Page 12 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“Oh.” A small line appears between Thalia’s eyebrows for one second before it clears. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you first. I didn’t mean to be so pushy. I get that way sometimes, so please let me know if I ever make you uncomfortable, okay?”

She’s blaming herself. She, Thalia, a completely normal, friendly person, thinks she is at fault for my sociopathy. I don’t know what to say to that, so I just shrug and nod. “Okay, yeah.”

“Cool. Can you give me like five minutes to finish putting on my war paint?”

I would give her the rest of the time I have in this world if I could. I nod and head toward the window. I pretend to look out and enjoy the scenery, but the whole time, I can’t stop sneaking glances as she applies things onto her already perfect face, wondering what it would be like to touch her, to run my fingers down her cheek, her mouth, and that incredible, thin neck of hers.

6

Present Day

South San Francisco

The memory of that first day with Thalia possesses me. I can’t believe I was about to let Ted derail my goal of getting to New York. I guess the years have just worn me down a lot more than I had thought. But when it comes to Thalia, nothing’s too much, no cost is too great. When I’m done in the basement, I climb up with a purpose. My mind is swirling with images of Thalia—her laughter, that rumpled silk hair of hers, the way she looked at me sometimes, an all-knowing look underlaid with the ghost of a playful smile. And I think of how I had twined a scarf around her neck and squeezed and squeezed until she turned red, and my heart thrums taut, and I can barely get back up fast enough.

I walk briskly to the bedroom and take out my jewelry box. It’s mostly cheap things in here—Ted likes to adorn me with cubic zirconia. I don’t mind; jewelry is frivolous, and I have no space in my life for frivolity. Ted’s parents are the epitome offrivolity; every week, his father buys a rose for his mother, and every week, she somehow resists telling him he’s an unimaginative moron and acts like she is surprised and delighted by the single rose. The same thing, every week, for over forty years. I don’t know why she hasn’t killed him yet.

I rummage around the fake diamonds until I find the pieces I’m looking for. A ring and a necklace. The only things I have left from Oxford. My stomach clenches at the sight of them. The diamonds on both are ridiculously large. If Ted were to see these, he’d assume they’re fake, just like everything else in the box. Which is precisely why I’ve tucked them in here, to hide in plain sight. Because these, like my time at Oxford, are painfully real.

The necklace is a simpler piece—a thin white gold chain with one huge diamond flanked by two smaller ones. The ring, on the other hand, is a monstrosity. A square-cut diamond the size of a cough drop. I select the ring and slide it into my pocket. It’s too ostentatious for me to ever wear, so I might as well get rid of it. I only call out to Ted that I’m going to the store when I’m already halfway out the door, so he can’t come lumbering out of his study and ask me to pick up some soy ice cream or whatever. He says, “Hmm?” but I don’t wait for a reply.

I drive down the street before I stop and look up jewelry shops. There’s one fifteen minutes away from here. I click on directions to get there, and when I arrive, I take my time deleting my search history. Just in case Ted decides to be smart for the first time in his life.

The shop assistant takes one look at the ring and glances up at me again, his eyes wide.

“Please wait a moment, ma’am,” he says, before going to the back room. He comes back out with an older man with wirywhite hair and glasses with what looks like a tiny microscope attached to one of the lenses. The old man asks, very gently, “May I?”

I nod and watch as he inspects the ring. Then the worst happens. He asks, “May I inquire where you procured this ring?”

“Procured.” Not “bought” or “who gifted you this ring.” My guts turn into snakes and I almost throw up then and there. I snatch the ring from the velvet tray and mutter, “Never mind, I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be selling this after all. It’s a family heirloom.”

“Wait, please, ma’am—”

But I can’t. I need to get out of here before the walls close in on me. I rush out, half expecting a cage to slide down on me as I head for the front door, but nothing happens and I walk out into the late-afternoon sunlight without anyone chasing after me. Outside, I don’t even pause to catch my breath. I half run until I’m safely around the corner before I stop.

Stupid, stupid! I need to be more careful. What was it that gave me away? I slip the ring back into the inside pocket of my bag and smooth down my hair. Glancing up, I catch my reflection in a store window. That’ll be it, then. I don’t look like someone who would be in possession of such an expensive piece of jewelry. I’m in loose-fitting jeans and a shirt and ratty cardigan—my “midlist author who’s given up on life” outfit.

It’s too late to go home and change now, so instead, I look up pawnshops. Here in South San Francisco, there’s a depressing number of them around. I pick the one with the highest number of star ratings and drive over there.

I’ve never been to a pawnshop before, and the only things I know about them are things I learned from the movies. It’s surprising how close reality resembles the movies. The pawnshopclerk inspects the ring for a few minutes, glancing up at me and back at the ring, frowning. I swallow, try to look less shady. Not sure how, but I try to channel my innermost wealthy-white-lady-who-just-happens-to-want-to-pawn-off-a-magnificent-ring aura. Finally, he punches some numbers into a calculator and slides the calculator through the little slip hole under the bulletproof sheet separating the two of us.

I look at the number on the calculator, and a laugh burbles up my chest and into my throat, where I manage to swallow it back down. Well, holy shit. Ten grand. It would more than cover my airfare as well as accommodation and food and still leave me with a sizable amount to do whatever I need to do. I want to jump and scream, “YES!” but I’ve watched enough shows to purse my lips and say, “Is that all? Never mind, then.”

In the end, I walk out of the pawnshop with $12,000. I only allow the grin to take over my face when I’m outside of the shop. $12,000. It feels like a huge fuck you to Ted, though I’m not sure why that is. I practically dance my way back to the car.

Back at home, I move sneakily past Ted’s office and into the bedroom, where I stand, for a minute, wondering where to hide my wad of cash. That’s the problem with $12,000; it’s thick and heavy and kind of a challenge to hide. I’m about to head for the closet when the door clicks open and in comes my husband, trying to give me a goddamned heart attack.

“What the fuck,” I say.

“Everything okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

The hallway outside of our bedroom is made of old, rickety wood. It creaks like a demon with a grudge, and at night, when I wake up needing a glass of water, I have to step very, very carefully at specific spots to avoid waking Ted. Ted, on the other hand, never gives me the courtesy of picking the non-creakyspots; when he goes to the kitchen in the middle of the night, he makes sure I know it.

But now, when it matters, he’s able to make his way through the creaky hallway as quietly as a fucking cat.

“I’m okay. You just surprised me a little, that’s all.” My hand’s still in my bag, clutching the thick envelope. I have to consciously tell my fingers to unclench and, instead, to reach for something else. Anything. They brush up against my phone, and I grab it with relief and take it out.I was just taking my phone out of my bag, Ted, no biggie.

“Where did you go?” Ted says in this ultracasual way that tells me there’s nothing casual about his question.

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