Page 8 of A Convenient Secret
That I saw butterflies on my way to a store.
That I bought myself a large iced coffee with extra whipped cream.
And several other entries of little things that made me smile, improved my day, and made me feel normal. Like I’m slaying this living-by-myself thing.
The tightness in my chest loosens, and the nightmare’s aftertaste subsides. My heart is still racing, but it’s no longer galloping. Just trotting.
I glance at the glowing red numbers of the clock on my nightstand. Almost three in the morning. Too early to be awake, too late to hope for a good night’s sleep.
The weight of the dream is still there, lurking at the edges of my thoughts. I don’t remember the details—I never do—but the feeling is always the same: the crushing certainty that I’m not safe, that the past is just waiting to catch up with me.
I put away the journal and lie back, staring at the cracked paint of the ceiling. I force my mind to remember more things that I enjoyed today, yesterday. Reliving the more recent past.
New York never sleeps, so here I am, wide awake. And alone in the quietest hours of the city.
Loneliness is new, but it also isn’t. It’s been over a year. I wasn’t prepared for this feeling of isolation. But then, I wasn’t prepared for any of it.
“It’s just a bad dream. Tomorrow will be better.” The words feel hollow, bouncing around in the empty space.
Outside, loud voices crescendo and quieten down again—perhaps a group of friends leaving a party. Life is still moving, even if I feel stuck.
I close my eyes carefully, because what I see in the darkness is often the worst. I feed my brain all the happy moments, hoping to fall into a dreamless abyss.
“What the hell, Lils?” Aaron says as soon as I answer the phone.
I blink a few times, turning in my twin bed. “Ouch,” I murmur when my elbow connects with the wall.
“Ouch doesn’t even cover it. The devil is beside himself.”
I sit up, and the room spins from the sudden movement. “You make no sense.”
Why is Aaron calling me so early in the morning? Isuppose it must be early in the morning since he woke me from a deep sleep.
Dust particles dance in the cone of light, seeping through an opening in the heavy curtains. The digital clock on my nightstand suggests it’s five past seven.
“There is no memo on his file. You talked to him on Saturday. He’s waiting for a nanny. I hope you only forgot to record it and the nanny is on their way. She is late already, anyway.” Aaron talks in a hurried whisper, tripping over his words.
Words that cause a sober awakening and terrifying realization all at once. “Fuck.”
I jump out of my bed and switch on my side lamp.
“Fuck is right. He’s calling again, Lils. What should I tell him?” Aaron sounds panicked. And he never sounds panicked.
“Tell him his nanny got delayed in traffic but will be there in thirty minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Answer the client’s call, Aaron. The nanny will be there in thirty.” I wish I had an ounce of the confidence I channel into my tone.
“Okay.” Aaron hangs up.
I allow myself a moment of panic, standing by my bed, unsure where to go or what to do.
My hands shake.
My heart is trying to escape my chest.
My mind is racing.
