Chapter 5: Mall
The text from Alexa lit up Svet’s screen at 10 AM, cutting through her coffee-induced fog. Mall day! Diego’s idea. He wants a “redo.” Be nice. Joe’s coming too. Meet at the north entrance at 1. Svet groaned, thumping her forehead against her kitchen table. A forced group hang at the Northridge Mall was her personal version of hell, especially with Diego’s wounded ego in tow. And Joe. After last night, his presence felt like a live wire she wasn’t sure she wanted to touch.
But Alexa was a force of nature. At 1:05, Svet found them. Alexa was a burst of color in a yellow sundress, chattering excitedly. Diego stood beside her, looking polished and slightly petulant. And Joe… Joe loomed. He wore a simple grey t-shirt that strained across his shoulders and a pair of dark jeans, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He gave a small, barely perceptible nod when he saw her.
“You’re late,” Diego said, but with a smile he probably thought was charming.
“Traffic was a biblical nightmare,” Svet deadpanned. “Plagues of locusts, the works.”
Joe’s mouth twitched.
The mall was a symphony of overstimulation. Chromed railings, blinding sunlight through skylights, the pervasive scent of cinnamon pretzels and synthetic perfume from the department stores. Diego immediately stationed himself at Svet’s side, a little too close. He steered conversations back to himself—his internship, his car, his opinion on the new seasonal brew at the coffee kiosk they passed.
Joe drifted slightly ahead with Alexa, a silent mountain letting the crowd part around him. Women glanced, did double-takes, whispered. He didn’t seem to notice. He just listened to his sister ramble, occasionally nodding.
In a crowded athletic wear store, Diego saw his chance. As Svet examined a rack of hoodies, he edged behind her, reaching over her shoulder to pull one down. “This would look great on you,” he said, his voice low in her ear, his front pressed against her back. It wasn’t an accident. It was a claim.
Svet stiffened. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Come on, let me get it for you. A peace offering for last night.”
Before she could jerk away, she felt a shift in the air. A shadow fell over them. Joe was there, having crossed the store in a few silent strides. He didn’t shove Diego. He didn’t say a word. He just inserted himself into the space between them, his back to Diego, facing Svet as he examined a nearby display of socks. His proximity was immense, intentional, a wall of heat and solid muscle that pushed Diego back by sheer physical presence.
“You need socks?” Joe asked her, his voice normal, but his jaw was tight.
“I’m… I’m set on socks,” Svet managed, her heart hammering.
Diego mumbled something about checking out shoes and retreated. Alexa, oblivious, called from across the store about a sale on leggings.
Joe didn’t move for a moment. He just stood there, a human barrier, until the air felt clear again. Then he walked away, joining his sister.
The next encounter was worse. Near the fountain, a familiar, tinkling laugh cut through the ambient noise. Svet looked up and her stomach dropped. It was the girl from the club, the one at the pillar. Brittany, probably. She was with two friends and, more notably, with Mark—the guy from Svet’s poli-sci class last semester who’d turned a study session into a relentless, gnawing campaign of texts and “accidental” run-ins that had left her feeling watchful in her own car.
Brittany spotted Joe instantly. Her eyes lit up with predatory recognition. She whispered to her friends and they all looked over.
“Let’s go,” Svet said abruptly, turning toward the food court.
But it was too late. The group converged. Brittany beamed at Joe, utterly ignoring everyone else. “Hey! Football guy! Fancy meeting you here.” She touched his arm. “You disappeared the other night.”
Joe looked at her hand on his arm, then slowly back up to her face. He gave a curt, non-committal nod. “Busy.”
Mark, however, zeroed in on Svet. “Svetlanna. Long time.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You never texted me back. I worried.”
Diego, sensing a rival, puffed up. “She’s been busy.”
The whole scene was a slow-motion car crash. Alexa tried to keep things light, chatting with Brittany’s friends. Diego and Mark engaged in a silent, posturing stare-down over Svet’s head. And Brittany attached herself to Joe’s side, talking rapidly about how much she loved football, her hand still on his bicep.
Joe endured it. He didn’t shake her off. He didn’t engage. But his attention wasn’t on Brittany’s chatter or the tense standoff. He was watching Svet. He saw the way her shoulders drew up near her ears, the way her thumb rubbed anxiously against her forefinger, the blank, polite smile she fixed on Mark that didn’t touch her eyes. He saw her retreat into a shell he now recognized.
