Page 9 of Indigo

“This morning?” I ask, my jaw clenched tightly, needing her to finish the sentence.

“On our way to breakfast, he stopped her in the hallway. He grabbed her. Hard. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it.” She places a trembling hand over her mouth.

He. Hurt. Indie.

“Where. Is. She?”

My heart may break for the woman standing in front of me, but my need to get to Indie stops me from rounding the counter to comfort her. I can’t focus on both of them right now.

“At her apartment, maybe,” she replies, picking up the blue tea towel from beside her and using it to wipe her face. “I know she’s going to dinner with him tonight at 6pm. The Black Swan, I think he said. I tried to tell her it was a bad idea.”

I’m halfway to the door before she finishes her sentence. I know all I need to know.

As I get into my car and Lana calls to me from her doorway, pleading with me not to drive while emotional, only one thought runs through my mind.

I’m not coming home without her.

-3-

INDIGO

THIS DRESS IS THEmost uncomfortable piece of clothing I’ve ever worn. It’s tight, black, elegant, and worth more than a week's rent, but it makes my skin itch in a way I can’t scratch. The overly bitter white wine in my hand doesn’t help matters, either.

To distract myself from my increasing discomfort, I watch the couple across from my table as they stare into each other’s eyes.

They make quite a pair. Both have deep brown hair and beautifully tanned skin. You can tell they’re both nervous, but the way they smile at each other takes my breath away.

Her hand moves a little closer to his on top of the deep red tablecloth, and his eyes dart down at the movement. I smile as a smirk pulls at the corner of his lips and her cheeks redden.

People watching is one of my favourite things to do, and nothing beats witnessing a first date.

Trying to put myself in her shoes, I close my eyes just as I bring my glass to my lips and imagine those crazy butterflies I’m sure she’s experiencing right now. The excitement of those stolen touches and quietly spoken compliments over a lovely dinner.

I miss that feeling.

“Indigo, are you even fucking listening?” Michael hisses, bringing me back to reality, to my table, and my mood plummets. The second-hand high from the cute couple? Gone.

I slowly turn my head and let my eyes wander over his face. A stray eyelash is stuck to the highest point of his cheekbone, and I fixate on it, trying not to meet his gaze.

From the corner of my eye, I seethe couple I was observing stand. She looks at him with stars in her eyes and he grins from ear to ear as he takes her hand and guides her past us, happiness radiating from them both.

I wonder how long it’ll be before they stop talking and start yelling. How long will it be until he decides the way she dresses is ridiculous, or that she’s too loud? Too opinionated? When will she start changing tiny things about herself to please him, not realising that every minor alteration will lead to her having no fucking idea who she is?

I wonder how long it’ll be before their infatuation with each other turns into hatred…

My attention turns back to Michael as he places his glass down with more force than necessary, causing me to jump slightly in my chair. I tug at the hem of my dress and wiggle around in my seat before taking a deep breath and looking him straight in the eye, only to be met with contempt and disappointment, as usual. “Michael,” I begin. “We’ve had this conversation too many times. This needs to be the end, so please, just say what you need to say and let me get on with my life.”

He narrows his eyes at me. I’m proud that instead of retreating into myself, like I normally would when he gives me that look, I find the strength to pull my shoulders back and hold my ground.

He will not intimidate me. I’m in charge now.

I planned to cancel this dinner. The only reason I didn’t is because my neighbours complained about Michael’s drunken midnight visits after I sent him a text message telling him as much. They, like me, apparently didn’t appreciate him calling me a whore through my front door for hours on end before finally giving up for the night and heading home, only to be back the next with new, fresh insults.

“We are over. We havebeenover,” I say into my wine glass before taking a sip. I cringe at the taste, wishing they had brought me the glass of Pepsi I’d ordered. The look on the waiter’s face when I asked was comical, as if a grown woman wasn’t allowed to drink such a thing, and instead, he scurried off and brought me back whatever the fuck this is.

The cocky smirk Michael tends to wear whenever he's about to spit an insult at me appears on his face, and I brace myself for the impact. “See, I think you were just in a mood when you ended things. I don't think you thought everything through the way you should have,” he says, stretching out his shoulders along the back of the chair, his muscles flexing under his too tight light blue button up.

I scoff. “Is that right? It had nothing to do with the woman you were fucking when I walked into your apartment? The woman that I had to work with for an entire month until your daddy told me to leave?”

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