Page 5 of Audiophile

“I know!” she snaps back.

I take a beat to compose myself. “DKP has enough to tide me over for a while longer and then I’ll do…something. I’m figuring it out.”

“I want to help you,” she says. Her words settle some of the hurt inside me. A reminder that I can count on her. Trust her.

“I know. We’ll talk later, okay? Love you.” I barely wait for her to say it back. I hang up the phone, rubbing my temples in hopes it will ward off the headache building there. Any serenity from this morning is ripped to tattered pieces.

I flop onto the bed and flick on the TV in hopes of a better distraction than Amanda was. Voices roll over me—with a laugh track that’s both annoying and comforting—as I scroll through my phone.

I block messages on my socials, and ignore four calls from unknown numbers. My emails are full of job listings for commercial voiceovers and one for an audiobook. I haven’t explored that avenue, but I flag it for later. There are also several emails from my lawyer, all of which I ignore.

A sound notifies me that each of my missed calls is accompanied by a voicemail. I tap the first one and Kinley’s voice grates from the speaker. “Reed,pooki—”

Delete.

“I know you’re mad, but—”

Delete.

“Answer the phone! Fuck you, motherf—”

Delete.

“Daddy, I didn’t mean all that. I miss you—”

Delete.

I’ve changed numbers twice, but nothing keeps her away. I want her out of my head. Uprooting my life, listing my house, finding a new one, and Kinley—it’s too much stress to handle. Hurt and anger bunch under my skin, and I roll my shoulders back to release some of the knots. The movement causes the black ink along my forearm to shift, grabbing my attention. It’s stark, even against my tan skin.

Bile crawls up the back of my throat. As if summoned, my phone vibrates, andunknown numberscrawls across the screen. I answer, my pulse frantic. “Jesus Christ, just stop!”

“Wait—” Kinley says.

I don’t. I hang up and strip off my clothes. It makes no logical sense, but the ghosts of Kinley’s hands linger as though they’re burned into my skin. My phone rings until I shut it off and jump into the shower. I lather the soap in my hands, digging in with my nails, wishing I could scrub her away.

The churning in my stomach subsides as the water sluices over me, hot and loud, overwhelming my senses and bringing me back to the present.My name is Reed Alexander. I’m in a hotel room in Portland. No one knows where I am except Amanda.

When I step out, the panic has subsided enough to let other signals through. I need to drink water, eat a real meal, and get the hell out of here. The caves along the Oregon coast are calling my name. Unlike people, the elephant seals are a distraction that won’t demand anything in return.

Chapter three

Petra

Every day is thesame. I don’t know if it’s a Tuesday or Wednesday when I swipe groceries across the scanner. The fluorescent lights at Mulberry’s make my eyes hurt, but my heart hurts more. Because even though I’m tucked behind the register, I’m a bug scuttling away from Aunt Carla’s stiletto. She leans across the check stand, effusively praising my sister and her youngest baby, and crushes me underfoot.

“We need more kids in the family,” she complains in Italian. Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed, and her bright red nails match her lipstick. “Aren’t you ready to date again, Petra?”

“I don’t need to date,” I snap. My fingers brush against my necklace, and the metal is comforting against my skin.

Aunt Carla must notice my icy tone, because she changes topics. “Something is different. Did you dye your hair lighter?”

I bag her items while she punches in her phone number for rewards. “Same brown as always.”

She hums and touches my hair as if she thinks I should. “Come to Rosary tomorrow. We’d love to see you there.”

Rosary is a weekly hour of prayer that Mama and Carla attend without fail. I can’t bring myself to attend Sunday Mass, much less pray the rosary. It’s been years since I’ve gone. God and I don’t talk anymore.

I shrug, and Carla’s face falls in disappointment. I make my excuse in Italian, hoping it will ease the offense. “Maybe next week. Your total is $97.32,Zia Carla.”

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