Page 23 of Audiophile

“Thank God. I’m sorry, Amanda—”

“Youdidn’t smash my pots. I’m not worried about me—I called the cops and they’re going to keep an eye on the house for a while.” She pauses. “It’s a blemish on her restraining order against me, not you. Are you reporting her when she contacts you?”

I grimace. “No.”

“Reed—”

I wish Kinley would fall off the face of the earth.My hackles raise, and the slithering and scratching across my chest makes me shudder.

“You want me to file a police report daily? They didn’t take me seriously before, and they won’t now.” No matter how much Amanda wants to believe the justice system can help, it can’t. I’m judged for my sex work. Throw in that I’m a male victim with a female abuser, and all the cards are stacked against me. “I’ll send you some money right now, and let me know how much more you need to replace anything. Did she break your windows?”

“Don’t send me money. I’m more worried about what she’ll do since she can’t find you. Where are you, anyway?”

“Swift River—about an hour from Portland.”

Amanda hums. “Small town? Aren’t you against those?”

“Yeah, to live,” I snort. Her bitterness shines through, even a thousand miles away. “It’s fine to visit. I’ll send you some money and call Kinley to tell her to lay off.”

“Don’t,” Amanda growls. “She wants that—wants to talk to you. We can handle it. I want you to be safe.”

“Yeah, well, I wantyouto be safe. Did they arrest her?”

“Couldn’t find her. But they issued a warrant for stalking across state lines and vandalism.”

I nod. “If she shows up again, call 911 right away, and keep an eye on the girls. I’m sending you money right now. I love you.”

“You don’t need to,” Amanda protests, but I hang up anyway. My family relationships weren’t always strained, but Kinley pushed us to the brink, and now our edges are frayed. I became an anxious friend, brother, son. Behaving like a whole, healthy person became too difficult an act to keep up, so I withdrew from everyone but Amanda.

And now Petra, apparently.

I quickly send Amanda five hundred, though it’s not enough for what I’ve put her through. In an effort to regain some control, I call Isaac at Westside Real Estate. Kinley wants to trash Amanda’s porch? I’ll even the field. A house for a house.

“Isaac, how’s the staging going? I know I was wishy-washy for a while there, but I’m firmly set now. I want that house sold as soon as possible.”

“I’ve got an open house scheduled for Saturday. In this market, I’m anticipating offers above asking, maybe a cash offer if you want to close fast.”

“I do…but I don’t want to sell to a landlord. I want a family that’s going to live there.”

Isaac laughs. “Always a wildcard, Reed. I’ll be in touch with the first offer. Let me know when you’re ready to buy again. There’s a beautiful house I could hook you up with in San Diego County if you want a change of pace.”

It doesn’t sound terrible. San Diego is beach and sun, more laid back. Maybe I could afford a place with a pool if I chose further inland. “You know what? Yeah. Send me an email with ones at or below asking price for my house.”

“Done deal. I’ll be in touch.” Isaac hangs up, but my mind is still whirling. I can’t wait to be rid of that house and all the memories in it. The crawling sensation is back, and I want to scratch at my legs until they bleed. The itching lingers the entire time I answer emails and record commercial auditions from inside the closet,surrounded by pillows to muffle the outside noise. It’s all a bid at distraction, but eventually it works.

When the creeping across my skin finally eases up, I create a plan for the afternoon. It’s one thing to be persistent, it’s an entirely different thing to be a stalker. I don’t want Petra to have the anxiety that I do. The best way forward is confident and casual, and when I walk into the grocery store late that afternoon, I’m fairly certain I can pretend to be both.

Her manager spots me and winks. “Back again?”

“Hoping to see Petra. Is she working?” I ask, and Ray nods toward register four. “Thanks.”

I desperately need electrolytes to combat my hangover, and Petra might too. I snag two bottles and watch her work. In the bright lights, her dark hair has a red tint to it. She’s pulled half of it back, and the sleek, glossy texture is gone. Her curls fall just past her shoulders, much shorter than when it was straight.

It’s not long before she’s alone. There are dark smudges under her eyes as she closes them and rolls her shoulders back. I feel bad having kept her up all night, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

When I enter her line, her eyes catch mine. “I thought you’d be gone by now,” she blurts, then presses her lips tightly together.

“I’m staying another day.”

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