Page 54 of Brittle Heart

He picks up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m… I’m so sorry to—” I stammer, my voice shaking, but he cuts me off.

“Karen, what’s going on? Where are you?”

“I-I think someone’s following me. I’m too scared to go home,” I whisper.

There’s a pause, some shuffling, more rustling, then he’s back on the line. “I’m heading over. Where are you?”

“Harlem, near the 7-Eleven,” I manage to say, my voice laced with fear.

“All right, go inside. Stay on the phone and stay where the cashier can see you. I just got home, so I’ll be there in twenty.”

I make a beeline for the store, walking quickly but trying not to look too panicked. This might all be in my head, but if it’s not, better safe than sorry.

I step inside, casting a glance at the cashier’s counter where a kid, maybe eighteen, with acne-ridden skin is working.

The sound of a car door slamming and an engine roaring to life filters through the phone just as Clay asks, “You’re inside the store?”

“Yes, I’m in,” I confirm.

“Go chat with the cashier,” he orders.

“But he’s just a kid, and I don’t know what to talk about.”

“I don’t care, Karen. Ask him about the freshness of their eggs for all I care. Just get him to talk to you.”

Despite my jitters, I head toward the counter, keeping a watchful eye on the entrance. If someone was tailing me, they wouldn’t come in here, right? They’d wait for me to get back out, right?

I approach the kid, who glances up with a bored expression.

“Can I help you?” he asks, sounding anything but helpful.

“Are your eggs fresh?” I blurt out.

Clay’s laughter echoes from the phone.

“My eggs… are you hitting on me?” He looks utterly confused, and my cheeks flame red.

“No, no, never mind,” I say, retreating a step and pretending to inspect the candy bars next to the register.

“Please hurry,” I whisper into the phone.

“I’m almost there, but for the love of god, avoid asking teenagers about their eggs. That shit could end in a harassment complaint, and I’m off-duty,” he teases.

“You told me to ask him that!” I hiss back into the phone.

“I meant store eggs, not his eggs,” he replies, his voice rippling with laughter. “You’re something else, Karen.”

The store doors swing open, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s just an elderly lady shuffling in. My breathing must sound ragged over the phone because Clay’s voice grows serious. “You okay?”

“Please hurry,” I whisper back, my heart hammering so fast I feel it in my throat, threatening to choke me.

There is rustling and some muffled voices on his end, then another sound of a car door slamming. My gaze is fixed again on the entry. Minutes pass without him saying anything, and my nervousness grows.

“Clay?” I ask.

“I’m here,” he says, hanging up just as the doors open, and he steps inside. He’s wearing an olive-green parka and gray sweatpants. He scans the store and his gaze lands on me.

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