Page 11 of HER: A Psychological Thriller

I have my moments where I waffle back and forth about what to do about my suspicions. Should I go to the police? Maybe. Should I tell someone? Probably. But it’s not like my track record is all together squeaky-clean. Besides, I didn’t actually see it happen, and you can’t very well ruin someone’s life on a hunch. The last thing I need is cops asking questions—or worse— pointing fingers. Not now that I finally have a job and a friend.

A lot is riding on this and I’m counting on Ann. She is helping me—even if she doesn’t yet understand to what extent. With any luck, I can improve my social standing, and maybe even get my husband back. Maybe there is still a chance that what she says in her book, about my life getting better, could be true.

And who knows?

Maybe it was an accident, even if it didn’t sound like one.

CHAPTER TEN

SADIE

The chairs are lined in rows, not in a circle like I pictured in my mind. This bothers me more than I let on. In her chart topping motivational book, Ann says we have to let go of expectations. Believe me, this is harder than she makes it sound. Here, we don’t hold hands, and no one feels sorry for anyone, not really. We’ve all come for the same reason and mostly not by choice. It’s court ordered. I suppose this explains why no one is particularly friendly or happy to be here.

Here, they aren’t concerned with social scores or social standings. They don’t seem to be aware of what’s happening in the world. Or perhaps maybe they are, and that’s what landed them here. In an attempt to find out what I’m working with, I strike up a conversation with a short odd looking woman who is seated next to me. “Do you know what’s happening?” I whisper.

“Well, sweetheart, I hate to break it to you,” she answers a little too loudly for my liking. “But they aren’t handing out awards, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

I tell her about the social credit score.

Her eyes narrow. “What’re you talking about? Social credit?”

“Companies are basing our car insurance rates, our interest rates, on what we do on the internet. They’re cataloging every digital move we make.”

I expect her to be outraged, or at the very least surprised. But she isn’t. Instead, she cocks her head and looks at me like I’m the crazy one, when she’s the one with electric blue hair and more piercings than I can accurately count in a thirty second conversation. “Honey,” she says. “Ain’t no one here got any kinda good credit anyway.”

I consider telling her more. I consider warning her about what’s coming down the pipeline, about the need to take this seriously. But she scoffed at me, and I hate a scoffer. Anyway, it’s no use. Like my husband, she doesn’t want to hear it either. I settle into my seat and prepare myself for the long haul.

These meetings are the same every time or at least the three times I have attended in the past week. We meet, we state our names, and then we are educated on the dangers of drugs and alcohol and the perils of living under the influence.

I’m not like these people. I’m not an addict. I made a mistake. A simple mistake. A rookie mistake. In fact, I’m so new at this I thought I could serve my time by just showing up. I thought the more meetings I attended, the better off I’d be. I thought it’d earn me brownie points. I thought I’d be pardoned on good behavior. But that’s a different kind of system, the instructor said. Not this one.

It’s fine, I told him. Aside from trying to earn a living, it’s not like I have anything else to do.

He says knowing we aren’t alone is good practice for getting out in the world again. He says sometimes our demons can feel real but they aren’t, and that it’s up to us to fight them.

He’s partly right. The class requires me to drive into Austin for this, which means I have to take an Ativan at least thirty minutes prior to getting in the car.

On the way, I stopped and bought a coffee, the most expensive latte I could afford. Even though I can’t really afford a six dollar cup of something I could make on my own for next to nothing. The coffee makes me feel accomplished. It makes me feel like my demons can’t get the best of me, not so long as I stay one step ahead. It makes me feel normal, not like I have to pop a pill just to get in my car and drive somewhere. It almost makes me forget that if I don’t do something, and fast, I’m never going to get a real job, or a decent interest rate, or have friends or a family of my own. Those are normal people things, and that pill is a reminder. I am not normal. If it costs me six bucks to fool myself, then so be it. Ann says this is impossible. She says people can’t lie to themselves as easily as they think they can. But she can’t see me here with my fancy cup. She can’t see how put-together I look. Not like the rest of them.

I’m different. I look like I shouldn’t be here, like I actually care to make my life better. And I do. I sit in the front row and sip my poison-flavored latte slowly and righteously, just to prove my point.

Ethan showed me the ingredients once. It’s absolute garbage, he’d said. What you’re putting into your body and the amount of money you’re spending to ingest toxins, he ranted, was reprehensible.

We all die some way, I assured him. At least my death won’t come cheap, and it’ll taste good. He didn’t laugh like he might have once. I feel like I don’t even know who you are, he told me, and that was the day I learned: marriages have social scores too.

The lady beside me scoffs again. I don’t take it personally. I don’t think she likes the speaker. It’s fine. I realize this probably isn’t the kind of place I want to be making friends anyhow. I don’t know if some are better than none, but probably not. Still, I learn their names anyway. Just in case. There’s a guy named Keith, whose eyes make me think of the Grand Canyon. Cassidy, young and pretty, who couldn’t care less. James, who cries.

I like it here. The rest, I forget.

I forget because Ann texts and asks if I’d like to come down for coffee later that afternoon. I’m relieved. It’ll be nice to see her. If only she’d asked earlier, back when I was six dollars richer.

Sometimes I like to think about reversing time, about what it would be like if you could hit a rewind button, if we could get do-overs. Ann says in her book that there’s no point in looking back, that we can only move forward.

I decide to test her theory by saying yes to coffee at her place. It’s not like I have anything else particularly interesting to do.

There is only one not-so-tiny little problem. I learned something this morning that I think Ann would want to know. Something that will cut to the core. It’s unfortunate, finding out something you can’t un-know. Already, I realize what an issue this is going to be if our friendship is to continue. Things are not as perfect in Ann’s world as she would like to believe. I just don’t want to be the one to have to tell her.

I know I’m supposed to be trustworthy. But am I trustworthy enough to break her heart? I haven’t yet decided. For one, I don’t want to mess up a good thing.