The Despair of Strangers Read online

  The Despair of Strangers

  Heather Topham Wood

  Copyright © 2021 Heather Topham Wood

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Mom,

  Your strength, sense of humor, and generous heart has always been an inspiration to me

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I don’t know how to do this without you anymore.

  The text was simple, but damn if the words hadn’t reached down to my very core. I thought for a short, delirious minute—could the message come from him? After purchasing the phone a day earlier, I switched to a new number. Running away from my problems also meant no forwarding calls.

  Logically, the message couldn’t have come from Jake. Although the broken parts inside wished he had somehow found me. I was still too close to the hurt for reason to intervene.

  I had no one to share the new number with, only securing a mobile to use for job applications. The next day I would head out, trying to look for work in my new town—a town over three hours away from my former life.

  I lay in bed well after midnight, staring at the message, trying to make sense of it. After a quick search, I despised myself for the crushing disappointment radiating through my chest when I discovered the number was local. I was still sick enough to long for Jake. Yet, this confirmed the text hadn’t come from my ex-fiancé or anyone else from my old life in Fairlawn, New York. Besides, I reasoned, no one felt that strongly about me.

  I was about to write back, tell whoever he or she was that there was a mix-up, when another text came through.

  I miss everything about you and I won’t move on. I can’t move on.

  Then, I knew without a shadow of a doubt the text wasn’t from Jake—could never come from a man like Jake. The idea of him not moving on was laughable. Jake cultivated his arrogance over the years, but he’d still never have the nerve to claim he was refusing to move on.

  Instantly, I felt a connection to the faceless person on the other end of the text message. I had come to realize over the last couple of weeks heartbreak was a solitary thing. No one truly could understand until they joined alongside, falling apart, feeling as if nobody could ever fill the void left behind. I imagined the person texting having the same sensations I had. Each day, I forced myself awake, experiencing the crushing weight on my chest as I wondered if I had a purpose. Could I build a life without Jake? Jake and I were a unit for so long, I wasn’t sure who I was without him.

  Not only was I alone with my heartbreak, I was alone period. I left my life as Alyssa Madison Carmichael behind—including my family and any faux friends I had in Fairlawn. The truth was I neared thirty years old and didn’t have a single person who belonged to me exclusively—not a friend who was mine outside of the Jake and Alyssa coupledom. Without Jake, I may as well hadn’t existed in their eyes.

  Yet, on the phone was another person, someone else ensnared by heartbreak. Maybe worse off because I would never give Jake the satisfaction of knowing I couldn’t live without him. My leaving was a middle finger to them all: Jake, my friends, and my family. They may have destroyed me, but I wouldn’t be around for them to view the carnage.

  I started to fill in imaginary details about the person on the phone. In my head, our stories intertwined. Had the ex decided to disappear like me? Maybe that explained why the person was texting a disconnected number.

  Turning off the ringer, I then placed the phone on my nightstand. I decided to do nothing. It was what I was good at anyway. I could’ve stopped the train wreck of Jake and me, but I did absolutely nothing. I saw the signs, felt the betrayal before any of it happened, but never spoke up. Never voiced my discontent. I was raised to be a martyr without ever deviating from the path. Although I had tapped some steel to leave everyone behind, I took the coward’s way. Slunk away in the middle of the night with a single suitcase, my savings cashed out, and only a note and my phone left behind.

  I left the person alone—I couldn’t help anyone with their pain. I had enough of my own.

  ***

  Making my new home in a small New Jersey town was an arbitrary decision. The first night, the night I left, I drove aimlessly. I stayed on the road until Jake’s image faded from my mind, pretending I was far enough away he no longer existed.

  Over three hours after leaving Fairlawn, I checked into a hotel a few miles off of the highway. The next day I drove around and checked out the area, using my gut to guide me instead of rational thought. In the past, rational thinking hadn’t gotten me anywhere.

  Cookstown felt like a place to start over as soon as I turned onto Main Street. The town was quaint—a complete world away from the area of McMansions I grew up in. Parking the car, I walked the streets, checking out an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, antique shop, and even a psychic. Something about the town felt right to me. Fate stepped in when I saw a for rent sign for the apartment over the local florist.

  After introducing myself, I got to chatting with Birdie, the owner of both the shop and apartment. Birdie with her teased blond hair and the kindest blue eyes I’d ever seen. Placing her around the same age as my mother, I could determine on sight they were nothing alike. Her smile was authentic as she gave me a quick tour of the one-bedroom apartment.

  Birdie decided to rent to Alyssa Carter on the spot when I offered to pay the first three months of rent upfront. Only in a small town would I get away with providing a fake name. I wasn’t certain my family would come looking for me, but I was a Carmichael. I could see my nana ordering my father to drag me back to my rightful place. She’d go positively apoplectic if she realized a Carmichael planned to work as a waitress to supplement her savings.

