Page 37 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“You’re lying. Did you even tell anyone about our engagement? Your parents?”

I close my eyes.

“I told my partner,” I push out.

A harsh laugh escapes him. “Babe, you need to get your shit together. I’ve stood by idly for long enough, but I won’t watch you destroy yourself from the inside out. See the therapist or…” he trails off, his gaze hardening.

“Or what?”

“Forget it.” He stomps off into the closet.

Scrambling out of the bed on clumsy, still-drunk feet, I charge after him. “Or what, Bo?”

He shoves some clothes into a backpack and the hangers clang together as each shirt comes loose. “Or we may as well throw in the towel now. How the fuck are we going to bring kids into a situation like this?”

Kids?

I gape at him with a dumfounded look on my face.

“Like I said,” he huffs, “forget it. I always knew it would be hard getting you on the same page as me. I just didn’t know it would be fucking impossible.”

A tear streaks down my cheek as he pushes past me out of the closet.

“Where are you going?”

He shrugs. “I’m going to Mom’s. If you need me, you can find me there. You apparently need some space to get your head together. I’ll be waiting for you when you snap out of it. Like usual.”

Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.

I stand there naked, my mouth open in shock as I watch the boy who has always been there for me walk out the door.

LOOKING AROUND THE APARTMENT THISwoman, or doctor…or whatever she is, calls an office, I see a thousand items no one person could possibly need in their lifetime. So many…things.

There are no photos or evidence of a family.

Just her things.

As if she collects them to fill some void in her life.

She’s dressed in a pantsuit a size too big and it hangs heavily and loose around her body, disguising the womanly curves beneath.

“Do you want to sit?” she asks, gesturing with her pen that doesn’t produce ink. Instead, it writes on a pad that uploads straight to her computer to file away for a later date. So sophisticated…

Why people feel the need to talk to a psychiatrist I will never understand. But it does serve my purpose. What harm can it do?

“I like your outfit,” I lie, and I think she knows it. Her narrowed eyes trace the outline of my form.

“Yours is very pretty as well.” Her genuine smile crinkles the lines around her eyes, showing her age.

Pretty.

A word on anyone else’s lips buthisis just a word.

Breathe.

My hands snake down the front of my dress and I almost feel pretty wearing it, but not quite.

Pretty little doll.

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