Page 15 of Born in Fire
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart leaps.
It’s him!
Don’t be nuts, Juno. He wouldn’t call so soon.
But it doesn’t matter that I’m trying to talk sense to myself; I’m still feeling a little shiver of excitement as I check the screen. It shows a missed call notification.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops. I know before I even check the voicemail. Some part of me always knows.
I stare at the phone, tea cooling beside me.
Just delete it. You don’t have to listen to it.
I know that would be the healthy choice. The choice that would save my nerves from having to hear that voice again. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—wins out. I press “Play” and hold the phone slightly away from my ear, as if physical distance might lessen the emotional impact.
“Juno.” Tyler’s voice fills my living room, and just like that, my sanctuary is invaded. “I know you’re screening my calls. Real mature. Listen, I saw you heading to work the other day. You’ve lost weight—not in a good way. You look tired. I’m worried about you.”
My breathing quickens. He’s been watching me. The thought makes my skin crawl.
I think about the flowers he sent. I should have known he wouldn’t be content to leave it at that.
God. How did he find me?
“Anyway,” he continues, his tone shifting from concern to irritation, “I need to talk to you about the stuff you still have. My grandmother’s vase? The one you took? It has sentimental value, which you’d understand if you weren’t so selfish.”
I close my eyes. There is no vase. There never was. This is just an excuse to make contact, to create a problem only he can solve.
“Call me back. This is getting ridiculous. It’s been over a year, and you’re still acting like I’m some kind of monster.” His voice softens, becomes the Tyler I first fell for. “I miss you, Ju-Ju. Nobody gets me like you do.”
The nickname grabs me by the throat and twists. I’m back in his apartment, searching frantically for my keys while he holds them behind his back, laughing.“Come on, Ju-Ju, it’s just a joke. You’re so sensitive. Can’t you take a joke?”
I drop the phone like it’s burning me. My hands are shaking. I’m picking at my cuticles again, the skin around my thumbnail now bleeding.
One, two, three, four—inhale. One, two, three, four—exhale.
I press my feet firmly against the floor, feeling its solidity beneath me. I run my fingers over the textured fabric of my couch—blue velvet that I chose because I loved it, not because anyone else approved. I am here, in my apartment. Tyler is not here. He cannot reach me unless I allow it.
“Name five things you can see,” I whisper, my therapist’s exercise coming automatically.
The painting above my fireplace—a night sky I created during a particularly bad week, stars blazing against darkness.
My bookshelf, filled with titles Tyler would have mocked as frivolous.
The small crystal prism hanging in my window, casting rainbow patterns across the wall.
My sketchbook open on the coffee table, a half-finished drawing of the view from the coffee shop.
My mug, steam no longer rising from the tea.
My breathing steadies. The panic recedes, leaving behind a dull anger.
Bastard!
How dare he still intrude on my life? How dare he drive by my workplace, watching me?
I pick up the phone again and delete the voicemail. Then I add the number to my block list—the seventh number of his I’ve had to block. He’ll find another way to contact me. He always does. But each time, I get better at shutting him out.
