Chapter Text
Henry’s backpack thuds against his back, the rhythm of his steps unhurried, looping his sneaker soles through cracks in the sidewalk. His head tilts your way; there’s a little smile he’s trying not to show, like this walk home is a shared secret and he enjoys being in on something. You catch him in the corner of your eye and think, Not a kid anymore, and he senses it, too, even if he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.
The afternoon haze isn’t hot so much as it is syrupy. The two of you walk in an easy silence, one that would be unthinkable with Regina Mills, Henry’s mother and gravitational center. She’d have filled every footstep with pointed questions: ‘What did you eat for lunch, Henry?’ ‘Did you remember your project, Henry?’ ‘Did anyone bother you today, Henry?’ It’s not that she’s unloving. It’s that she loves in excess—her attention doesn’t smother, exactly, but it does choke out every weed, every wild patch, until only what she’s planted is allowed to grow.
Henry seems to know what you’re thinking. He grins sidelong and shrugs his backpack higher. “You don’t have to walk me, you know. I’m, like, almost in high school.”
“Middle school is basically the same thing,” you say. “But if you want me to stop, just say the word.”
He makes a face. “You say that, but Mom would probably file a missing person’s report if I showed up alone.” He says it like a joke, but you can see the truth slip under the words.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “She’d probably send a gang of thugs to beat me up for letting her precious baby walk alone.”
Henry laughs, genuine and warm, the way only thirteen-year-olds who haven’t had their hearts properly broken can manage. “She’d probably be in the gang of thugs,” he says, “her and my aunt.”
He’s right, and you both know it. You thought she would when she found out you showed him how to hack the parental controls on his tablet. You also showed him how to tell when someone’s lying by the way they smile. You are the person Regina Mills hires to keep her son safe, and the person Henry trusts to help him rebel. It’s a paradox, but most of your life with them is.
You let the silence stretch for half a block. Then Henry says, “So, uh. How much longer do you think I’ll need a babysitter?” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but there’s a real question in the way he draws out the word.
You take your time. “I guess that’s up to your mom.”
“I think it’s up to her ego,” he says, surprising you with the bite in it. “She acts like she’s gonna combust if I’m alone for ten minutes.”
“That’s not true,” you say. “She knows you’d wait at least twelve minutes.”
Henry’s laugh is quieter this time, almost embarrassed. “I just… it’s weird, you know? All my friends go home alone. Or they go to each other’s houses. I’m the only one who has to, like, report in.” He scuffs his toe. “No offense. I like when you’re around.”
You smile. “You’re allowed to want to grow up, Henry.”
“Can we tell her that? Like, together?” His eyes cut to you, tentative. “She listens to you sometimes. More than anyone else, I think.”
You don’t know how to say that Regina’s listening is a knife edge, that she only gives when it suits her, that you’ve seen her bend rules but never break them. You nod anyway. “We can try. Maybe it’ll be easier if we do it as a team.”
Henry nods, determination settling into his jaw. He tugs his backpack tighter and picks up the pace, like he’s bracing for the coming battle.
The Mills house is perched at the end of a short, tree-lined lane, the sort of place where all the neighbors know each other’s Wi-Fi passwords and whose dogs belong to whom. There’s no car in the driveway, so Regina must still be at the office—only Robin’s truck is parked in its usual spot, sunbleached and battered, mud caked on the tires from some forest preserve or another.
“Ready?” you ask, as Henry pulls his keys from his pocket.
“Born ready,” he says, but fumbles the key twice before getting it in the lock. He pushes the door open and is immediately greeted by the earthy tang of potting soil and a faint haze of incense. Robin’s at the kitchen table, thumbing through a seed catalog and sipping tea, his flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. He looks up, registers you both, and grins—a wide, easy smile that’s so unlike Regina’s razor-edged version.
“Hey, you two,” Robin says. “Survive another day?”
“Barely,” Henry answers. He sets his bag down and hovers near the kitchen island, eyes flicking to the breadbox, the fruit bowl, the candy jar—a ritual inventory. You drop your own things by the coat rack and lean into the threshold, watching Robin for any sign of what kind of mood this evening might hold.
“Anyone hungry?” Robin asks, already halfway to the fridge. “I was thinking about making soup tonight. Got a bunch of vegetables from the market—be a shame to let them go bad.”
Henry perks up at that, shooting you a look of mock horror. “You didn’t tell me we’d have to eat vegetables.”
