Now what? I go up to the bedroom to find something new to wear. I can’t make the dreadful feeling in my gut go away—the one telling me not to touch anything, not to eat or drink. Not to feel comfortable in any way or I’ll get a beating. I force that voice away and remember what Knox said.
One of Knox’s dresser drawers is filled with T-shirts like the one I’m wearing, sweat shorts, and sweatpants. The sweatpants seem like the best bet even though they’re still way too big. At least there’s a drawstring I can cinch around my waist so they won’t randomly fall down. I choose another clean, white T-shirt and knot it at my waist so it doesn’t feel so much like I’m wearing a dress.
The bedroom is so quiet, like a tomb. I still feel sort of bad being in here, like I’m being a burden all over again. I can’t tell how much of that is normal and how much it’s me being brainwashed.
One thing is clear, I want to know more about him. The sort of books he has in his room—history books, strangely enough—I wouldn’t expect him to care about that. The magazines are more what I figured I’d find—cars, girls, and sports. I don’t know why he thought I’d be interested in those, but it makes me grin anyway. He’s doing his best to make me comfortable.
All of this only killed an hour. It’s weird, not having every minute of my day filled, and the thought of unfilled hours ahead of me makes me feel all antsy and twitchy. I’m going to have to get used to living like a normal person. Even when I was competing, I had a single, focused goal. Everything was about training, being stronger, faster, the best. I guess I’ve never lived a normal life, even before my injury.
The sound of the washing machine finishing almost gives me a heart attack, but it makes it easier to find the thing and switch my clothes into the dryer.
Afterward, I decide to settle in on the couch and veg out for a while. Knox wasn’t kidding when he said there’d be everything I could ever want to watch on television. He must pay a fortune every month for his streaming services. It makes me wonder how much time he spends here, all alone. It’s impossible not to think about him, to try to figure him out. I hate to think of him sitting here by himself, though I’m sure it’s completely his choice if that’s ever the case. I doubt he ever does anything unless it’s what he wants to do.
After another hour or so, I finally start to relax for real. I get my clothes out and switch into my bra and shirt, so I don’t have to look at my bruises anymore, but I’ll leave his sweatpants on, finding them even more comfortable than my leggings.
Cuddling back up on the couch, I try to relax. It’ll take time, but I have no doubt I’ll eventually be able to enjoy downtime like anybody else. I’ll need time to get over all the shit Mom and Dale put me through, but the fact that I’m even thinking about moving on with my life must be a good sign.
My God. I’ll even be able to keep my wages now. My tips. The possibilities loom large in my imagination.
“Shit.” My wages. That’s all it takes to remind me of my obligations—namely, my job at Laura’s Gymnastics. I jump up and frantically look around. I’m scheduled for a class this afternoon, and I know Lisa won’t be able to get anybody to cover for me on such short notice. I can’t even remember all the times I had to drag myself over there after a beating, covering the bruises I could and making excuses about the ones I couldn’t.
I always had the feeling Lisa didn’t believe me, but she was too nice to say anything.
I can’t let her or the girls down. I have to find a way to get there. My bag is by the front door, right where Knox left it. I have some money for the bus fare, more than enough to get me to class, and according to the schedule I look up on my phone, the next bus rolls through ten minutes from now just a block away from here.
But I’m not supposed to leave, am I? What’s Knox going to think if he comes home and finds me gone? I don’t even have his number, so I can’t call him and let him know what I have to do. He would probably tell me not to go, but that’s just not going to happen. I’m sure I can handle getting myself to gymnastics and back.
Still, I do have manners. I don’t want him getting home and freaking out—who knows what he would do if he assumed something bad had happened to me? So, I leave a note on the kitchen counter.
I forgot I have a class to teach this afternoon, and I can’t miss it. I’ll be back in a few hours.
That will have to be enough. As it is, I’m afraid I’m going to be late as I put on my shoes, grab the bag, and almost run out the door in hopes of catching the bus.