Chapter 1: So Sorry

Birdie

“How did you sleep last night?” Dave, my fiancé, asks.

“I was a little restless.” I put him on speakerphone so I can multitask while we talk. I open the wrong cupboard, still a stranger to my new apartment. It came with the promotion and the $30,000 salary increase. As far as reformation programs go, I’m the poster child for success: two degrees, endless therapy sessions, mentor to other parolees and survivors of abuse. On paper it’s a pretty story, inside I’m jagged edges.

“I wish I was with you.” The guilt in his tone spurs my own.

“You couldn’t pass up that conference,” I remind him. Besides, I spent most of the night wide awake, spinning scenarios in my head.

What if someone finds out about my past?

What if I can’t handle the job?

What if this is all a dream, and I wake up in my cell?

“Birdie? You okay?”

“Yeah. Good. Just nervous,” I lie.

“You’ll be great, babe. You’ve worked so hard for this.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear that this morning.” I take my coffee to the bathroom so I can put on makeup.

“I’m so proud of how far you’ve come in the past two years. We’re still on for dinner tonight? I want to celebrate your first day at the new job.”

“That sounds amazing.” It’s only been two months since the restrictions surrounding my early release and parole were lifted, which included zero tolerance for alcohol consumption and meetings with my parole officer every quarter, among other things.

“Fantastic. I can’t wait to see you tonight. I’ll miss being able to stop by your desk whenever I feel like, though.”

“Same, but I’m sure there will be more openings soon, and then we can work in the same building again.” Two months ago, I was offered a new job in marketing at a bigger sister company that came with some incredible perks, like my upscale apartment and a big jump in salary, but they didn’t have a position for Dave.

“Fingers crossed we’ll be down the hall from each other again soon.” He clears his throat. “Oh, I have some good news!”

“Oh?” A swirl of anxiety accompanies his excitement.

“Your ring just came back from the jeweler’s. I’ll bring it with me tonight.”

My stomach unclenches. “That’s great news.” Dave proposed a few weeks ago. The ring was too big and fell off while we were celebrating. It turned up a frantic half an hour later in the bedsheets.

“I’m excited to have it back on your finger.”

“Can’t wait for everyone in my new office to know I’m taken?” I joke as I swipe mascara over my pale lashes.

“Something like that,” he chuckles. “My flight is about to board. I’ll message when I’m back in Toronto.”

“Okay, safe travels.”

“Have a great first day. I can’t wait to hear all about it. I love you.”

“Can’t wait to tell you all about it, and same. Thank you for loving me.” I end the call and grip the edge of the vanity.

“It’s a fresh start. No one at Lightning Tech knows your history. You’ve moved on. You’re in a better place now. You’ve earned this.” I repeat the positive affirmations, but the brick in my stomach remains. It’s been steadily growing heavier ever since I took this position.

When something seems too good to be true, it usually is.

I shake off the paranoia. Change is always unsettling.

I scroll through my phone contacts, hovering over my old high school guidance counselor’s name for a moment. I didn’t have very many people I could count on preprison, but Debbie was one of them. She’s the only person who came to visit me regularly during my time behind bars.

I continue scrolling my short list until I reach the one other person whose support I could use today. The brick taking up space in my stomach expands, and a cold sweat breaks across my neck. I haven’t spoken to Mary since my release. She was my cellmate on and off for nearly five of my six years in prison. She felt like the mother I’d lost. The only person I trusted on the inside.

When I made parole, we struck a deal: no contact unless we were both on the outside and doing well. I dial the number and cross my fingers, but I get the out-of-service recording. It’s probably better this way. Inviting my past into my present would threaten my precarious stability.

One day that number will be in service, and the wash of disappointment will be replaced with a swaddle of comfort. I finish my makeup, finger-comb my waves, and smooth out my dress. I stop in the kitchen to fill my favorite travel mug with coffee, dump in three sugars and two creams, and stir. I don’t bother with breakfast. The brick takes up too much space this morning. And sometimes the hollow pang is a good reminder of how far I’ve come from sleeping in abandoned houses.

Before I went to prison, my life had been about survival. When my next meal was never a certainty, it was easy to ignore the question of right and wrong. But I’ve paid the price for my mistakes, and I won’t fall into that trap again.

I slip my feet into my heels, shoulder my purse, grab my overly sweetened coffee, and leave my apartment. If I didn’t live on the twenty-second floor, I might take the stairs. Six years in an eight-by-twelve-foot cell has made me cagey in confined spaces. My throat tightens as I join the rest of the suit-wearing tenants and watch the numbers descend. It isn’t until we reach the lobby that the hand around my neck loosens, but only slightly.

I get off the elevator, thank the man who’s holding the door open, and step outside. A cacophony of sound washes over me, the blare of horns discordant with the warm scent of fresh bread from the bakery two doors down. Anxiety runs her sharp nails along my scalp, and I glance around, her sister, paranoia, biting at me.

