09

6.

I'm so thirsty.

I roll out of bed and trudge to the kitchen to chug a large tumbler glass of water. The neon green letters on the microwave read 9:37. That's pretty early for me. My stomach does a somersault and I vomit mostly clear bile into the sink. Ugh.

I gaze at my reflection in my mirror. Mascara runs down my cheeks in thick black streaks, interrupted by chalky smears of dried spit. My panties from last night feel slimy. I peel them off and toss them in the hamper before turning the shower on.

The hot water relaxes my muscles a little as I detangle my matted curls. A vague sort of shame sits low in my belly as I try to remember the events of last night. As I wash my body, I can feel how tender my backside is, and I shiver.

When I get out of the shower, my phone is ringing.

"Hello?"

"Sara, I need you to come in and close for Jake today. He's sick."

Jesus Christ. "Oh...uh, okay...Dahlia can't do it?"

"Dahlia's in Jersey."

"Right. Okay. Yeah, that's fine, Mr. Fisher. I can do it."

Click.

I groan and sink onto my bed. More than anything I wish I could go back to sleep for a couple of hours. The closing shift doesn't start until two. I think maybe if I get some fresh air, I'll feel better.

I pull on my overall shorts, make toast and slice up some peaches to take outside with me. I sit in my plastic lawn chair scrolling on my phone, slowly munching on my breakfast and willing myself to keep it all down. It's warm and mild out, with a slight breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. The sun is pleasant on my skin.

After I finish breakfast, I meander up the long dirt driveway, past the empty main house and back down again. A few yards from my front door, I spot a crumpled cigarette butt. I pick it up bring it inside, rolling it around between my fingers before chucking it in the trash bin with a sigh.

I spend the rest of my morning scrubbing my soiled sink and trying to do damage control on my skin. I examine the palms of my hands. The right one is mostly okay, and the blisters on my left hand have calmed into pink, mostly flat little marks. My face is definitely puffy, and my skin looks dull. I double cleanse my face and moisturize thoroughly, but the effects of last night's antics remain apparent. After that, I try to relax with a book. I'm too antsy to concentrate on it.

At 12:30, I decide to just go to work early. I gather my things, leave my bike at home and start down the road. Most people are still out of town, I guess. I'm only passed by two cars on the way. One of them honks at me. Gross.

At the bakery I'm greeted by a pimply sneer. He's leaned against the cookie case, phone in hand.

"Took ya long enough."

"Carter, I'm literally an hour early."

"Yeah well...does this mean I can leave now?"

I sigh. "Yes, Carter, I'll take it from here."

"Cool. Oh, hey, I was wondering, it's my buddy's birthday, so..."

"I'm not selling you weed."

"Fine." He scoots past me. "Oh, by the way, the case is fucked up."

"What? Fucked up how?"

He shrugs. "Uh, I dunno. Won't get cold."

"Ohhkay...did you try resetting it?"

"I dunno how to do that."

"Oh my god. Okay. It's fine. I got it."

"Cool, thanks!" And then he's gone, smacking the doorframe on his way out. Little shit.

I squat next to the case. The temperature reads sixty two degrees, and the cheesecake slices have sweaty condensation on them. I flick the power switch off and check the fans for debris. Nothing. I power it back on and then sweep up all the crumbs Carter's lazy self left behind. When I come back, the number hasn't budged. Awesome.

I pick up the store phone and dial Mr. Fischer's number.

"What is it?" He says, pleasant as always.

"Hey, sorry to bother you. I can't get the left side case to cool down."

"Turn it off and on again," he huffs impatiently.

"Yeah...I already tried that. I checked the fans, and it doesn't look like there's coolant leaking or anything like that, so I'm not too sure what the issue is. The par sheet says we need more mini tortes, but I'm going to have to move everything into the chiller if the fridge is broken and I'm not sure we'll even have room for them anymore, so--"

"Slow down. Don't worry about the pars for today. Ah, Jesus. It's always something, ain't it?"

"Yes, sir." I roll my eyes. "It's always something."

"Always something. You see the number on the corkboard there, under the schedule?"

"Um...y--"

"It's right there, Sara. Right under the schedule," he huffs.

"Yes, I see it."

"Great. That's our repairman's number. Oh, you know him. Arthur."

"Arnold, sir." my stomach does a little flip.

"That's what I said. Anyway, give him a call. He'll fix it up. Charge me an arm and a goddamned leg, but he'll fix it."

"Will do."

Click.

