“What? Who?” Carter pauses before his moment of realization. “You mean the person who took you?”
I take a frantic breath thinking of an answer that will satisfy all the lies I've told to Carter, but I don't have the energy to keep it up right now. I can barely breathe.
“Did you see where he went?” Carter asks.
“No, you stopped me and I lost him.”
“We should call the cops then.”
“No—no!”
“Why not?”
Because I lied to them about everything. Because now that it's quiet out here and all the noise and music and laughter is gone, I'm not even sure it was him. I didn't even see his face. And even if I did, I told everyone he had a mask on the whole time, so how would I know? And, the most twisted reason of all, I'm not ready to hand him over. He's mine.
“You promised me it would be quiet!” I jab. It's manipulative. It's not me, using his guilt against him, but it's the only way I can stop his prying.
Carter responds with an apologetic stare, his mouth partly agape.
“I—I'm not even sure if it was him. I'm sorry. I think I just had a freak out. Never mind.”
“Hey,” Carter rests his hand on my shoulder. “Let me get the food to go, settle the check, and we'll go home, okay? Why don't you come inside? I can't leave you alone out here.”
I massage my temples, trying to ease the tension between my ears. “I'm fine. It's too loud in there. I'm fine.”
“Okay,” he says softly.
I wait outside in the parking lot observing the occasional person or couple coming or going. It's calm here. Here I can take a breath. I don't think that person I chased after was Sam. I don't even know why I did at the time. My nerves finally settle, the light breeze blowing against me on this warm night aiding in the task. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment. Reminding myself this is just the beginning. Things will get better. They have to.
I open my eyes just as a couple is exiting from their car. The woman is older, maybe mid-forties with leathery skin from too many years sitting out in the sun. The man with her is tall with thin, streaks of bright blond scattered throughout his crown as if he spends his days surfing. He follows her to the walkway that leads to the front door of the restaurant, where I am standing off to the side.
The woman glances up and me, and then she does it again. Her brow furrowing. She recognizes me. I give her an uncomfortable smile and look off into the distance. She passes me, but just as she's about to go in, she stops.
“Excuse me, but are you the girl from the news? I just had to ask.”
I expected this might happen. My face had been on all the local news for weeks when I was taken, and then again upon my miraculous return. What I didn't expect was how intrusive and violating it would feel for some random person to ask me about it.
What fucking business is it of yours? “No,” I answer.
“Oh, sorry. I just had to ask. You look a lot like her. You know the one that I'm talking about. Right?”
I know. The girl in the pictures. She's gone. She can't even go to a restaurant without seeing him. I look down and fidget with this stupid piece of hair that keeps blowing in my face. “Yeah, I've seen her,” I reply as I tuck the long strand behind my ear.
“It's just amazing she escaped. But poor thing. I can only imagine what she went through.”
Then don't. Anyway, you couldn't possibly. And you have no fucking right to ask.
“Susan,” her husband huffs, a man who is clearly exhausted by his wife's constant need to chat with strangers.
Just then, Carter comes out from the door, observing the scene curiously.
“Come on, Vesp,” he waves at me, trying to bail me out of the conversation he knows I am not interested in having.
The woman's eyes brighten as she hears the name.
“Oh my goodness, you are her.” Her eyes go wide in awe as if she's discovered some rare gem.
“Sue!” her husband calls again, this time holding the door open to express his urgency.
I've run out of the thread of patience. Holding myself together, lying, adjusting to a world that was once familiar but is now a lie. This woman has tugged on a loose thread and has forced my facade to unravel.
How dare she? Doesn't she understand what she's asking? When she asks if I am that girl, she's asking me if I was kidnapped, raped, impregnated. She's asking if I miscarried that man's baby. If I still love my fiancé. If I feel guilt about my brother being stuffed in a home. Why my mother hasn't dropped her trip to come home yet.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I hiss.
She leans back in disbelief. As if I am the rude one. As if she has the right to be offended.
“Excuse me?” she asks. “I was just trying to wish you well.”
“You have no right to come up to me and ask. My life is none of your business, you blithering dried up piece of jerky.”
Finally, the woman shuts up, frozen in shock as I shoulder past her and towards Carter, who is now close enough to hear my rebuttal.