“He’s not here. He’s not looking for you,” I whisper as I bring my coffee to my lips.

My gaze locks on a man in a dark-blue suit across the street.

And for the briefest moment I swear it’s him.

Jarrod.

My partner in crime.

My savior.

My destroyer.

But he’s swallowed by the crowd before I can get a look at his face. It’s just my imagination playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I shake it off and follow a few suits to the crosswalk. The subway is an option, but I prefer the openness of the street, and I intentionally left with plenty of time to walk.

Ten minutes later I push through the front doors of the expansive, modern building. It’s only my second time here. The first was for my interview, just shy of two months ago. The woman behind the building’s reception desk, whose name is Evelyn, smiles warmly at my approach.

“Good morning, how may I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Birdie Fast. I’m starting a new position in marketing with Lightning Tech.” I pass over my driver’s license so she can confirm my identity. Evelyn and two security guards stand between me and the elevators leading to my new job.

“Let me pull up your records.” She types for a moment, and my stomach somersaults.

What if my entire file was transferred? What if the personal information from my previous job follows me here like a devious shadow?

“Ah! Here you are.” Her warm smile remains, and the printer whirs as she clicks her mouse. “I have a couple of forms for you to fill out, but first we’ll take your photo for your company ID.”

“Of course, thank you.”

I shove back the memories of my mug shots from nearly a decade ago as I take my place in front of the bare white wall. The photo only takes a moment, but that prickling worry persists.

Evelyn hands me a clipboard and a pen. I take a seat and carefully complete the paperwork, then review it to be sure I haven’t missed anything.

I trade my forms for my laminated ID card and lanyard. “Your identification also functions as your key card for access to the elevators and your office,” she explains. “One of the marketing staff is on their way down to escort you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Birdie?”

My stomach cartwheels. How can anyone recognize me here? Toronto is the biggest city in Canada, and I’m nowhere near the area I grew up in. The people from that side of town would never make it here. Except I did.

A woman who looks to be the same age as me stands to my right, her expression expectant. Thankfully, she’s unfamiliar. I arrange my mouth into a polite smile. “Hi.”

Her own exudes warmth. “Welcome to LTS. I’m Miranda. I’m part of the marketing team.”

“Oh!” The fire in my spine snuffs out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She extends her hand, and I curve mine around it. “Everyone is so excited that you’re finally starting.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! I won rock, paper, scissors to get you. The whole team would have come down, but we didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

The team. I’ll be one of them. I’ll have colleagues to confer with, to bounce ideas off. Until now this was an impossible dream.

Growing up was about survival. Stay quiet, stay out of the way, and try not to make my stepdad angry. But when I reached my teen years, my stepdad’s focus shifted from my mom to me. Then I became her shield and his target. Until he killed her. I didn’t think things could get worse. But they did. I shut down those thoughts. I’m not that girl anymore.

I thank the receptionist, and Miranda guides me to the elevators. “This is your company tablet and stylus.” She passes me the device.

“Thanks.” A shiver skitters down my spine as I notice the hummingbird logo in the corner. I can’t decide if it’s a good or bad omen.

“You’re starting on a weird day.” Miranda’s smile turns apologetic as we step into the empty elevator. “LTS was bought out by a tech start-up, so it’s hectic this morning. The new management is taking over today, and everyone is wound up about it. I’ll be able to show you the office after the meeting in”—she taps the screen on her tablet—“oh crap, like ten minutes. We’ll just head straight there.”

We step off the elevator, and as we round the corner, I slam into a hard body plated in a butter-soft suit. I fumble my brand-new tablet but clutch it to my chest before it leaves my grasp. My stylus, however, bounces off a polished black shoe.

“Oh, I’m so sor—” My heart skips several times like a stone on water as I inhale the familiar men’s cologne.

Memories rain down in a torrent.

Jarrod fresh from the shower.

My face pressed against his throat, my shins against his abs, his arms around me.

“It’s you and me, Birdie. It’ll always be you and me.”

The apology catches in my throat. It’s a coincidence. It has to be.

I follow the floral tie with a hungry bee and the hint of a bird wing that disappears inside his suit jacket, up to his throat, and then higher.

My heart seizes.

It’s been eight years since I’ve seen his face. Eight years since I pulled him out of that wrecked car and took the blame for something that shouldn’t have happened in the first place, if only we’d made a different choice that night. Eight years since I took the fall for him and he left me with nothing but a letter telling me he was done. I spent six of those years hating him for abandoning me, like everyone else in my life had. I’ve spent the last two wishing I could erase his memory like pencil lines.

And here he is, even more gorgeous than he was all those years ago. The softness of fresh adulthood morphed into a harsh landscape of masculine beauty.

The devil in a suit.

The boy of my dreams has turned into the man of my nightmares.

I meet his gaze, and fire lances down my spine.

No remorse.

No apology.

Not even a flicker of emotion.

Just passive indifference.

The man who crushed my already ruined heart has finally returned. And I’m certain he’s here to shatter what’s left.