You sigh theatrically. “Some things are inescapable, Henry.”
Robin sets a bag of carrots, celery, and something leafy on the counter. “You two want to help, or just heckle me from the sidelines?”
Henry glances at you, the question clear. You nod, and the decision is made: sleeves are rolled, hands are washed, and suddenly the kitchen is full of the sound of knives on cutting boards and the hum of tap water, all three of you crammed into a space built for one, despite the kitchen’s big size.
Robin’s instructions are soft, almost apologetic, and he never raises his voice even when Henry asks the same question three times in a row. It’s the opposite of Regina’s kitchen, where every gesture is precise and every error noticed. Robin’s only rule is “don’t bleed in the soup.”
It’s midway through the carrots that Robin says, “You know, Henry, you’re getting to that age where you probably don’t need someone watching you all the time.” He says it lightly, eyes on the vegetable peels, but you feel the words ripple through Henry’s shoulders.
“I was just saying that,” Henry blurts. He drops the peeler and wipes his hands on a towel. “Like, I’m in eighth grade. Nobody else I know has a babysitter.”
Robin glances your way. “Don’t take it personally,” he says, eyes gentle. “Regina just worries. You know how she gets.”
“Yeah,” Henry says. “But I’m not a baby.”
Robin considers this, then nods, decisive. “You know what? You’re right. Why don’t we talk to her about it at dinner? If you want, I’ll back you up.” His smile widens, conspiratorial. “I’ll even take the blame if she gets upset.”
You exchange a look with Henry, a silent what just happened, but he’s beaming now, shoulders squared in relief.
“You’re the best, Robin,” he says. “Way better than Mom at this kind of stuff.”
You catch Robin’s faint wince, but he covers it with another smile. “Don’t tell her that,” he whispers. “She’ll have my head.”
You finish prepping the vegetables, hands stained orange and green, and as the soup simmers you help Henry spread out his homework on the kitchen table. It’s math tonight, something involving exponents, and you realize halfway through the worksheet that you have no idea how to do any of it. Henry catches your confusion and takes over, explaining the problems back to you like a patient teacher.
“See, if you multiply exponents with the same base, you add them,” he says. “So like, two to the third times two to the second is two to the fifth.”
You nod, trying to hide your embarrassment, but Henry just grins wider. “It’s okay,” he says. “No one remembers this stuff.”
Robin pops his head in from the other room, holding a bundle of thyme. “Who’s teaching who over there?”
You answer, “He’s the one doing all the heavy lifting.”
Robin laughs. “If only he’d do the same with laundry.”
Henry pulls a face. “You know Mom will just redo it anyway.”
All three of you share a knowing silence. Regina’s standards are not to be trifled with.
The kitchen smells like soup and warm bread by the time the front door clicks open. Instantly, the air changes, tension rolling in on invisible clouds. Henry stiffens, glancing at his worksheet like it might offer protection; Robin wipes his hands, quietly straightens the stack of mail on the counter; you stand a little taller, rehearsing the lines of your argument.
Regina’s voice cuts through the house, clipped but affectionate: “Henry? I’m home.”
“Kitchen!” Henry calls, voice cracking a little.
She enters with a rustle of expensive fabric, her hair perfectly in place even after a twelve-hour day. Her gaze sweeps the room, catalogs the state of the counters, the mud on Henry’s shoes, the way you’re standing a foot too close to her husband. She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.
“What’s all this?” she asks.
“Soup night,” Robin says, ladling broth into bowls. “Team effort.”
Regina sets her bag on the table and shrugs off her coat. “Smells wonderful.” She turns her attention to you, a look you’ve never quite learned to interpret. “Did you two have a good day?”
Henry nods, quick and practiced. “Yeah. We did homework and everything.”
She lifts a brow, skeptical. “Already?”
He shrugs. “It’s not hard.”
The four of you gather at the table. The food is good, the conversation forced but civil, and every so often Robin catches your eye, as if to say ‘Now? Now?’ Finally, as the last of the soup is gone, Henry squares his shoulders and plunges ahead.
“Mom,” he says, “can I ask you something?”
Regina turns, all attention. “Of course, honey.”
He falters, then glances at you for backup.
You clear your throat. “We were thinking—it might be time for Henry to start coming home by himself. He’s old enough, and all his friends do it. It’d be good for him.”
Regina’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air tightens. “You think so?”
You nod, aware of Robin’s steady presence at your side. “He’s responsible. He’s never missed a day, never lost a key.”
