Page 41 of My Masked Shadow
Basia:
You alive?
Barely.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling like it has answers. It does not. The ceiling is mocking me.
Me:
Define alive.
Her reply is immediate.
Basia:
What did you do?
Oh, you know.
Normal Sunday night activities.
Laundry.
Snacks.
Getting hunted and ravaged by a man I swore I’d never let touch me.
My fingers hover. I can’t do this over text. I don’t have the emotional stamina to see my own confession in print.
Me:
Can we talk? Like in person?
Basia:
Central Park in 45? I need a walk anyway. Caleb keeps hovering too close when we’re indoors.
Ah, yes. Her mountain of a bodyguard. Deliciously intense.
Me:
See you then.
I drag myself out of bed like a corpse escaping its grave, shower, throw on comfortable leggings, a knit sweater, and sunglasses the size of my personality issues.
Still sore and confused.
Still replaying Ethan pinning me to the warehouse floor and whisperingRun’s over, little bee.
God, my brain is a traitor. Or is it my pussy? One of those.
Central Park isits usual chaotic stew of strollers, joggers, tiny dogs in sweaters, and aggressively happy tourists.
Basia spots me first. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a mint-green coat with a soft pink scarf. Very ‘cute girl next door.’ Very not ‘woman being stalked by a creep and guarded by a man who looks like he eats steel beams for breakfast.’
“Hey,” she greets, pulling me into a hug. She smells like coconut shampoo and eau de anxiety.
“You look stressed,” I say as we fall into step along one of the quieter winding paths.