I take a deep breath before dialing the numbers scrawled on a sticky note labeled 'HVAC'. The line rings once, twice, three times. I'm beginning to think--hope, kind of--that no one will answer when there's a voice on the other end.

"Arnold Bailey speaking."

I clear my throat.

"Hey--um, I mean. Hi, Arnold. This is Sara. I'm calling for Redbrick bakery."

There's a pause on the other end before he speaks.

"Sara." He sounds surprised. "I didn't think you worked on Saturdays."

"I usually don't," I say quickly. "Someone called out."

"I see." Another pause. "Alright, well. What can I do for you?"

I fiddle with the phone cord. "The display cooler is acting up. I can't get it to cool properly. It's stuck at like, sixty degrees, which is, you know...bad."

"Did you try turning it off and on again?"

"Yes, Arnold, I did indeed try turning it off and on again, which did nothing. And no, the fans aren't full of gunk, and no, there is no coolant leaking. Mr Fisher said to call you so, that's why I'm calling you."

"Goodness. All right, Miss Sara. Don't bite my head off, I'm just trying to troubleshoot here." There's a smile in his voice.

"Sorry. But...yeah, I tried all the stuff and it won't work."

"Okay, well. I'm just finishing a project up now. I'll be there in thirty."

"Okay. Thanks Arnold. Bye."

"See you soon, Sara."

7.

I check my reflection about thirty times in the mirrored glass on the back of the display case. I look okay, albeit a little haggard from my binge drinking episode. I'm in the middle of swiping gloss across my lips when the front door chimes. I shoot up, tucking my lipgloss away into my pocket, but it's not him.

A woman, ginger haired, maybe in her mid thirties, breezes in. She's positively decked out in silver jewelry and gigantic sunglasses. Trailing alongside her is a small towheaded child and the scent of expensive perfume.

"Hi, welcome in."

"Hi, honeybun!" She beams at me with exceptionally, shockingly white teeth and pushes her sunglasses up onto her forehead, revealing eyes that are a startling shade of blue. "We're not from around, we're on a little road trip. What's good here?" Her accent is distinctly Appalachian. The little boy is jamming his face against the glass of the fridge.

I shrug. "Well, everything is good, depending on, y'know, what you like. Our snickerdoodles are really popular, we're kind of known for them. Some of the other stuff might get really messy in the car..."

"Okay, look." She places her bejeweled hands flat on the counter in front of me. "The family is getting together at the lake house. My sister usually brings the baked goods, and she's from New York. She does the interior decorating for Jennifer Coolidge's cousin's daughter and now she thinks her shit don't stink. So I need three dozen of whatever says 'screw you, Diane'. What do you got for that?" She gives me a look so severe that her eyelash extensions damn near touch her eyebrows and I can't help but giggle.

"This is serious," she says, but she's smiling too. She shoots the kid a look. "Paxton Leigh, if you don't stop smearing your little piggy snout on this lady's nice clean glass, so help me."

I decide that I'm extremely fond of this woman even though she's kind of freaking me out. The tiny blond child unsticks his face and pivots, seemingly deciding he'd rather pretend to be a racecar.

"Okay, screw Diane. God it. How about this..." I tap my chin. "I'm thinking, chocolate pistachio croissants, maybe a few mini cheesecakes? But I don't think I have enough to make three dozen, so--"

The door chimes again.

"Hi, welcome in--oh. Hi, Arnold," I stammer. Arnold strides in with a large toolbox, narrowly avoiding a serious collision with the racecar baby. He nods to the redheaded woman and gives me a small wave. She looks him up and down, then turns to me, eyebrows raised.

"Handsome," she mouths, and flicks her hair over her shoulder. I press my lips together and shrug.

"Hey, handsome!" she calls out to him. He looks up from his toolbox, which is opened on one of our two tables, and gives her that warm, churchy smile.

"Yes, ma'am?" A hot rush of jealousy flushes my cheeks.

"You uh, come here often?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"What's good?"

"Well," he straightens to his full height and fiddles with the collar of his slate grey jumpsuit. "I myself am partial to Miss Sara's muffins." he nods to me. I stare at him, realizing my mouth is hanging open a second too late. The woman's eyes flick from him to me and back.

"Um. Yeah, I came up with the recipe for the peach streusel muffins. They're seasonal," I say hastily. "It's not really an original recipe, just a riff on my gramma's. People seem to really like them."

"Oh, I'm certain they do," the woman says. She squints at me, a devious smirk spreading across her face. "And this peach muffin, mister." She says, her eyes never leaving mine, "Would you say it's uh, real moist?"