Robin steps in, gentle but firm. “He’s a good kid, Regina. He can handle it.”
Regina studies all three of you in turn, her gaze lingering on you the longest. Then, as if nothing’s happened, she smiles. “We’ll see. I’ll think about it.”
You know better than to push further. The decision is made, even if the answer hasn’t been spoken aloud.
After dinner, Henry lingers at the table, picking at the crust of his bread. Robin clears the dishes and shoots you a thumbs-up behind Regina’s back. She busies herself with the mail, lips pursed, already drifting back into her private universe.
Henry nudges your arm. “You think she’ll really let me?”
“Maybe,” you whisper back. “But even if she doesn’t, we tried.”
Henry leans in, lowers his voice so only you can hear. “She’s not mad, right?”
You glance at Regina, see the way she organizes the envelopes by size, precision in every movement, and you understand: she isn’t angry. Not yet. But the world has shifted, just a little, and you have to wonder what she’ll do to balance it back.
You help Henry with the last of the dishes, the two of you trading stories about school and favorite books, the grown-ups’ voices muted in the background. When it’s time to go, Henry walks you to the door.
“Thanks,” he says, awkward but sincere. “For having my back.”
You ruffle his hair. “Anytime.”
He lets you go, and you step into the evening, the sky streaked with the colors of a day well-spent but not quite finished. You think about the war you’ve just started, and the battles still ahead, and for the first time in a long time, you feel almost ready for them.
Your phone vibrates on the library circulation desk, and because you know the only people who text you at 10:07 a.m. on a weekday are (1) Henry, (2) Belle, and (3) telemarketers, you allow yourself the indulgence of a quick glance.
You’re right. It’s Henry.
hey, so my mom still won't answer me about the after school thing?? i asked her TWICE this morning and she just said "we'll discuss it later" which means never. can you maybe try asking her again? she listens to you sometimes. emma says it's fine either way but i really just want to go with my friends.
You suppress a smile. Two months ago, Henry was all about you picking him up, sticking to you like a human backpack, always offering to help you carry your bag or quiz you on the “most useless state capitals.” These days he seems more invested in shielding you from the psychic damage of the middle school lobby.
You text back: Let’s give your mom till the weekend and if she doesn’t decide, I’ll bug her then. Enjoy your free-range afternoon with Emma, kiddo.
As you hit send, Belle sidles up behind you, armful of mis-shelved paperbacks. She dumps them onto the cart with the kind of theatrical groan that carries across the stacks.
“Please tell me you’re not sexting at work,” she whispers, dramatic as always, hair loose and unbrushed, lips sticky-glossed and moving at two speeds: fast and off.
You brandish your phone. “Not even a little bit. Henry. Scheduling stuff.”
“Disappointing,” Belle says, but she’s smiling, a quick sideways grin as she nudges her glasses up her nose. She looks over the main floor, where two seniors are asleep in the armchairs and a toddler is rolling Matchbox cars over a history of the Civil War. “Can we make a TikTok yet? The noon rush is so dead.”
You glance at the wall clock: 10:09. “You’re literally the only person who would call this ‘the noon rush’.”
“We can make it a thing. Like, ‘Midmorning Madness with Belle and—’” She gestures at you. “Come on, you have seventy thousand followers for a reason.”
“Because people like to see you assault me with craft glue and outdated encyclopedias?”
She grins. “And because you’re actually funny. It’s a cute niche.”
Belle is already snatching your phone, flipping to the front camera, your head just barely in frame as she angles it up for maximum jawline. She raps her knuckles on the desk to clear her throat. “Heyyy, book besties, it’s your favorite Library Ladies and today we are—wait, what are we doing?”
You’re sorting the book drop, but you say, “Teaching Belle about the Dewey Decimal System. She refuses to learn.”
Belle’s face contorts in mock horror. “There are literally children in this building. You can’t say ‘do we’.”
You roll your eyes, but the camera catches you smiling. Belle asks, “What’s the dumbest question you’ve been asked at the desk today?”
‘Do you have the new Colleen Hoover? Also, can I skip the wait list if my dog chewed my last copy?’
She tilts the phone, deadpans: ‘I once got asked which aisle had the gluten-free books.’ I almost flipped the table.
You dissolve into laughter, loud enough that the snoring seniors stir. Belle drops the phone onto the circulation desk and cackles, breathless, her hands hitting the wood in twin slaps.
