Chapter 1: Eight Hours of Freedom
Chapter 1: Eight Hours of Freedom
I sat in front of my laptop screen, trying to force the words out.
Usually, I never had a problem finding what to write. But today was different.
I stared at the screen, trying to organise my thoughts, but nothing.
I checked the time. 9:00 AM.
I had left home right after Bob. With eight hours of freedom ahead of me, I had made my way to O’Malley’s.
It was a dive bar three blocks away from home. It was dark, empty, and Bob never came here.
I was working on a ghostwriting gig, a mini job with a strict deadline. Every dollar meant the world to me. It was extra money destined for the empty baking powder tin hidden in my pantry.
I was so immersed in the words on the screen that I didn't see a shadow falling over my table until a warm, deep voice spoke above me.
“Is this seat taken?”
I jumped, my hand flying to cover my cheek.
I looked up.
Standing in front of me was a tall, muscular man. He wore a simple, tight-fitting blue T-shirt that hugged his broad chest and dark work pants.
“It isn't,” I said, gesturing to the empty room. “There are plenty of tables unoccupied. Pick one.”
I turned back to my screen. Go away.
“I like this corner,” he said simply.
The bench dipped. I stiffened as he slid onto the seat opposite me.
I didn't like it. My shoulders tightened.
“I'm Felix,” he said, offering a hand across the table.
I looked at it briefly. It was smooth and clean—unlike Bob's—but I didn't take it. I wasn't interested in talking to him.
I pulled my laptop closer, creating a barrier.
“I'm busy,” I said coldly.
He wasn't bothered. He signalled the waitress with a wave of his hand.
“Coffee, black, with two shots of cream. And get the lady whatever she's having.”
“I'm not drinking,” I cut in quickly.
My stomach growled, I hadn't eaten since lunch the day before, but I didn't want his pity.
“I don't need anything from you,” I added.
The waitress hesitated.
“Just the coffee then,” he corrected simply.
He respected the no.
For a second, I was taken aback. This was new to me. Bob never took no for an answer.
Felix leaned over, his eyes on my screen. I pulled the laptop forward to keep him from seeing it, but it was too late.
“...and he looked at her in shock,” he read out loud before I could close the screen. “You're a writer, huh?”
“I'm busy,” I repeated.
“You’re also tense,” he observed gently. “You've checked the exit several times already.”
My fingers froze.
“Excuse me?” I snapped. I began to pack my bag. I was getting uncomfortable and wanted to leave.
“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I won't bother you.”
I hesitated. I wanted to leave, I really did. But… I enjoyed the company.
We sat in silence for a long while. The clicking of my keys and the clinking of his glass against the table were the only noises in the bar.
“I didn't get your name,” he said suddenly.
“Andrea.”
“Andrea, the writer,” he repeated, a smile appearing on his face. “And you are Felix, the…?”
He hesitated for a moment.
“Felix, the plumber.”
I looked at him. He looked nothing like a plumber. He looked like a man who could buy every toilet in the city.
“Plumber?” I asked skeptically. “You look too… neat.”
“Yes… plumber,” he confirmed, blinking once. “I'm in management.”
I let out a short laugh. “I can't picture you with your head in a toilet.”
I was surprised I said that, and even more surprised at the sound that escaped my lips.
“I try to avoid it,” he said with a grin.
The waitress returned with two mugs. She set one down for him and placed a tea in front of me.
“On the house, honey,” she said, winking at Felix.
The cup of tea was calling me. My stomach growled again, louder this time.
I looked at Felix. He didn't react. He looked out the window, giving me space to decide.
Slowly, I wrapped my arms around the warm mug.
“Thank you,” I whispered, taking a sip.
Felix leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“If you could have one superpower,” he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “what would it be?”
I hesitated. I should leave. I should run. But the warmth of the tea anchored me.
“Teleportation,” I admitted softly.
“Why?”
“So I could go anywhere. Anytime.” A warm feeling spread through my chest. “I’d go to Paris first. Just thinking about macarons and éclairs makes my mouth water.”
Felix smiled. Not wide. Not playful. Steady.
“Paris,” he repeated. “One day, that won’t just be a dream.”
He leaned closer.
For a moment, the dirty bar faded. For a moment, I wasn't Bob’s punching bag. I was just a woman having coffee with a man who smelled like expensive cologne and hope.
Then I saw the clock on the wall behind him.
2:48 PM.
The blood drained from my face.
“I have to leave,” I gasped.
Time was running out. Bob could return anytime.
I shoved my laptop into my bag.
“Wait,” Felix said, standing as I scrambled out. “Will you be back?”
“I have to go!”
The booth was tight. As I squeezed past him, our clothes brushed against each other.
I rushed past him, sprinting out of the bar. I ran until I reached the driveway at 2:56 PM.
I fumbled with the keys, my palms slippery with sweat. When I finally entered, the house was quiet.
Bob wasn't home yet.
I leaned against the door and let out a huge sigh.
I rushed to the bedroom, removed my dress, pushed it under the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and hid my laptop under the folded towels.
My heart was still thudding against my ribs, but it wasn't just from the run. It was the memory of Paris, the smell of expensive cologne, and a man who actually listened when I said no.
I rushed to the kitchen to start dinner. I smoothed my house dress, the one Bob had seen me in before leaving, and took a deep breath, trying to wash the hope off my face.
I needed to be the invisible wife again. The one who didn't have dreams. The one who didn't have a voice.
But the woman who had wanted Paris didn’t disappear.
She stayed awake, waiting.
Just then, I heard a sound that snapped me back to reality
An engine.