"Yes ma'am. I absolutely would. Miss Sara is a very talented baker."

I can feel myself blushing. I clasp my hands in front of my mouth. "Well, like I said, it's an old family recipe."

"I bet it is," the redheaded woman says. She claps her hands together. "Okay, well, I guess I'll take 12 of each. The croissants, the mini cakes, and a dozen of Sara's juicy peach muffins." She says the last bit so salaciously that I snort.

I carefully arrange everything into three boxes and place them on the counter. "I can give you a discount. It's supposed to only be if you get all the same stuff, but..." I punch in the total and add the discount code. "Okay, yeah. So your total will be $97.20."

The woman beams at me again. "Oh, you are so sweet! Thank you so much, honeybun. Alright. Let's roll, Pax." She loads up the boxes into one pilates-toned arm and tucks the kid under her other arm like a football. Arnold rushes ahead to get the door for her.

"Thanks, hot stuff," she purrs.

He dips his head. "You're welcome, ma'am. Enjoy your muffins."

She grins at him. "Uh huh. You enjoy your muffins, too."

He shakes his head as he closes the door behind her. "She seemed nice."

I murmur in agreement. "Pretty, too," I say off handedly.

"Yeah," he says, gathering tools from the table before sliding behind the counter with me. "Not really my type, but. Yeah, definitely."

"Hmm," I respond noncommittally. Privately, I'm pleased.

Arnold squats next to the case and fiddles with the temperature gauge for a moment, mumbling to himself. I watch him from the corner of my eye while I clean invisible dust off of the counter. He unscrews the bottom panel and places it on the floor next to him.

"A-ha," he says. "C'mere, I want you to see this."

I kneel carefully next to him. He's starting at a panel that's covered in U-shaped pieces of metal.

"Um...I don't know what I'm looking at."

"Okay, so these are your condenser coils. You see how this one here is shaped kind of wonky?" He gestures with his screwdriver.

"Oh. Yeah."

"So, whoever installed this did a slapdash job and now the electricity isn't really flowing right. It's probably been causing problems for a while. The temperature creeps up all day long until you reset the whole thing, right?"

"Yeah, right."

He taps the allegedly wonky shaped piece. "This is why. So, all we have to do here is bend it back into place." He fishes a pair of pliers out of his pocket and firmly, but carefully, manipulates the metal into a more uniform shape.

"There," he says. "Cut it on."

I reach over him and flick the power switch. Immediately, the temperature starts to drop.

"Oh, wow." I rise to my feet, and he follows suit.

Arnold shrugs. "If your boss asks, this took me hours. Uh, Miss Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"Where are your pants?"

I follow his gaze. My hands drop to my bare thighs. The frayed ends of my overall shorts stop maybe two inches below the hem of my work shirt.

"Oh my god. I totally forgot half my uniform at home." I'm such an idiot. I jump to my feet and yank my bag off the wall, digging through it like I'll find something I didn't pack.

"Those are some pretty gnarly bruises," Arnold murmurs. I twist to try to see the back of my thigh. Sure enough, there's a smattering of angry, purple splotches creeping under the hem of my shorts. For the first time all day, I look him in the eyes. His mouth is a hard line, his brow furrowed. He takes a step towards me. I take one back, realizing too late that my back is now flat against the side of the blast chiller.

"Can I ask you something, Sara?"

"Yes?" I breathe.

He hesitates. "How much of last night do you remember?"

I swallow. "Ah, most of it."

"Because you were really pretty drunk."

"I know."

"And I don't want you to feel...violated. Do you feel like I took advantage of you? I mean, you asked me to." His gaze is intense. It's all I can do not to shrink away. My voice is barely louder than a whisper when I respond.

"No," I say. "I don't feel like that."

He nods sagely, and glances behind him, out the window. Suddenly his thickly muscled arms are on either side of me, pressing against the wall, caging me in.

"So you feel alright about being on your hands and knees and getting fingered until you passed out in the middle of the floor?"

"I-uh."

"What I'm saying, Sara, is if you want me to take advantage, I'm happy to oblige that."

Somewhere outside my body, I watch my head nod.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," I squeak.

He grins at me and pulls away. "Great. In that case...I'll see you later, darlin'."

I wonder how soon later is.

8.

I had five more customers all day. The Johnsons left their vacation early because their kid got a nasty stomach bug, and they were kind enough to send some of those germs floating my way. I basically had everything done half an hour before close, so all I really had to do when it was time to punch out was turn the lights out and take the invoice for the fridge up to the office.

