“Mr. Cook will have to officially hire me first.”
“Well, then.” She inclines her head. “Better get to work, new girl.”
I take a deep breath and let myself plop backwards onto my butt, glancing around the storage room where I’ve spent a lot of my day. My most recent activity included painting an oversized corkboard hunter green and spraying it down with glitter. Then I decided it looked tacky and painted over the glitter. Fanned it dry.
How long have I been at this? What time is it?
After speaking with Jordyn, I went to Women’s Fashion and spoke to the manager there, consulting with her about which red dress to feature in my window. After we made our decision, she placed an order for more stock of that particular dress in anticipation of customers being lured in by the A-line silhouette, plunging neckline and ruffled sleeves (accessible, but adventurous).
Then I hoofed it to the art supply shop and used the company debit card I was assigned to purchase supplies for the first phase of my design: the background. I’m going to offset the vibrant red with deep green jewel tones. My plan tomorrow is to track down silk vines to staple to the corkboards, plus some fake white peonies for pop. It almost feels like a dream to be applying my vision to real life materials, but I don’t have time to savor the surrealness.
Not yet.
My stiff muscles protest as I stand, leaning the boards against the wall of the storage room to dry. Massaging the back of my sore neck, I wander into the window space, surprised to find it dark outside. Is the store closed? I slide my phone out of my back pocket, rearing back a little when I see it’s 10:15, meaning Vivant is closed. Time really slipped away from me.
I start to turn in a circle, considering strategic places for the spotlight I plan to use to highlight the dress in the evenings—and that’s when the door between the storage room and the window snaps shut. I stare at it kind of numbly, trying to decide if I should be worried. Not because I think there’s a ghost walking around opening and closing doors. No, that door just doesn’t remain open on its own. I’ve had it propped open all day with a wedge of wood.
Problem is, I didn’t originally plan to come back into the window, so it’s not propped this time. And my stuff, including my key to unlock the door, is in the storage room sitting on a metal fold-up chair.
“Shit,” I whisper, striding to the door and tugging on the handle.
Locked.
It’s locked.
“Okay, don’t panic.” I slide a handful of fingers into my hair and hold on while considering my options. Someone has to be in the store. Will an employee on the main floor be able to hear me from here? Taking a deep breath, I start to knock loudly on the door. “Hello? Hello! Is anyone out there? I’m locked in the window.”
Silence.
And then a vacuum starts humming, drowning me out.
My pulse is starting to thrum faster. I can’t help but notice how much smaller the window box looks when I can’t get out of it. I’m trapped. Locked up. I can’t get out.
Cold sweat breaks out underneath my clothes and I can’t seem to slow my breathing.
Is this a panic attack? Something to do with claustrophobia?
This has never happened before. I’m living in a four-hundred-square-foot apartment, for God’s sake. You can get out of the apartment, though. You can open the door at any time. I can’t open the door to the storage room. Just like I had no way out of prison.
I’m going to be confined in here all night.
I’m right back in the yard, standing on dead grass and staring up at barbed wire.
“Oh God,” I pant, dropping down to my haunches, wrapping my arms around my knees and rocking. “Calm down. Come on, calm down.”
The chant does nothing to help. I’m beginning to get dizzy. Breathing through my nose and counting backwards from ten don’t stop my teeth from chattering, a thick layer of ice forming on my skin. My hand is shaking as I tug my phone back out of my pocket, managing to pull up my email and get the store’s main number off an email from Aiden’s assistant.
No one answers the main line. It’s a recording.
Then I notice there’s an extension included in the signature line of his email. So I dial Vivant again, this time plugging in the extension. It rings. It rings four times. I’m beginning to give up hope when a familiar voice fills my ear.
“Aiden Cook, at your service.”
“Aiden,” I blurt, my relief toppling me sideways onto my left hip. “I-I’m locked in the window. I’m locked in here.” That’s what I’m trying to say, but I can’t seem to unclench my teeth, so the words come out garbled.
“Stella?” Sharp concern replaces his jovial tone. “What’s wrong?”
I take a long breath and relax my jaw as much as possible. “I’m locked in the window. The door closed behind me and my key is outside and I can’t get out of here.”
His sigh is shaky with relief. “Okay. All right. I’m on the way.” In the background, I hear his fast-moving footfalls. “Is there a tiger trapped in there with you or something? I hope you don’t mind me saying you sound more nervous than Tommy Lee walking into confession.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I say raggedly, using the wall to push up onto my feet. “It’s the tight space, I think. It’s just…I don’t know, maybe I just don’t want to be locked up anymore.”
He’s silent a moment. “I didn’t think of that. I’m going to go ahead and walk faster.”
I press the phone hard to my face, his jaunty optimist voice giving me the only comfort I seem to be able to find in this predicament. “Thank you.”
“You got it. I’m taking the stairwell so I don’t lose reception. We’re going to keep talking. Sound good to you, Stella?”
“Yes. You talk.”
“Hot damn. That’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me. I’m going to take a few seconds to savor the glory if you don’t mind.” A second ticks by. “Done. Did I ever tell you about the time my aunt Edna accidentally baked a sock into a pie? A dirty one. She didn’t keep the laundry basket in the pantry after that. Moved it back to the bedroom where it belongs. She’d originally hidden it in the kitchen so Uncle Hank would stop digging through it for his favorite shirt and wearing the old thing, whether it was clean or not. Anyway, that’s where her saying ‘you can’t avoid dirty laundry’ came from. Craziest part of the story for me, though, is they ate the sock pie. I think about that a lot.”
How am I trembling and laughing at the same time?
I sound like a scared Chihuahua at the groomers.
“Are you almost here?”
“Crossing the main floor now. Hey, Seamus!” Aiden calls out, obviously to the custodian who is vacuuming, and relief hits when I hear that zippity doo dah voice in my ear and through the door. “You probably tried yelling, right? He’s got his headphones on.”
I nod, pressing my cheek to the cold wall, breathing. Breathing.
“Aunt Edna must have been a sweet lady,” I say. Am I trying to prompt him into telling me more about Aunt Edna? My soul must be leaving my body. “If she had so much influence on you, I mean.”