Page 199 of Overcast

I hate him.

I do.

And to make it stick, I’ve been repeating it in my brain every time it skips and skids into that dangerous dark hole each time I think about him.

I’m consumed with memories and unwanted emotions, scared that the life I wanted wasn’t going to be what I dreamt up in my head—because Marty became part of it.

My future plans and the things I craved involved him, and he never asked me what I wanted to do. Our “relationship” was one-sided, he made the executive decision to cast me out and force me into a new future without a say so in any of the details.

Everything I have, right down to the air I’m breathing, was his decision. How would he know if I wanted to live by a lake that would only create memories of us having sex for the first time?

Maybe I imagined living in a valley surrounded by mountains.

Maybe I wanted thirty pet goats and a few sheep. My new occupation could’ve been a farmer for all he knew. And what’s even more frustrating is that he knows exactly where I am, able to pop in and show up after so much time has passed.

That I’m always readily available to him, whereas I have no clue where to find him.

I’ve spent days as a wreck, each a new feeling or mundane reflection on past events that I can’t change or form into my own.

Day one consisted of crying profusely into his pillow, the one he slept on from the night before. I read his letter multiple times, trying to decipher in my brain what I did wrong. What I maybe could’ve done differently that would’ve resulted in him wanting to be with me. I came to the unwanted conclusion that my feelings for him were way stronger than his. I would never be capable of leaving him behind, no matter what I did for a living. Maybe I’m more selfish, but it doesn’t change the fact that I had no say.

Day two was more crying, sitting outside on the swing overlooking the lake. I was plagued by more flashbacks, that created more tears, blubbering, and tossing and turning for hours in bed.

Day three, I ate for the first time—barely—and showered. I finally looked over the documents he said he left in his letter. A bank account of over fifty grand, the title to the house I’m staying in as well as the car, and my new state ID.

My new name was Raine Ivanov—I see what he did there, still not amused—and if he really cared, he’d give me a last name that I could actually pronounce correctly. Because no matter how many times I repeat it out loud, I still don’t think I’m saying it right.

Day four, I received a call on a cell phone that Marty forgot to mention that he left. I quickly answered it, my brain playing the perfect scenario in my head that he changed his mind, but it was a job offer. A man named Matteo Gibbs who said he loved my resume and wanted to offer me a position at his tiny book store in town.

A resume I never sent in and an arrangement I had no say in.

Day five, I spent pacing the floor, determined to get my head on straight. Telling myself that I’ve been through worse. That this was my first opportunity to do something important with my life and not waste it wallowing. I ordered a pizza and watched an old black and white movie on TV, falling asleep on the couch with tears trailing down my cheeks.

Day six, I wasn’t feeling so hot. My brain couldn’t function out of my own head, and I missed Marty. My chest hurt, my eyes burned, my body felt weak from sobbing, worrying, and experiencing so much sorrow that never leaving the couch was the best plan I had in days.

Day seven, I explored the house thoroughly for the first time. The idea of it being completely mine sinking into my brain. However, I didn’t want to stay here forever. Everything in this home was Marty. Our last night was here. His words were still imprinted in the walls, and I can’t get his face out of my mind. His heart may have been in the right place, I just wished he never would’ve stepped foot in here and ruined it for me like he did everything else.

Day eight was today—the start of my new job. Also the first time I sat in the car that he bought me.

I bang my palms on the steering wheel and suck in a sharp inhale to keep myself from losing my mind again to my feelings.

I’m not nervous about beginning my first day, honestly, couldn’t care less if it didn’t work out. My stress level is at an all-time high for another particular reason, and it overpowers everything else that could possibly happen right now.

Using the GPS in the car, it’s only an eleven-minute drive. The book store, Smudged Pages, is wedged between a dainty coffee shop and an old drug store. The tattered blue sign above proves the store’s age and neglect as I park out front in one of the few spaces available.

The moment I open the door, I’m greeted by an older gentleman with gray hair and a matching beard. His kind blue eyes and warm smile welcomes me inside, and he immediately knows I’m his new hire.

And he’s excited.

Rattling off a mile a minute about the history of the place and how he moved here with his late wife and two sons forty years ago.

He’s proud, obviously so, as I breathe in the musky scent of old books. The walls are covered in shelves with novels neatly placed together. In the window, I notice the owner’s recommendation propped up for the public to see, and the cashier’s countertop has bookmarks and colorful pencil erasers in plastic containers.

Apparently, we’re in the days before kindles.

After my tour—which took a whole five minutes—Matteo lays out more of my job description which took the same amount of time as my tour. Cashing people out and restocking was all I needed to do in a nutshell. It was perfectly okay for me to recommend reads and encourage kids to pick out a bookmark.

In a nutshell, this job was either going to be mundane or right up my alley. My emotions are too in my way to decide.

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