On the walk home, I think about the night before, about Mark and our awful kiss and Theresa, about Arnold in my room. He looked so out of place there. I remember how much I told him about the evil fantasies that run wild in my head when I'm alone. He'd asked if I wanted him to rape me, and the answer wasn't exactly no. I think there might be something wrong with me.

By the time I'm home, I'm feeling kind of guilty and anxious. I set my things down and start for my spot in the forest. I light a joint on the way, hoping it will help with the weird mood.

I'm not twenty feet into the forest proper when I hear the distant but distinctive sound of boots crunching against the earth. I freeze. I hear male voices.

Uh-uh.

I sprint back through the field, throw open my door and slam it back shut behind me. I sink to the floor, back against the door, waiting to see if the voices get closer. I sit there for maybe five minutes waiting for my heartbeat to slow.

Then there's a knock at the door.

Carefully, quietly, I crouch to look through the peephole.

I guess later is now.

9.

I throw open the door and you wave Arnold inside frantically.

"What's the matter, you don't want anybody to see me?" Arnold quips as he steps inside. I slam the door behind him and lock the deadbolt.

"There's somebody outside," I hiss.

"Pardon?" Arnold wrinkles his nose. "Are you sure you didn't just smoke too much pot?"

I curl up on the couch and tuck a pillow in front of me. "No. No, there's somebody out there. A few people. I heard their voices," I insist. "They were in the woods with me."

Arnold pinches the bridge of his nose before coming to kneel down next to me.

"Alright, alright. I'm sure it's just kids. I'm going to go take care of it."

I nod once. He moves towards the door.

"You lock this door, miss Sara."

"Yessir," I mumble. As soon as he's out, I latch the deadbolt again. I watch through the window as he disappears through the treeline, then pace back and forth at least two dozen times before I see his shape emerging from the woods. He taps on the door, and I let him back in.

"Like I said," he shrugs. "Just kids. I guess they were finishing up hunting. I told them they were on private property."

"Oh." I purse my lips. "That makes sense."

"Yeah." Arnold shifts on his feet.

"Do you want a drink? I have tea, and coffee, and I think I have some beer in the fridge? I have these little prosecco cans too..."

"No, that's okay." He sits on my couch and pats the space next to him. "Why don't you come sit down? I want to talk to you."

I sit next to him, tucking my feet under me. I'm very aware of the feeling of his jeans against my bare legs.

Arnold puts a large hand on the back of my neck. I try to breathe normally, and wonder if he can feel my pulse accelerating. He clears his throat. "I'd like you to tell me what you remember from last night, please." His voice is low and serious. I swallow.

"Um, well, I remember that you were in my house, and--"

"No. Start at the beginning." He smiles. "I want to hear about your night."

"Oh. Sorry. Okay. So, I guess you know what happened at the bakery, because you were there."

"Mm-hm." His thumb rubs absently against the nape of my neck.

"So, I got home. I mean, you took me home. And I went to the woods--there's a stream back there. There's these big flat boulders by the bank and I like to sit there and watch the sun set. I was reading. And then I heard something--"

"And you got scared?"

"No. Well, sort of. Just apprehensive, you know. Usually it's quiet over there except the frogs and the birds and things. But recently it seems like people have been crossing the property line more. I'm sure it's just hunters, like you saw, but I don't like feeling like I'm being, you know, followed, watched, whatever."

"Don't you?"

"Not by everybody." I take a deep breath. 'so, anyway, I got back inside and I was feeling kind of antsy. So I decided to take a shower and go out. But my hands really hurt, so I had to use gloves."

"You're blushing."

"No I'm not," I respond, but my face feels hot.

"You are. Why are you blushing?"

I shake my head. A single nervous giggle escapes me.

His hand tightens around my neck. I squeeze my thighs together reflexively.

"Miss Sara," Arnold clicks his tongue. "Did you touch yourself in the shower?"

I nod.

"Use your words, please," he says.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I...touched myself in the shower."

He nods thoughtfully. And then, as if it's just occurred to him:

"What did you think about, when you were touching yourself?"

I stare at my hands.

"I thought about you," I murmur, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

He makes a low, disapproving noise. "And what did you think about me doing?"

"I don't want to say."

"Sara."

"It's embarrassing."

Arnold sighs, and then his grip around my neck loosens, and he wraps an arm around me and pulls me onto his lap. His mouth presses against the tender skin of my throat, and his stubble tickles me, and I gasp. His teeth graze against my earlobe and I make a noise like a small wounded animal, bucking against him reflexively.