Confessions on the 7:45(16)

“Twice,” she said quietly. “I saw you do it twice.”

He got up and started moving toward her. She walked away, putting the kitchen island between them. The weird thing was that there was a part of her that wanted him to take her in his arms, to comfort her. She wanted to believe that he loved her, in spite of his flagrant infidelity. If she could take a pill to make herself unsee what she had seen, to make it all go away, she would have.

Wouldn’t it be nice if your problems just went away?

But problems don’t go away, not by themselves. When things are wrong, you have to fix them with your own mind and spirit.

“Don’t come any closer to me, Graham,” she said, her voice tight. “Just leave. I need time to think things through.”

“Selena.”

She moved a few steps back, and he kept coming toward her.

“Baby,” he said, his voice buttery soft. She saw the sadness, the desperation on his face. She’d seen it before. There were always big soulful eyes, heartfelt begging; she’d forgiven too many times.

“Please,” he said. “Listen.”

She tried for cool, but her voice just sounded small and sad.

“I can’t imagine what you think you might say this time.”

He wasn’t listening, though; he just kept moving closer until she was backed into the corner, no place else to go.

She didn’t like that feeling, of not having any options. Anger flared. Fear.

And she didn’t like the look on his face. She’d seen it before, when fights got ugly. He’d never hit her, but his rage could be frightening. And she knew, maybe she was the only one who knew, what he was capable of when he was angry.

Graham reached for her, and when she screamed, her voice felt like an explosion.

“Get away from me, Graham!”

Her voice rang out loud, and her last thought before she reached behind her and found Stephen’s toy robot—a big heavy thing with lots of hard edges—was that she hoped she hadn’t woken the boys.



SEVEN

Anne

Was it her imagination? The air felt electric with bad energy as Anne walked into the office. She sensed it right away, even before Evie, the receptionist who had never once even bothered to hide her naked contempt for Anne, looked up and smiled.

“Kate wants to see you,” Evie said, a little crinkle to her nose, a glint in her eyes. Malicious glee.

Evie’s teeth were a dazzling white, a contrast to her olive skin. Her eyes were the same deep black as her hair. Evie’s Instagram feed was ridiculous—a catalog of selfies or posed shots of herself in various locations where she was heavily made-up, provocatively dressed, filtered into cartoonish beauty. Evie pressed out her lips, her cleavage, preened—daily—for her few Instagram followers to a smattering of likes and heart-eyed emojis. What did someone like Evie want? She wanted what everyone wanted these days, to be a star, someone wealthy and lauded for no good reason. She wanted to be perfect. No. She wanted to appear perfect to others.

But nothing was ever perfect. Nothing real. So it was a losing battle that left her feeling perpetually empty.

Anne could see all the layers of Evie. And she didn’t like any of them.

“Okay,” Anne said lightly. “Thanks!”

She also didn’t like the way Evie looked at her. As if she could see what no one else saw. Maybe she did. There were those people. The people who saw, or felt. The seers—cops often, private detectives. The feelers, sensitive types, empaths who picked up energies, creatives—artists, writers, photographers.

There’s something about you. When I look into your eyes, I feel like I’m floating into nothing, her first boyfriend had whispered to her one night. This was when she still thought maybe she could love someone.

But mainly, people were so wrapped up in their own inner hurricane that they never saw anything outside the storm of themselves.

“Have a nice day,” Evie called after her. But when Anne glanced back the other woman’s eyes were sending another message. Something was definitely off.

Things are not always within your control. That was something to learn early on. There was a cultural misconception, a particularly American idea, that the individual was the master of her own destiny. Positive thinking, creative visualization, manifestation, vision boards, asking the universe to fulfill your desires. If you can dream it, you can do it. Anne believed this to a certain extent. The idea had taken her far, given her the confidence to achieve things and go places where others might hesitate.

But there was often a wild card, one element you didn’t expect. Usually it was human frailty. People were totally unpredictable. That was one of the first things Pop had taught her.

She passed Hugh’s office, but he wasn’t at his desk—which wasn’t unusual. He generally strolled in around 9:45. Kate was always here before anyone else. She rose at 5:00, Hugh had told her, met with her trainer for an hour, had a green smoothie and triple shot of espresso, and was at her desk by 7:30 latest. Fear. People who drove themselves that hard were usually afraid of something. What did people like that want? They wanted to be the best, to have the most. Because being the best meant that they were safe from harm.

But no one was ever safe from harm. Not really.

Anne sat at her desk, unpacked her bag. Her Moleskine, her pens. Her sack lunch. Slowly. She wouldn’t go running into Kate’s office before she’d collected herself, assessed the situation. She mentally reviewed her evening with Hugh last night. She thought about texting him, but decided against it.