Page 46

Samantha

Months later

The flickering fluorescent lights cast a sickly pall over the cramped office as I sift through the stack of invoices on my desk. It’s one of many such dreary desks, though it has less food and coffee stains than the others. My eyes strain to read the smudged carbon copies in the dim light while I take a sip of my bitter, lukewarm coffee and grimace. No amount of cream and sugar can mask the burned, acrid taste. Though it’s not like we have any of either.

There’s a knock at the office door, followed by the creak of the door sliding inward on hinges older than my grandmother. Frank, the yard foreman, leans against the door frame, his eyes roving over my body.

"Hey Emily, looking good today. How about joining me for a drink after work?"

Emily .

That’s who I am now — Emily Jacobs, front office secretary to a small shipping company on the docks in Blaine, Washington, a city I never even knew existed until I found myself here and realized that I couldn’t go any further north, into Canada, without a passport, and that I was too tired to keep running. So Samantha stopped, died, became Emily, and Emily found a job at a place that didn’t care about her having much identification — mainly because the bosses all like to stare at Emily’s tits and ass — and then Emily found an apartment that doesn’t have too much mold growing on the ceiling and tried to put something together that might resemble a new life.

Except Emily doesn’t like her life.

Or the people in it.

I force a polite smile and swallow the bile rising in my throat. "No thanks, Frank. Got plans tonight."

Same excuse, different day.

If only he knew the only plans I have these days are with a frozen microwave dinner and reruns of some inane sitcom, a futile attempt to drown out the memories that haunt me whenever I stop long enough to actually think. My hand absently rubs the scar on my forearm, a permanent reminder of the accident that shattered my life months ago. The doctors said the wounds would heal with time. Yet the scars on my body linger, pain me still, and yet are nothing compared to the jagged wounds carved into my heart.

What a joke. Healing.

I think of Diesel and a fresh wave of grief crashes over me, steals my breath. His absence is a constant ache, like a phantom limb. Every night, in my sleep, I reach for him, longing for his solid warmth, only to jolt awake to an empty bed and the cruel realization that he’s dead, or if by some chance he survived, there’s not a chance in hell he’d feel anything for me but hate.

The office clock crawls towards five, each minute an eternity.

I mechanically process the invoices, my mind a thousand miles away, lost in a swirl of memories and regrets.

The phone rings, jolting me back to the present.

I pick up the receiver with a sigh.

"Blaine Shipping, this is Emily. How may I help you?" The words taste like ashes in my mouth.

"Hey there, sweetheart," a gravelly voice leers through the line. "How about you help me by meeting me at the Rusty Hook after your shift? I'll show you a real good time."

Bile rises in my throat; it's Vince, one of the fishermen who comes in to arrange shipments. He catches shrimp, I think. Or maybe cod. Or salmon. I never paid attention, because to pay attention to Vince beyond the scope of my job would be to let that man get far closer to me than he deserves. He's old enough to be my father and smells like a combination of cigarettes, cheap whiskey, and fish guts.

"No thank you, Vince. I have other plans."

"Aw, come on, don't be like that. Pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone on a Friday night."

I hang up before he can say more.

The phone rings again almost immediately. I let it go to voicemail.

Gathering the invoices, I head to the filing cabinets in the back room. Lenny, one of the dockworkers, corners me as I'm sliding the folders into the drawer.

"Emily, looking so fucking fine as always," he growls and reaches for my hair. I duck, spin, and dodge my way out of there. I’ve gotten good at it, thanks to a series of hard-learned lessons, and escape with only a gentle brush of his hand against my ass.

“No, Lenny,” I say. “No, and never.”

“You’ll change your mind,” he says. It sounds more like a threat than anything else.

I hurry back to my desk, my heart pounding. The encounter with Lenny leaves me shaken, but I try to push it aside. I have work to do. I immerse myself in the mind-numbing paperwork, letting the columns of numbers and meaningless jargon blur together until the clock finally reaches five. Then I gather my things and clock out.

As I step out into the cool evening air, I hear a voice call out behind me.

"Hey, Emily! Wait up."

I turn to see Matt, one of the younger dockworkers, jogging towards me. He's one of the few men here who hasn't tried to grope me or make lewd comments, so I slow my pace, allowing him to catch up.

"Hey, Matt. What's up?”

He falls into step beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"I was just wondering... I know you usually say no to going out, but I thought maybe you'd like to grab a drink with me tonight? Just as friends. And just a drink." I open my mouth to give my usual excuse, but something in his eyes stops me; there's a gentleness there, an understanding. He senses my hesitation and quickly adds, "No pressure, of course. I just thought you might want someone to talk to. I know it can't be easy, being new in town and all."