“Okay, okay, but wait,” she says, lowering her voice as she leans in. “You never told me: what’s the deal with that kid’s mom?”
You have no idea how to answer that in a way that’s honest, or even safe.
“Regina? You know she’s the mayor,” you say, which is both explanation and shield. “And a control freak. But she pays well.”
“She ever, like, try to get you into politics?”
You snort. “Belle. She’s never even invited me to her house for dinner but somehow I always end up there because of Henry. I’m just an extra set of eyes on her son. She keeps her orbit tight.”
Belle’s eyes flick over you, quick and searching. “I just think she’s a little scary. Like, lowkey Stepford.”
You don’t say anything, but you know exactly what she means. You’ve seen Regina Mills charm a hostile school board meeting to tears, win over disgruntled volunteers with a smile so warm it left blisters. You’ve also watched her freeze out Emma Swan at parent-teacher conferences, speak so softly that the threat in her words pulsed louder than a yell.
“She is intense,” you admit.
Belle rolls her eyes. “Well, I hope she thanks you for keeping her child alive. You’re basically a hero.”
You laugh. “Let’s hold the parade until I convince her to let Henry walk slash ride his bike without a GPS tracker.”
The front doors chime as a group of volunteers in matching t-shirts shuffle in, led by a harried city employee. You recognize the setup: community outreach day. There will be handshakes and stepstools and, if you’re unlucky, a bake sale.
Belle groans. “Not the ‘Read to the Children’ thing. I bet you five dollars Mayor Stepford shows up in a power suit and an evil smirk.”
“Bitch,” you say to her with a small giggle, but you glance at the event calendar anyway. There it is: Storytime with the Mayor, 2pm. The thought of sharing airspace with Regina in public, with witnesses and cameras, makes your scalp tighten.
You sneak away to the staff kitchen around noon, eat vending machine Cheetos and half a cup of coffee, and scroll TikTok to see if Belle’s video has gone up yet. It has. The comments are a stream of heart emojis and “Belle supremacy” memes. You text her a string of eye rolls and she answers with a voice memo: “You’re welcome, loser.”
You smile, shoving your phone into your bag, and decide to spend the next hour reshelving in the back room, hiding from both the children’s event and your own social media feed.
When you return to the main floor, the library has transformed. Reporters with notepads crowd the story corner. Parents in polite but fierce competition for the front row seats. And in the center of it all, Mayor Regina Mills, standing as if she owns the air, addressing a rapt audience of five-year-olds like she’s leading a Ms. Rachel singalong with the intensity of a hostage negotiator.
She’s in a charcoal sheath dress and heels, hair mid back, fluffed into severe blown out layers. You’re pretty sure you’ve never seen her in the same outfit twice. When she laughs, it’s soft and controlled, never exposing too much teeth. When she claps, her hands move just enough to make a sound, but not so much as to seem overzealous.
She spots you within thirty seconds.
You’re shelving at least twenty feet away, but you can feel her gaze. It’s not angry—not yet—but there’s a coiled question in the set of her jaw, a tension that makes you want to both straighten your posture and sprint for the exit. You do neither.
Instead, you lower your eyes to your cart, careful and mechanical, and try to remember the Dewey code for “human shields.”
The story hour runs its course, punctuated by Regina’s velvet voice and the collective giggle of children. When it’s over, she stands with the city council and a local news anchor for photos. You see her move through the crowd with precise, gliding steps, never once breaking stride as she shakes hands and dispenses compliments like currency.
You think you’ve escaped unnoticed, but as you clock out, you see her at the circulation desk, standing in front of the reference counter with her arms folded.
She taps the bell.
The sound is sharp enough to make you flinch. You look up, ready to feign ignorance, but there’s no plausible deniability. She’s watching you. Only you.
You paste on your most professional smile and approach, steady as you can.
“Mayor Mills,” you say.
Her eyes travel from your shoes to your throat. She doesn’t smile back, but her lips curve minutely, like she’s grading your effort.
“Walk with me?” she says. Not a question.
She turns on her heel and you follow, past the stacks and out into the quiet vestibule, where the last of the news crews are packing up.
Regina stops in the shadowed alcove by the coat rack. She’s close enough that you can smell her perfume, citrus and something darker.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says.
You look up, startled. “I haven’t—”
Her hand lifts, index finger extended—not to touch, but to silence. She waits until you stop, then lets her hand drop.
