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-Amara
I kissed the letter, leaving a smear of my lipstick before I neatly stuffed it in an envelope, addressed and stamped it, grabbed my lunch, and headed out the door.
Walking home, I slid the letter into the mailbox, fumbling for my keys. I unlocked my car, climbed inside, and started eating lunch as I returned to Ashwood.
Lockwood was a nice town, but it was a ten-minute drive from Ashwood, so it was a pain in the ass to visit Enzo every week without a car. I was glad I had a reliable method of transportation.
I scarfed down my turkey sandwich, downing it with a bottle of water I had left in my car before I arrived at the shelter.
The lady at the front desk recognized me and buzzed me through, and I sat in the waiting room until my social worker came to get me.
“How’ve you been?” she enthused as I sat across her in her office.
“Better,” I admitted. “I changed my number and haven’t heard from Mark so far.”
“Good, good. How’s work?” Sylvia asked, pulling out her notebook and jotting notes.
“Hectic,” I admitted as I tried not to blush.
“I bet,” she agreed. “But you’ve got to get back on the horse after so many years of not working.”
“My lawyer’s serving Mark the divorce papers today,” I added.
My social worker paused before she looked me in the eye, frowning. “How do you feel about that?”
“Apprehensive, but sure,” I answered.
“I have to warn you,” she intoned. “Abusers get more reactive and violent once divorce proceedings start. You may hear from Mark again.”
“He doesn’t have my phone number or address,” I informed her.
“Social media,” Sylvia shot back. “If you’re listed on your workplace’s website, he could find you in a simple online search and blow up your job. They tend to find a way.”
My heart seized in my chest. Sylvia was right. I wouldn’t put it past Mark to make fake social media accounts or try to find me.
I could barely pay attention to her next questions as the icy cold hand of fear gripped my heart tighter and tighter. Would Mark somehow find me? What if he saw my car here and followed me home?
“Well, that’s all the time we have today,” my social worker announced. “You want to see me weekly, bi-monthly?”
“I’ll call you,” I decided. I would rather keep it bi-weekly, but I’d need to see her more often if Mark started up again.
“Okay. Take care of yourself,” Sylvia encouraged, rising to her feet. “Let me walk you out.”
My hands trembled, so I balled them into fists as I walked to my car, not paying attention to whether Sylvia was following me. I got in my car and groaned, realizing I was low on gas. I pulled into the nearest gas station, selected the cheapest gas, and started filling my car.
“Amara?” a voice called. “Is that you?”
I froze. I heard that voice a few times when I called Mark’s work.
“Erin,” I gritted to my husband’s pregnant secretary. “Leave me alone.”
“Is this a joke?” she screeched, throwing papers at me, and I could guess it was the divorce papers. “You want everything Mark worked so hard for, even the house? You really are just a gold-digging whore.”
“I’m not the one carrying an affair baby,” I muttered, removing the nozzle and hanging it up. I’d rather fill up in Lockwood than deal with this woman a second longer. At least I put in enough gas to make it there.
Erin went to slap me, but I dodged her, and she stumbled, falling to her knees.
“You seem to like that position a lot,” I mused, getting in my car. “Maybe next time, try it on someone single, homewrecker.”