Brittany, frustrated by his lack of response, tried another tack. “We’re going to that new rooftop bar tonight. You should come. Both of you,” she added, as a transparent afterthought to the group.
“We have plans,” Joe said, his voice final. It was the first full sentence he’d directed at her.
He didn’t look at Brittany when he said it. He was still looking at Svet. Then, he simply stepped away, leaving Brittany’s hand hanging in the air. He walked past Mark and Diego, moving past the entire toxic circle. He stopped in front of Svet. “Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command, delivered softly. A lifeline.
She took it. Without a word to the others, she fell into step beside him. He led her away from the fountain, past the puzzled stares of their friends and the annoyed pout on Brittany’s face, toward a quieter corridor lined for a shuttered department store.
He didn’t stop until the noise of the mall was a distant murmur. He leaned against the cool tile wall, looking down at her. “Okay,” he said, exhaling. “Talk.”
“About what? The world’s most awkward social collision?” She tried for the old sarcasm, but it came out thin and brittle.
“About why you look like you just want to vanish into the floor every time someone like that gets near you.” His gaze was steady, stripping away the pretense. “The guy at the club. Diego in the store. That guy back there. Mark. It’s the same look. You just… shut down.”
She crossed her arms, a defensive hug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” He pushed off the wall, standing to his full height, not to intimidate her, but as if he couldn’t contain the frustration. “You’re the most present person I know when you’re playing pool, or ripping into a bad movie, or giving me hell. Then a guy comes within five feet and you just… disappear. You leave. You’re all deflection and fake smiles, and the person I was just talking to is gone.”
His words hit her with a physical force. He saw it. He’d named the exact mechanism of her survival, the tactical retreat she’d perfected over years of unsolicited advances, of hands that lingered, of expectations that felt like traps.
“It’s easier,” she whispered, staring at a spot on the floor.
“What is?”
“Being the version they expect. The flirt. The good sport. It’s less messy than saying no and having to deal with the… aftermath.” She thought of Mark’s late-night texts asking why she was such a tease, of Diego’s whining entitlement. “If you play the part, you control the scene. Even if you hate the script.”
Joe was silent for a long moment. The distant mall Muzak filtered down the hall. “And last night? With me in the car?”
She risked a glance at him. “That wasn’t a performance.”
“I know.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “That’s what I don’t get. You can be real with me when we’re alone. But the second there’s an audience, or someone like Diego breathing down your neck, you lock me out with everyone else. You push me back behind the wall.”
Her defenses were in tatters. He’d mapped every contour of her fortress. “It’s not about you,” she said, which was only half-true.
“Then what is it about?” The question was urgent, raw. “Why let everyone get the version, when you could…” He trailed off, gesturing slightly, as if lost.
“When I could what?” Her own voice was barely audible.
“When you could just be Svet.” He said her name like it was a solid thing, a truth. “The one who makes terrible coffee taste good because she’s there. The one who knows a hustle when she sees it, and isn’t afraid to call it. That person’s right here. But you keep sending out a decoy to take the hits, and I’m… I’m watching it happen. And I hate it.”
The confession hung between them, stark and undeniable. He wasn’t just observing. He was invested. He was hurting for her.
She felt a tremor start deep inside, a fissure in the foundation she’d built so carefully. She looked up into his earnest, frustrated face, and for the first time, she wanted to tell someone the whole ugly truth—about the fear that lived under the sarcasm, the loneliness behind the flirtation, the specific, chilly dread that Mark’s face had just conjured.
But the habit of a lifetime was too strong. The corridor, though quiet, was still public. The decoy, trained by years of practice, stepped forward.
“It’s just easier, Joe,” she said, forcing a weak smile. “Now, shouldn’t we rescue your sister from the human decorative pillows she’s probably buying?”
She saw the disappointment flash in his eyes, swift and deep, before it was schooled back into neutrality. He’d offered her a real moment, and she’d traded it for the script.
He nodded slowly, accepting the retreat. “Yeah,” he said, his voice flat. “We should.”
As they walked back toward the noise, not touching, the distance between them felt wider than the mall corridor. He walked beside her, a silent, vast presence, and she felt the rare, precious chance she’d just been handed slip through her fingers, leaving only the echo of his quiet, aching question: Why are you so determined to disappear?
He walked beside her, a silent, vast presence, and she felt the rare, precious chance she’d just been handed slip through her fingers, leaving only the echo of his quiet, aching question: Why are you so determined to disappear?