I hesitate. A part of me yearns for the simple comfort of a friendly conversation, to connect with someone without ulterior motives. It's been so long since I've let anyone in, even just a little. But as I meet his earnest gaze, a wave of guilt washes over me. Diesel's face flashes through my mind — his crooked grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed — and the thought of going out with someone else, even just as friends, feels like a betrayal. And I’ve betrayed Diesel enough already.

“I appreciate the offer, Matt. I really do," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't. I'm just... I'm not ready for that yet. I'm sorry."

Understanding flickers in his eyes, tinged with a hint of disappointment.

"No worries, Emily. I get it. But if you ever change your mind, the offer stands. Sometimes it helps to have a friend."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak around the lump in my throat. Matt gives me a small smile and turns to head back to the docks. I watch him go, a part of me wishing I had the courage to take him up on his offer.

But I can't. Not now, maybe never. Diesel still has a hold on my heart, even if he's gone.

I turn and walk away from the docks, hugging my arms around my body, partly for warmth, partly to just feel myself and hope that, one day, things will get better. I hurry through the quiet streets, the salty sea air filling my lungs with each breath. The distant crash of waves echoes in the twilight, a melancholy soundtrack to my solitary journey home. Home — if you can call the tiny, dilapidated apartment I rent in a rundown four-unit building a home. But it's all I have now, my only refuge in this unfamiliar town where I'm just another anonymous face in the crowd.

As I approach the weathered brick facade of my building, a sudden warmth blooms on the back of my neck, like the gentle caress of a lover's touch. It's a sensation both thrilling and unsettling, and for a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine that it's Diesel, that somehow he's found me, that he's come to sweep me away from this bleak existence. That he’s forgiven me.

I pause and look around and see no one.

Diesel is gone, probably dead, and even if by some miracle he survived, he would never come for me. Not after everything I've done, the lies I've told, the pain I've caused. I don't deserve hope, don't deserve a second chance at happiness.

I continue walking, but the tingling intensifies, centering on the tattoo Diesel inked into my skin. But now, the sensation takes on an ominous edge — a prickling unease that raises the hairs on my arms and roils the bile in my stomach.

What if it's not Diesel?

What if Moretti's men have finally tracked me down, come to drag me back to that life of violence and fear?

Panic rises in my throat as I fumble in my purse for the small knife I always carry, my fingers closing around the cool metal handle. Suddenly, I whip around, the blade flashing in the fading light, ready to face whatever threat lurks behind me.

But the street is empty.

I scan the shadows, my heart pounding, but there's no one there. Just the ghosts of my past, haunting me even now.

I let out a shaky breath and lower the knife.

Get a grip, Samantha. You're losing it.

But the unease lingers, and I race up the cracked concrete steps to my building, the key trembling in my hand as I unlock the door.

Inside, the narrow hallway is dimly lit, the air heavy with the mingled odors of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. I climb the stairs to my second-floor apartment, unlock my door and slip inside, quickly shutting and bolting it behind me.

The small studio is sparsely furnished with just a sagging futon, a pair of mismatched folding chairs leaning against a crappy card table, and a bed and box spring that sit on the floor. There’s also a new TV stand for the TV — I bought that myself from that cheap Scandinavian furniture store, and even built it myself, a feat that required spending an entire afternoon huddled over an unintelligible set of instructions while trying to assemble my new Fjorkmylyff out of particle board, screws, and frustration.

It’s the best thing I own.

A fucking TV stand is the best thing I own.

I step into my apartment and flick on the lights, and as I look around, I shake my head, chiding myself for the moment of paranoia outside. No one knows where I am. Samantha Brooks is dead, and all that's left is Emily Jacobs—a woman living a life of insignificance, fear, and loneliness.

No one cares about her.

I sure as hell don’t.

I set my purse down on the wobbly card table and make my way to the tiny kitchen nook. Opening the fridge, I grab the half-empty bottle of cheap chardonnay, the one small luxury I allow myself these days, and I pour a generous amount into a chipped coffee mug.

As I take a long sip, I feel the sting of tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

It's the same routine every night — drinking until the alcohol dulls the sharp edges of my pain, until the memories blur, and I can finally escape into the oblivion of sleep.

But even in my dreams, I can't truly forget.

Diesel's face haunts me; his eyes scream accusations I can never answer. I wish I could erase the past, rewind time and make different choices, but I can't. All I can do is live with the consequences — no matter how bleak and lonely my life is as a result.

I finish the mug, refill it, and take a box of old takeout from the fridge. I don’t even bother reheating it, I just plop myself down in front of the TV and lose myself in wine, too-many-days-old chop suey, and a sitcom from the 1990s.

This is my life, now.

This is the best it can get.

And I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.