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Of course, not every day can have an adrenaline rush, but those are the days I draw. Or observe the lives of others. Each and every person has their own little bubble where they are the main character in their own story. It’s fascinating. My bubble doesn’t have much going on, so it’s more entertaining to watch from the outside.
Routines make me uneasy. Every time I force myself to stick to a regimen, it shatters. Just like every time I unpacked my black plastic bag as a kid, that was when I’d get moved again. Every time. Which reminds me, I pull out my phone and check her location. She’s at home. I’ve driven by it before, after getting the address from the copy of her driver’s license at the shop. Pretty swanky neighborhood.
I haven’t been able to gather much information about her hobbies online; her personal social media presence is practically nonexistent. After doing some research into her brother, Rhys, who is also a client of mine, I started getting somewhere. Obviously the majority of the dirt on him is regarding his hockey career, but then I dug into Kucera Housing and found her in the background of a couple photos. I had a hunch she handles their social media based on the process of elimination—and earlier today she confirmed my suspicions.
For the number of hours we’ve spent together, I really don’t know much about her hobbies or personal life. Just the usual stuff like address, workplace, background checks, et cetera. After today, though, she’s become my new fixation. I intend to learn everything there is to know about Anna Kucera . . . what she does for fun, where she likes to go when she’s not working, and most importantly, I’m going to track down the person who thought they could carve those letters into her flesh and get away with it.
My alarm goes off at seven, and I climb out of bed, head into the bathroom, then trade my sleep shorts for joggers. Careful of the healing tattoo on my arm, I ease a long-sleeve compression shirt over my head, lace up my shoes, and head out of my apartment for my morning run. I won’t be doing my normal pace today, as I promised Casper I would follow the aftercare instructions to the letter. I tie my hair up in a ponytail while jogging down the front steps of the grand turn-of-the-century Tudor on Crocus Avenue. My neighborhood is lined with historic mansions that were once built for the wealthy industrialists and lumber tycoons of the early 1900s. These days, the majority of the homes are bought up by tech CEOs and other top earners in the city.
However, not this one.
58 Crocus was split up into four separate apartments back in the seventies; two on the main level and two upstairs—where I reside. Supposedly there’s a fifth apartment in the attic, but my landlord, Mr. Elmer, claims he doesn’t rent it because it’s inhabited by ghosts. He always delivers the line with a wink and a smile. He’s a sweet old man who inherited the house, but the poor guy struggles to stay on top of repairs and upkeep. The outside isn’t as shiny as the mansions next door, and I assume the interior shows more age. Fine by me, I’ll trade groaning pipes and leaky faucets for cheap rent and the opportunity to live in one of the most gorgeous sections of the city.
My feet pound the sidewalk in a practiced rhythm. Exercise regulates stress. Most of my neighbors are as regimented as I am, so I pass them in order like I do every day. First is Carol Bailey, speedwalking in the opposite direction; we exchange a neighborly nod. She took a while to warm up to me, I think it was my pink hair. A few minutes later I’m waving to Terry, the dog walker for a couple who lives a few blocks down from me; they have two Afghan hounds, Delilah and Dennis. After that is an older gentleman who’s taking his garbage cans to the end of his brick drive; Monday is garbage day. The familiarity is good for me. Now that school is back in session, my route is peppered with kids in uniform who attend the private school at the end of the street, near the river.
When I return from my run, I start the coffee maker and pour my cereal. The first drips of coffee pop and hiss as they hit the carafe. The delicious aroma of roasted beans and caffeinated warmth fills my small kitchen.
Same as yesterday, and same as the day before.
I stir my cereal, taking a bite and dropping the spoon back into the beige bowl. Same clink as yesterday and the day before. It doesn’t taste like much at all; it doesn’t have to, food is fuel. After breakfast, I empty the dishwasher of matching beige mugs, plates, and bowls.
When my coffee is finished, I pour a vanilla creamer into the dark brew, causing it to bloom into a warm tan color. More beige.
Predictability lowers the odds of relapse triggers, reduces my mental load. Drugs had my mind constantly reeling. How can I make more money? When can I pick up? Where can I hide it? It was exhausting, and a high was the only thing to numb my agitated nerves—allowing me to temporarily forget how big of a fuckup I was.
After a shower and a second cup of coffee, I pull out my laptop to begin my workday. For the last year, I’ve been the social media manager of Kucera Housing. My brother, Rhys, is a professional hockey player, but he started the organization that shares our last name, to support transitional housing for sober living. It’s a good fit for me, a mix of creativity and analytics, watching trends and setting goals. Plus, I love working from home. Fewer distractions means I can focus on my job and have more control over my day.
I open my calendar, and the screen fills with a color-coordinated schedule of my daily and weekly tasks. My only meeting today is at one, when we’ll be discussing the annual Halloween fundraiser. “Looks like an easy day.” I pop my earbuds in and begin running ad reports.
A few emails trickle in and I fall into the usual rhythm of answering questions, updating notes, checking off my to-do list of things that always seem to pile up over the weekend. The discussion regarding the fundraiser is productive and we solve one of the issues with the volunteer shirts—we even wrap up on time! Afterward, I update the notes and settle back in to finish the remaining tasks I’m hoping to accomplish.
The next hours roll by quickly, and a notification dings on my screen alerting me that the day is over. “Damn. Well that flew by.” I save what I’m working on and put away my things.
It’s Monday, which means it’s time to make my lunches for the upcoming week. My phone rings while I’m measuring brown rice; it’s Rhys. I hit the speaker button and continue.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?” my brother asks.
“Nothing, just got done working. You?”
“Wait, what day is it?” he asks.
“How do you not know what day it is?”
“You try keeping a calendar straight with my travel itinerary.”
Fair. “It’s Monday.” I pour the carefully measured grains into the boiling water, cover the pot, and turn down the heat.
“Ah, meal prep, right?”
“Well, at least you know my schedule.”
“You’re predictable. What’s on the menu?”
“Chicken, vegetables, and brown rice.”
“Fuck, you eat like me. How about switching it up once in a while? Why would you choose to eat this way when you could be eating nachos or something?”