  Over the past two weeks, Birdie had become my only link to the outside world and had even put in a good word for me at a diner two blocks from the apartment. As I hung around her shop each afternoon, she forced me out of my pathetic wallowing. When I mentioned needing a job, she recommended the diner, explaining the restaurant was popular in town and the regulars were good tippers. I wasn’t sure what I could expect to make at the diner, but I had to find a way to make my money last until I figured out my next step.

  Dee, the owner of Dee’s Diner, was of an indeterminate age. She could’ve been forty or seventy for all I could tell. As soon as I stepped into the diner, she greeted me by name, know
ing me by sight. I could see why she and Birdie were friends. They both had an ease with people. Feeling lost made me appreciate the kindness—she treated me as if we had known each other for ages, not like someone she’d met a mere five minutes earlier. Hopefully, she’d take pity and give me a job despite my lack of waitressing experience.

  My private savings account had just under ten thousand dollars that I withdrew before leaving Fairlawn. In two weeks, my savings had depleted substantially. Most of the cash had gone to the apartment and all the furniture I needed to fill it. At first, I thought of only purchasing a bed and a few necessities, but the thought of living in an empty apartment in my already fragile state of mind felt like too much.

  Also, I refused to drive off in the Mercedes Jake had purchased for my birthday last year. Seeing the car after what he’d done to me only gave me the urge to set it on fire. Instead, I spent two thousand dollars on a ten-year-old Jetta the day before I left.

  “So, what’s your story?” Dee asked once we were seated at a table in the back of the restaurant. The diner reflected the town—small but welcoming. The booths were a bright cheery red color, with about six of them lining the wall. The counter was the same glossy red with eight swivel chairs facing the kitchen. In between the counter and the booths were four two-seater tables.

  The truth was I had no discernible skills. Jake and I had been together for almost seven years and my expectation was not to be a working woman. I was to be Mrs. Alyssa Carmichael-Albright, co-chair of charities alongside my mother, Mrs. Jennifer Carmichael. I had a communications degree, but no job since my mother deemed it meritless. My parents never cared about my major. The idea was to land a husband in college. After graduation, I returned home successful in their minds with a future lawyer as a boyfriend.

  And I allowed that life to happen. I sat back and watched as I was pampered like a little show dog. I did what was expected of me, never once complaining. Despite everything, I couldn’t leave the blame entirely at my family’s feet. I never raged against the future decided for me. Never lashed out as my mother filled my head with notions of my ordinariness.

  I looked back at Dee as she waited for my answer to her question. “What’s my story?” I parroted back. My story was full of nothingness, a sad life I was ashamed to share.

  She watched me like a curiosity, an oddity she couldn’t quite figure out. “No one moves to Cookstown for the hell of it. I mean, I love our town, but it’s kind of a generational love, forced down from parent to child. I’m not trying to get in your business, but if you’re only here for a couple weeks, I should ask. Jenny is drowning in the mornings and I need someone who’s reliable enough to stay on.”

  She had a kind smile, an open one, making me want to tell her everything. I found myself latching onto everyone I was coming across. My need for human compassion was telling about the awfulness of my upbringing. Instead, I managed a wane smile before explaining, “I’m not leaving. At least not in the near future.”

  She nodded, accepting my answer. “Good, then. Not that I expect you to make a career out of a job here. The money isn’t great, but we have a good number of regulars who will like seeing another cutie in a skirt and will tip you well.”

  Squirming in my seat, I tried to hide my reaction to being called a cutie. I wasn’t good with compliments.

  Dee continued on. “Hours are six to two each morning with two or three rotating days off per week. Jenny, the other waitress in the mornings, does the schedule, so she’ll book you on the busiest days. Once you’re settled, she may have you do some solo shifts. I probably won’t see you much. I usually only come in for the dinner service.” Leaning back against the booth, she looked me over with an appraising eye. “How much experience do you have?”

  “I was an event manager, so not much actual serving experience honestly.”

  “An event manager, huh?” She gave me a skeptical look. “Working here is probably downgrade then. You sure this is what you want to do?”

  “Yes, I was actually thinking of going to school too, maybe taking some classes online in the afternoons after I get done with my shift.” The words flew out of me unexpectedly, not exactly a fully-formed thought. Yet, the idea felt right.

  “Oh really, what are you going to study?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Dee snickered. “Oh, girl, you got that look about you. You remind me of myself at nineteen, when I went off backpacking in Europe to find myself.”

  With a sigh, I said, “I’m twenty-eight. I might be too old now to find myself.”