“I know you’re uncomfortable. I want to reassure you that my son’s well-being is my only concern.”
You nod, because anything else would be lying.
She steps closer. “He doesn’t tell me much anymore. Not like he used to.” She says it flatly, like a doctor reading a chart.
“I’m sure that’s normal,” you say, quietly.
She tilts her head. “You say that, but it doesn’t comfort me.”
You shift your weight. “If it helps, he seems happy. Really happy. He’s growing up.”
Regina’s eyes narrow, soft but appraising. “Children don’t grow up alone. I want to believe you are invested in his future as much as I am.”
Before you can reply, she adds, “He adores you.”
You’re not sure what to do with that. “He’s a good kid,” you say, which feels insufficient.
Regina’s lips twitch. “And you’re a bad liar.”
You blink. “I’m not—”
“You’re not a liar. But you are avoiding me. Was I unkind?”
“No! You’re—” You struggle for the word. “Intense.”
Regina laughs then, a low, short sound. “I’m told that often.”
You try to match her tone. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”
“Didn’t you?”
You don’t know how to answer that. Regina studies you a moment longer, then leans in, voice lowering until you have to concentrate to hear her.
“I’m letting Henry walk home tomorrow,” she says, as if confiding a state secret. “But I expect you at the house when he arrives. I need to know he has someone there. Someone I trust.”
She lets the words hang. You nod, silent.
As you turn to go, the side door opens and Josh walks in, dropping his bike helmet onto the counter with a loud thunk. He’s got that post-gym sweat, hair damp, smile easy. He grins at you, then registers Regina standing beside you. His smile falters.
“Uh. Hi.”
Regina’s attention shifts to Josh, clinical and predatory. She sizes him up in a blink, then looks back at you, an eyebrow raised.
You realize, belatedly, that you’re blushing.
Regina’s lips press together, not quite a frown. “You have plans,” she says.
You shake your head. “Just work stuff. Josh is—he just picks up the returns for the bike club.”
Josh looks from you to Regina, then back. “Is this, like, a bad time?”
Regina’s gaze is all steel and velvet. “Not at all. I was just leaving.” She steps past you, then pauses. “Tomorrow. After school. Please be on time.”
You nod. “Of course.”
Regina glides out the front doors, not looking back.
Josh watches her go. “Is it weird that I’m a little afraid of her?”
You smile, shaky. “Only a little?”
He grins. “She looked at me like I was an undercooked chicken.”
“She’s naturally a fireball,” you say, voice low.
Josh laughs, relaxing. “You want to grab a sandwich tomorrow for lunch? I owe you for last week’s bike lock rescue.”
You say yes, and as you gather your bag, you feel the spot where Regina’s voice lingered, soft and possessive, like a thumb pressed to your wrist.
You try to shake it off, but the print of her is still there, invisible and dark, a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet.
The municipal building smells like burnt toner and the cheap, lemony cleaner they use to mask the undercurrent of boredom. The secretaries’ smiles are weaponized—perfectly balanced between hospitality and suspicion. You glide past them to the mayor’s office, feeling their gazes count the buttons on your blouse and weigh them against the dress code. Regina Mills’s administrative assistant rises to intercept, but she recognizes you before the threat can crystallize, and sits down with a little huff.
The mayor is “finishing a call.” You wait in a long hallway lined with sepia photos of past mayors, every one a white man in a darker suit. Regina breaks the line—a last-century vision of black silk and precision tailoring, the only color in the room her lipstick, deep berry, ripe enough to stain. You hear her voice through the thick wood of the office door. It doesn’t sound angry, just intent. You think, not for the first time, that intent is more dangerous.
When she calls you in, she’s not behind her desk, but standing by the window, holding an envelope with your name written in her script. “You’re prompt,” she says, with that up-tilt at the end that makes it sound like a challenge.
“City Hall traffic was light,” you say, forcing a smile. “Should I thank you for that?”
She smiles back, and it is both reward and threat. "I see you survived the lunch rush," she says. "Henry told me you were picking up sandwiches with Josh."
You blink, surprised, because you never mentioned Josh's name to Henry, and Regina had already left the library when you and Josh made plans yesterday. The hair on your arms rises slightly. You say, "Yeah, we went to that new place by the high school. The bread's actually decent. You should try it, if you ever get a lunch break."
