On The Edge: No Turning Back

Rachel:

There was a pile of clothes on my body.

I saw a girl on TikTok who swore that dumping your laundry on the bed would motivate you to fold it.

Yeah… didn’t work for me.

I was the pile of laundry now—jumbled up with something dirty-white and a stained blue skirt I don’t even remember buying.

The stench of my sick from last night? Oh, yes.

I meant to clean it, I really did.

But it merrily sat on the doormat like it had checked in for a vacation.

Maybe I’d get to it later.

The sink was overloaded—scrubby little plates stacked up like an archaeological dig, and a mug from the last time Cara came over.

I’d clean it. Trust me!

Okay, don’t trust me. I don’t even trust myself.

Inside my head, the neurons were yelling “Move!” but my body was like, “Nah.”

Domino’s packets were hosting a picnic on the floor.

Sauce spattered near my feet like a crime scene.

Ten Starbucks cups, a lonely banana peel, and let’s not forget the paper avalanche I’d been tossing around for the last two hours.

My house was the black sheep in the neighborhood (maybe the opposite house too).

All the other houses were full of Christmas lights, big Thanksgiving dinners where they roasted a huge turkey and actually finished it, Halloween nights where kids with ridiculous makeup went door to door for chocolates (they never come to my door)... and on and on.

But my house?

Well, people thought I did stripping for a living. Or worse, I might be robbing houses at night to buy this one.

The chain of older women around never ran out of tea, which actually made me hate coffee. (I’m serious.)

Let’s be honest: I wasn’t a stripper, and I didn’t rob houses.

So you might ask—how the hell did I buy a whole house just for myself?

Oh, that’s simple.

I just took out a check from my account and handed it to its previous owner, who was unwilling to live here after her husband hung himself.

I looked at the ceiling. I imagined a man, built and heavy, hung over there.

Ah, it’s creepy.

You see, I wrote things for a living.

Not just living—my latest novel had given me a fortune to live.

But I wasn’t like the typical bestsellers out there.

Suddenly, my laptop jolted open.

That’s what I did.

Opened my laptop, moved my fingers on the keyboard, and watched the word count at the bottom of the document as if it mattered.

That was life, I guess.

I’d sit here crumbling on my grand couch all day, writing and writing—watching the ceiling above me where a man was hung (or, hung himself. I don’t care).

I watched the walls where I often threw daggers to keep my overactive imagination in control.

I watched my floor mat.

Seriously, I must clean it.

My phone suddenly lit up. I unlocked it.

Only to be greeted with a message from Cara:

—Dress up nice and meet me at the cafe near your house

I looked at the message for a while. I was in no mood to type.

Pressing the record button, I began speaking.

“Cara, I’m really sick. I won’t be able to make it. So sorry.”

I hit send and waited for Cara to reply back with an emoji.

But instead, there was an incoming call.

Oh God.

I put the phone away and ran toward the kitchen.

For over half an hour, I scrubbed and scrubbed—until my hands were white.

I watched the plates—now glistening clean.

I went to the couch and took the pile of clothes to the laundry.

It took me an hour to get rid of the pizza packets under my couch.

Just as I expected, there was a ring at the door.

“The door is open,” I shouted.

Cara stepped in, only to almost slide on the floor from the slippery substance on the doormat.

“What the hell is this, Rachel!” she shouted. “You could’ve murdered me and my baby.”

I ran toward her with a cloth and cleaned it up.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered in a small voice. “Would mummy prefer tea or coffee?”

“By tea—do you mean…”

“Yes, bubble tea. It’s in the fridge,” I said.

Cara slowly settled herself on the couch, clutching her stomach carefully (which was now the size of a watermelon), and looked at the windows.

“When was the last time sunshine crept into your house?” she asked, inspecting the dust and cobwebs on the bookshelves.

I came back with the bubble tea and handed it to her.

“Rachel, you need to settle down,” said Cara.

“I am already settled down, Cara,” I said. “I have a house. I have wealth. I have everything a woman could wish for—pads, makeup, skincare products—”

“This is not life, girl,” Cara said. “Look at me.”

She pointed at her stomach.

“There can’t be anything nicer than this. This is everything.”

I pursed my lips.

“You’ve arranged another guy?” I asked with disinterest.

“He’s Ted’s colleague,” replied Cara. “Go up and change. Try to wear something sexy.”

“It’s up to me whether I wanna attract that guy or not,” I snapped.

Cara got up and walked toward me, bubble tea in hand.

“You need a change. This stench you’re living in—that’s not life.”

I couldn’t argue with her.

Pregnant women could be dangerous—for you and for themselves.

So, I walked into my bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt.

“Do some makeup!” Cara shouted, her voice distant.

No. I wouldn’t be listening to her now.

The cafe was packed today—laughing couples, live makeout sessions, you name it.

But as soon as I settled next to Cara, I caught sight of a pair of eyes—intent, brown eyes.

My heart leapt a bit. I liked brown. The whole word had a calm feeling.

I couldn’t help but stare at the man beside our seat.

He was wearing a mask.

His white shirt was stained with tea.

His ivory-black hair was muffled in the best way.

His eyes—they marked me.

Our eyes met like a cozy afternoon champagne.

I cast a smile. My teeth went out in the weirdest way.

I didn’t know whether he smiled back.

But from his eyes, I knew—beneath the mask, there might be a nice face with a safe, warm smile.

“Look beside you,” I whispered to Cara.

Cara looked at him, then turned to me.

“About what?”

I was a little hurt.

“Is he the guy?” I asked, stupidly.

“Of course not,” she said. “He’s not your type.”

But I forgot about certain stereotypes.

’Cause the next moment, a big man—twice my size—settled beside me and said his name was Mark.

I knew then—those brown eyes had marked me.

No matter how many seconds passed with Mark blubbering about stupid things, I peeked at the seat beside me—those brown eyes were still there, calm and protective, making me feel safe.

“What’s your favorite movie, Rachel?” asked Mark.

I was caught off-guard.

He looked in my direction. He knew what I was doing.

His hand slowly moved toward me, inching closer and closer—nearing my bra at a suffocatingly close distance.

With just a flick of his big, expert fingers, the hook of my bra was loosened.

“What the hell is that!”

I got up. My cheeks turned red.

You see, my shirt didn’t do much to cover my bra.

“You’re not happy?” he asked.

He tried to look innocent. Tried to sound cute.

But in his grey eyes, I saw lust—hot and bubbling.

And I didn’t like the idea of being scanned by his eyes—from my head to my ass.