Page 5 of Marked

But my skin tingles, like he’s still watching me. Turning around and then around again, I search the lot and the store entrance for any sign of him, but come up empty.

He’s not watching me.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, pushing my abdomen out. Repeating this three times, I get my heart to slow, my brain to mellow.

He’s not here for me.

No one is here for me.

“Harley?” Mom leans across the console to look up at me through my window. “Hun, you sure you’re all right?”

“Sorry,” I say once I’m inside the car, pulling on my seatbelt. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Oh, who? Someone from work?” She pulls her bag into her lap, slips her wallet out, and works the zipper closed.

“No one.” I reverse out of my spot and head towards her house.

“You thought you saw no one?” She chuckles and looks out her window as I drive. “I think this heat’s getting to you.”

She turns the radio on and up, a signal that she doesn’t want to talk. In her lap, she’s gripping her wallet with both hands. Her thumb is tucked inside, between the pictures.

Deep breath.

Clear the mind.

Slow the breathing.

Once we’re at her house, she goes inside and leaves the front screen door propped open for me so I can bring in the bags. It takes three trips, but I get everything inside and brought to the kitchen, then I close the front door.

“You’ll stay for dinner, right, hun?” She opens the fridge, putting away the lettuce and cheese.

“Oh. No, Mom. Thanks, but I have some stuff to do tonight.” I bring the boxed rice to the pantry. I haven’t lived inside these walls in seven years, but everything is exactly the same. Once I’m here, sometimes it feels like I never left.

Like I’ll never get away.

“What do you have to do?” She turns from the fridge with a frown. Her hair, once shoulder length with thick curls and colored a warm chestnut blonde, is now cropped just below her ears and has faded to a mixture of dirty blonde and gray. Her crystal blue eyes stand out against the dull coloring of her hair.

“Just things.” I lift a shoulder. It’s summer, and my last day of classes was two weeks ago. I won’t have anything work related to keep me busy for another six weeks.

“Do you have a date?” Her voice tilts upward, like she’s hopeful that I do. But we’ve danced to this tune before.

“No, Mom. I just have a few things I want to get done around the apartment. I’m thinking of hosting a book club this month.” I’ve thought about it a lot of times. A group of women, my age, talking about our latest read over a bottle of wine, maybe a cheese board.

It sounds so normal.

So casual.

So terrifying.

“Oh? What book?” She shuts the fridge and leans back against the counter’s edge.

“I’m not sure yet. I was thinking of talking to the librarians and seeing if they have a suggestion, or going on the internet. I know there are a lot of groups online.” And I’ve been too chickenshit to even join those.

“Well, you can do that after dinner.” She waves a hand through the air, as though to shove the idea of my existance outside this house away.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimes. I jump at the sudden, deep sound of it, and she shakes her head at me.

“Just the clock, Harley,” she says. “We’ll go through those papers I told you about, and then I’ll get dinner on.”

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