The Bottom of the Sea

Part 4: Self Care

A week had passed, and I was still alive.

Things had settled into kind of a routine. After my grocery store misadventure, I spent the next few days in a state of queasy terror, jumping at shadows and new-house noises. I was restless and jittery but unwilling to venture out into the town and risk being noticed.

My earlier prediction came true; I spent most of my nights tossing and turning. I'd give up around three or four a.m. and head downstairs, eventually falling asleep in front of the TV. After a few fitful hours of sleep on the antique couch, I'd haul myself up to bed and crash till noon. Then, I'd scrape together something to eat, read, putter around the house until it was time to eat again, and then more TV.

I'd never spent so much time in front of the tube; back in Calgary, I was much too busy to join into the water-cooler talk about the latest buzzworthy show everyone was obsessed with. Now, with nothing else to do, I binge-watched all five seasons of Breaking Bad.

At first, I didn't think I'd make it through the first episode. I thought the violence would bother me, but I was numb to it. I found the whole thing fascinating; an evil man doing evil things "for good reasons." For his family. The main character told himself that, but he was just another scared little man, power hungry and desperate for validation. I was sad when the show ended, but I felt fist-pumping elation when Jesse Pinkman got away. Run, Jesse, run.

I checked Facebook constantly over the week, looking for any sign that Shane was on to me. There was nothing after the Vegas posts; just a short note to say he'd arrived back in Calgary and then everything went quiet.

It was days before he I saw something significant — a few cryptic words posted to his wall by his best friend, Kyle: I'm here for you, Bro.

I sat up, peering down at the laptop. There were more messages underneath and I devoured them.

Kyle: She's not worth it, Man. Time to move on.

Shane: Your goddam right, Brother. Good riddance to trash.

Kyle: You still coming out tonight? You better – it's the freakin' weekend. Shots on me! Don't forget, we're golfing tomorrow — no excuses!

Shane: Wouldn't miss it.

Kayla: Actually, shots are on me, Shane. You deserve it after what that skank did to you.

I felt pierced by a shivery spear of shame, the kind you felt when you overhear people talking about you in high school. Kayla? What rock did she crawl out from? She sounded about as mature as a seventh grader. And it's 'you're,' dummy. Shane always had terrible grammar.

Whoever she was, I thanked my lucky stars she was there to distract Shane away from me. Hopefully, he'd treat her better.

He didn't mention publicly that I'd stolen from him; of course, he wouldn't. And there was no way he'd report the theft; he didn't want any questions about what he kept in the safe.

I scrolled the rest of the messages, but they were just a series of 'what's going on' posts. Thankfully, Shane kept my name out of it, and responded to them with a curt "PM me."

A giant weight fell from my shoulders. I wasn't completely out of the clear; I'd be a fool to think that. But Shane's friends were looking out for him, taking him out and getting him drunk. This Kayla seemed all too happy to take my place, poor girl. She could have him. Thanks to them, I just might get my Jesse Pinkman ride into the sunset after all.

I felt like celebrating. On the other hand, I had taken stock of my dwindling cash supply, and the news was grim. I'd spent almost half of my ill-gotten gains already. I could live on what I had left for a few months if I scrimped, but I needed to get cash flow coming in, and fast.