liar if I said that I’m not terrified. Brad only lives an hour or so away from Dovehaven. It wouldn’t be a difficult trek back here to confront me about going to the cops.

Granted, it’s a small town, and the guys at The Dairy Bar know why I’ve been absent. They will have my back no matter what, but the nagging dread still squeezes its way into my chest as I walk through the back door for my shift.

The feeling of haunted eyes bores into my skull like I’m the center of some kind of horror attraction. Am I that transparent? Does everyone here know what happened? Is there a scarlet A in the center of my chest in place of my friendly name tag that Kate decorated with a lame ass smiley face?

Immediately, the trash can to my left catches the reappearance of my breakfast, my nerves unable to settle. And here I thought I was getting past the psychological need to vomit every 60 seconds. Wishful thinking, apparently.

“You okay, love?” Mallorie asks as she scoops my ponytail over my shoulder.

“Yeah, sorry. Must have eaten something bad this morning.”

She gives me the kind of sympathetic smile that lets me know she knows I’m full of shit but isn’t going to call me out on it. I appreciate her for that more than I want to admit. Sharing my feelings and pouting over my misfortune isn’t what I’m here to do.

“I’m good. Promise.”

“Just let me know if you need me.”

“Thanks. I will,” I shoot behind me as I move around her to get busy.

On any given day, there’s usually six or seven people running this shit show. Today, the dream team is in full swing. David and Sean are cooking in the back while Mallorie, Rachel, Kate, and I work the front.

Thank goodness the lunch crowd isn’t holding us hostage today. Wednesday’s are usually pretty laid back in comparison to the rest of the week. It’s Fridays and Sundays that are the absolute worst. Nobody wants to start their weekend by cooking at home, and the church crowd on Sunday damn near carries the building away. Those fuckers are some of the worst tippers, too.

I needed a calm day to jump back into the swing of things, and David was more than willing to help me out. I’m sure his current lusting after Kate had nothing to do with it. Regardless, I’m happy both of them are here with me today.

Walls of neatly stacked food supplies cage me into the walk-in cooler while I add to them as Kate appears in the doorway.

“You making it back here?”

“Doing good. Figured this was as good a hiding place as any. Y’all ok out there?”

“Getting a little busy, honestly. Could use some help soon.”

“I’ve got about 5 cases left to unpack, then I’ll be up there.”

“No hurry.”

While I appreciate all the help everyone is willing to dole out, I’m not made of glass. If the helicoptering doesn’t end soon, I’m going to shatter for a totally different reason.

I won’t be the only one getting cut if everyone continues to hold me as if I’m broken. I just needed a little glue, that’s all.

The work day flies by since I only worked half a shift. I insisted on coming to the station by myself, determined not to let this minor bump in the road completely derail the shred of mental stability I’ve been building up since childhood. My therapist would be so proud of me. Stepping up and shit. Though, now that I’m here, the urge to turn tail and run back to my little house by the woods is all too enticing. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. My entire body is overrun with jitters.

The car door closes softly enough that I have to open it to see if it actually closed, which it did, but I had to double check. Turning toward the entrance of the run down station that likely hasn’t seen a real case since the 60s, I release a staggered exhale in a failed attempt to calm down.

After a slight detour to the bathroom for my loose nerves, I finally make it to the front desk. The lady sitting there looks like she’d eat me alive and still be hangrier than a starved gremlin at 11:59 at night. Dark circles under her eyes with more than a few days old makeup gooped all over her face. Bright Barbie pink lipstick that made its second home on her top front teeth. A button down blue shirt that looks splattered with either coffee or the remnants of some dude’s asshole explosion.

I’m going to hell for that. Sorry Jesus.

“Can I help you?”

Damn, her voice matches her appearance. She must have downed three packs of Marlboros since this morning.

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