Regina’s eyes flicker, and now she’s scanning you with the same attention she gave the school’s new security officer last week. The line of her sight drags across your shirt, lingering at the gap between the top buttons. There’s nothing overtly wrong with your outfit, but you feel the heat rising anyway—guilt for a crime you can’t name.
“Maybe I will,” she says. She doesn’t move away from the window, but she gestures with the envelope. “Can I ask you to do me a favor before you go to the house?”
“Sure,” you say, though your brain is already editing the next hour: stop at Belle’s aunt’s house first, let in the cleaning crew, water the plants, check on the cat. Routine, easy, frictionless.
Regina is very close now, and you’re not sure when she crossed the distance. Her perfume is something sharp and expensive, floral with a bite underneath. “I need you to change before Henry comes home. Into something… less revealing.”
The floor drops an inch beneath you. You stare, wondering if you misheard her, or if this is some new joke, but her face is composed, almost gentle. “Excuse me?”
She holds up a hand, palm down, to steady the air between you. “He’s thirteen. You know how boys are. I want you to be mindful. Of him, and of yourself.” She glances pointedly at your chest, and it’s so fast, so automatic, it might as well be a reflex. “We don’t want to create confusion.”
You’re not sure what you want to do first: cry, laugh, or break something. You settle for a long breath and say, “I wasn’t aware a shirt constituted sexual harassment, but I’ll raid the lost and found if it makes you feel better.”
Regina steps in, reducing the already-slim buffer to nothing. “It’s not about what I feel. It’s about respect, for my home, for Henry, and for yourself.” Her voice is low, meant only for you. “You’re smarter than this.”
It’s weird. It’s low-key disrespectful as fuck. But you don’t push back because you know her—push, and she doubles down. Besides, you’re not going to give her the satisfaction. You take the envelope. “I’ll change.”
She holds the envelope for a second longer than necessary, and when your fingers close around it, she leans in and says, “I’m telling you this for your own good. Not everyone would be so kind.”
You want to throw the envelope in her face. Instead, you smile like you’re a real person and say, “Noted.” You turn and walk out before she can finish whatever lecture was next in her queue.
You don’t cry in the car. You sit with your hands on the wheel, letting the air conditioning blow your hair into your mouth, and stare at the civic center’s curbside landscaping until your brain unclenches. When the shaking stops, you dial Belle. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey,” Belle says. She’s always upbeat in the beginning of a call, “Did you get the key?”
You tell her the whole thing, start to finish, even the sandwich part.
Belle laughs, but it’s sympathetic. “So, she thinks you’re some kind of predator now? Should I warn the neighborhood kids?”
You choke out a laugh, but your voice is sharp on the edges. “I don’t know. If she thinks that, then I’m done after this week. Henry’s a great kid, but his mom’s a fucking psycho.”
Belle makes a humming sound. “Or, and hear me out—maybe you’re tempting her. The way you talk about her? She sounds more into you than she is into hating you. Sometimes the line is thin.”
You want to deny it, hard, but there’s an echo of Regina’s gaze still warm on your skin. “No,” you say. “She’s too vanilla to even be gay.”
Belle snorts. “Sweetie, that’s never stopped anyone. You’re irresistible. Go buy a new shirt, keep your head down, finish your week. Then we’ll celebrate.”
“Yeah,” you say, but it’s not an agreement, it’s a question you don’t want answered.
“Hey and don’t worry about my aunt’s house. I already did it.” Belle says.
You drive to a discount store and buy a shirt with a neck so high you’re convinced you’ll suffocate. You wear it in the car, arms prickling, and let yourself hate the mayor for a full five minutes before you pull up at her perfect suburban palace.
You let yourself in with the envelope key. The house is silent, lights all off. You throw your old shirt into a drawer in the laundry room. In the hallway mirror, your new look is prim, close to a nun’s. You stick out your tongue at your reflection, but it doesn’t help.
You stand, roll your shoulders, and count the minutes until Henry gets home. You know Regina will check. She’ll find some reason to drop by, or call, or text. You imagine the warm weight of her eyes even when she’s gone. You think about the way she said, I’m telling you this for your own good. Not everyone would be so kind.
You want to believe she’s just protecting her son. But when you close your eyes, it’s her hand you feel, still gripping the key.
You stand outside and a small lost puppy runs to you. He has a collar around his neck with a little tag, Ollie is his name. You crouch and scratch his ears. “You get it,” you say, voice low. “She wants everyone on a leash.” Then his owner runs around the corner.
“He got away from me again!” She says out of breath and slightly laughing.