  “Never too late. I promise you,” she replied.

  Chapter Two

  God, I’m fucking lonely. All day today I was surrounded by people and I felt absolutely empty. Like when you went away, you took all of me with you.

  My eyes were blurry as I stared back at the phone. To celebrate getting the job at the diner, I had treated myself to a bottle of cheap red wine. I was buzzed enough to wonder if the message was a figment of my imagination. The words were exactly how I had felt hundreds of times in my life. At every party, every charity ball, and even at family dinners, I was devastatingly lonely.

  As I squinted at the nightstand clock, I realized whoever had texted the phone number must be an insomniac. The time read just after one o’clock. Was the person drunk texting his or her ex?

  Despite the personal connection I felt to the messages, I found it odd the person was so persistent. Hadn’t the unanswered texts from the night before given the indication he or she should take a hike? If I messaged Jake the same words and received no reply, I would never recover from the shame. Before I could turn off the phone again, another message arrived from the same number.

  You always knew how much I hated the crowds. You understood my confidence was all fake and I was back to being a scared little boy again. You would take my hand and it was just us.

  A man was sending the messages then. I was mildly surprised. The men in my circle were never so forthcoming, leading to an initial assumption the mystery texter was a woman. I should’ve realized these messages were deeply personal, so any airs would be dropped. However, in my twenty-eight years, I only had Jake as the sole example of how men spoke to their lovers. His texts, even post-breakup, would never be so deeply personal. I’d only received one text from him after our ending, right before I left everything behind.

  Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s meet and talk this out.

  He had no idea, but his text was what set in motion my plan to move away. Even in the wrong, he’d tried to make me feel insignificant and small.

  I waited for another message to come through. The man had to give up eventually when he didn’t receive a reply. What had happened to him and his ex? What had made them fall apart? He didn’t sound apologetic, more like sad over the loss of the best thing that had ever happened to him. Maybe he hoped reminders about happier times would bring the two of them back together. After ten minutes, I assumed the phone would remain silent for the rest of the night.

  After, I tried to compare my love life to the messages. What kind of times could Jake possibly reminisce about? I could imagine a few of the texts:

  Do you miss the times I went out to party with my law school friends and turned my phone on silent until the next day?

  Did you love all my sweet gifts to you? Like the Christmas I bought gift cards for personal training sessions and nutritionist visits so you could lose weight?

  How could I miss someone like Jake? Why was I heartbroken when I should celebrate that he was no longer in my life?

  Over the years, I’d become convinced of my flaws. I needed the highlights from my mom’s stylist to breathe life into my straight light brown hair. I had to stay on a diet constantly to lose those ten to fifteen pounds that gave too many curves for my short frame. My mom had purchased contacts to make my blue eyes lighter, a topaz shade. My natural eye color was a grayish blue with green specks, less dramatic. The Carmichaels believed even beauty could be purch
ased.

  A sick part of me wondered if I should log into my old social media accounts. Had anyone tried to reach me? Most likely not. My disappearance would warrant only eye rolls and an assumption I’d be back eventually. Once her savings were gone, she’d come back, my family would believe. The rest of my money was held inside a joint account with Jake. I’d been tempted to withdraw money out of the account, but the thought left me cold. The money wasn’t mine, not really, but family money from my trust fund that matured when I turned twenty-five. For once, I didn’t want to make practical decisions. They could keep their money.

  I had a hard time falling asleep after the text messages. For some reason, I hesitated writing him back and telling him to get lost. The messages were too vulnerable. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to a stranger reading his love notes.

  The next morning, I had the slightest of hangovers for my first shift at Dee’s Diner. After popping a couple of aspirin, I tried to rally for the day. I was shadowing Jenny as part of my unofficial training. No tips for my first day, but I still got paid hourly. I’d given my fake name to the diner too, Alyssa Carter, but I was getting paid cash, so I wasn’t too worried about it. The name felt more real than Alyssa Carmichael, so that should count for something.

  Before sunrise, I met Jenny inside the restaurant. I was expecting her to be older than me, but she looked close to my age. She was grumpy at first, so I wasn’t sure how to read her, but she perked up after two cups of coffee. Ahmed, the cook, seemed less likely to perk up, even if he drank a whole pot of coffee. He grunted a greeting at me after Jenny introduced me before turning right back around to start up the grill.

  Jenny moved around the restaurant with ease once customers began to arrive. She would give me small jobs as I shadowed her, but she handled most of the ordering and running out the food. She never wrote down the orders, but I made notes in case she forgot and needed a reminder. Everyone was interested in who I was, so I made an effort to memorize names and make polite conversation. Most of the customers were over sixty and seemed in no rush for service, laying out their newspapers on the table while they enjoyed their coffees.