Page 17 of Unlocking Ruin

In my new life, all I care about is living, eating what I want, and doing what I want.

Speaking of doing, when was the last time I hooked up? Four months ago.

Looks like tonight my pleasure will come wrapped in wax paper and sugar.

Weaving my shopping cart through the crowded aisle, I keep my chin high as the kids in their parents’ carts look into mine and pass judgment. I watch a mother grab full-sized candy bars and dump them into her cart; overachiever alert.

But look at the face on the little boy. He’s so happy and cute that my own hand reaches out and grabs a fistful of full-sized bars too.

Why not blow my budget for the week on candy for the kids? Better than drinks for adults.

What I would have done to get a full-sized candy bar when I was a kid. Actually, I tend to think the worst of people, so I likely would have tossed it in the garbage, afraid they had slipped a razor blade inside. I mean, what kind of person hands out full-sized bars?

Times have changed.

I’ve changed.

Glancing over my shoulder, I scan the aisle of the grocery store. A slight tingle flares on my bottom lip as I sink my teeth into it. I did it. I got away.

For good measure, I pinch my forearm. Yep. This is reality, and I’ve been living it for four months. I rented a house; that was terrifying because it was the first time I had to test my new false identity. It worked, and I signed a rental agreement under the name Bethany Carlson.

I don’t look like a Bethany. In my mind, she has big breasts, hips, and a bouncy blowout that would make an Instagrammer insanely jealous. She probably has a PR contract with Dyson and gets all their new blow-dryers for free. She also attends yoga classes, does juice cleanses, and blogs about them.

Shit, Bethany has a good life. Sure, she takes all the shit cancel culture throws her way on social media. One week they want to fillet her alive during a TikTok live, the next they want to know her makeup recommendations. Tough, but not as bad as others have it, and look at all the PR. Bethany is having the last laugh.

I’m not bitter. I watch people like Bethany just as one studies a rare creature at a zoo. I wish I were like Bethany, but my favorite thing is not the newest blush at Sephora, it’s whether or not I can find a back door into a government database just to snoop around.

There is no harm in looking. I pay taxes, so I’m allowed.

I continue to glide my cart down the next aisle. This time I get actual food. Peanut butter and jelly, sliced bread, microwave mac & cheese. Basics that will keep me semi-alive after tonight’s sugar rush.

After I got my house, the next scary task was getting a job. I stuck to online white hat hacking. I focused on a few small gigs until I proved myself, since I had to start under a new name. The work isn’t that exciting, but it’s legal.

Speaking of illegal, I still haven’t tapped into the chats with Bre8kMe, and I haven’t looked into Frank and my mom. I fear if I do, the masked man will return. Just the thought of his sky-blue eyes sends a chill down my body.

Run, and I’ll chase you.

Where are you, asshole?

Um, Rylan. Do you want him to chase you?

No, of course not.

It’s just another reminder that I was left behind, no longer wanted. Again.

Pain flares through my knuckles as I grip the shopping cart. It’s not Play-Doh; it’s not going to bend like a stress ball. Loosen your grip, Rylan!

Looking up, my eyes clash with a toddler dressed as a fairy princess. She looks at me and sticks her tongue out as her mom pushes her down the aisle.

The silly gesture calms me down. I stick my own tongue out and watch her giggle as her mom turns the corner.

He’s not coming; I escaped. They are likely more concerned with Frank than little old me.

Focus on Halloween, Rylan. You still don’t have a costume. That’s easily solved. I find the cleaning aisle and decide to be a classic witch only because the grocery store sells brooms, and lucky for me the store has cheap plastic black witch’s hats, so I grab one.

I make my way to the checkout and mentally go down my list. I got real pumpkins two days ago, and I spent all day yesterday carving them. It was therapeutic, shoving my hands into the slimy seeds and making silly faces. I never did any of that as a kid. We didn’t celebrate Halloween; Mom would never waste money on candy, and she’d never eat it.

Mom was a fitness fanatic who measured her waistline daily. She cursed me for mine because I never had to diet. I guess I got my biological father’s genes.