The decoy had won. The script was safe. Her heart was a frantic, trapped bird against her ribs, and every step toward the bustling fountain courtyard felt like a surrender. The bright, artificial cheer of the mall suddenly felt nauseating. His disappointment was a tangible weight in the air between them, heavier than his shadow on the tile.
Three steps from the corridor’s end, she stopped. Her stomach clenched. The noise ahead was a wall of meaningless sound. She couldn’t go back into that. She couldn’t pretend.
“Wait.”
The word was a crack in her own façade. Joe halted, turning to look at her, his expression guarded.
She didn’t think. She acted. Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his thick wrist. The feel of his skin, warm and solid, shocked her. She pulled him sideways, not toward the crowd, but into a shallow service alcove hidden behind a giant potted fern. It was a pocket of shadows and dust, smelling of stale water and concrete.
“What are you—” he started.
She pushed him, her palms flat against the unbelievable hardness of his chest. It was like shoving a building. He didn’t move an inch, but he let her guide him back until his shoulders met the cold wall. The fern fronds brushed her hair, enclosing them. The world shrank to this dim, quiet square of space.
“You want the truth?” Her voice was a strained whisper, all the practiced smoothness gone. “The whole, ugly, boring truth?”
He just watched her, his brown eyes wide in the half-light, saying nothing.
“It’s because I’m tired,” she hissed, the words pouring out now like a released valve. “I’m so goddamn tired, Joe. The performance is exhausting. You’re right. It’s all a decoy.” She ran a shaking hand through her hair. “The flirty girl at the pool table who runs the table and laughs off the losers? That’s the product. It’s the version that doesn’t get called a bitch for winning. The one who lets Diego buy her a drink so he doesn’t sulk and trash her to his friends. The one who smiles at Mark so he doesn’t decide she’s a stuck-up cunt and key her car.”
She saw him flinch at the last word, but she couldn’t stop.
“If they’re laughing, or if they think they have a chance, they’re manageable. If they’re offended, or rejected, or just plain ignored, they get angry. And angry guys with bruised egos… they don’t just go away.” She hugged herself, her gaze dropping to the floor. “They send texts at two a.m. asking what’s wrong with them. They ‘run into you’ at the library. They tell everyone you led them on. It’s a low-grade, constant hum of dread. So yeah, I send out the decoy. The decoy is armor. It’s easier to be a slightly disappointing version of what they want than to be myself and become a target for their frustration.”
She finally looked up at him. Her breath hitched. “And with you… with you it’s different. There’s no script. You don’t leer, you don’t posture, you don’t try to win me. You just see me. And that is terrifying. Because the decoy doesn’t work on you, and I don’t know how to do anything else without feeling… exposed.”
The admission hung in the dusty air. She felt raw, scraped-out. She’d never said these things aloud, not even to Alexa.
Joe was motionless against the wall. He didn’t try to touch her. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He just absorbed it, his face a landscape of shifting understanding. The frustration from earlier had melted into something softer, more pained.
“The guy at the club. Mark,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Did he do something? Something specific?”
It was the right question. The hardest one.
Svet closed her eyes for a second. “After I told him I wasn’t interested in a second ‘study session,’ he waited for me in the parking garage. Not to do anything, he said. Just to talk. He blocked my driver’s side door with his body. Just wanted to understand, he said. Just needed five minutes.” She opened her eyes, the memory a cold knot in her stomach. “It was maybe two minutes. It felt like an hour. He just talked about how confusing my signals were. I smiled at him in class, I was so engaging. What was he supposed to think?”
“What did you do?” Joe’s voice was tighter now.
“I apologized.” The words tasted like ash. “I told him I was sorry for the confusion. I was flattered, really. I had a boyfriend back home. It was a lie. But it gave him a reason to back off that wasn’t his fault. He bought it. He let me leave.” She let out a shaky breath. “The decoy worked. It always works. But it costs a little piece of me every time. And now you’re here, and you see the machinery, and you’re asking me to step out on stage with no costume, and I don’t know how.”
Silence settled between them, dense and complete. The distant mall sounds were a world away. Here, it was just the hum of a vending machine down the hall and the ragged sound of her own breathing.
Joe slowly lifted a hand. He didn’t reach for her. He just placed his palm flat against the wall beside her head, leaning into it. “Okay,” he said, the word deep and final.
“Okay?” she echoed, bewildered.
“Okay, I’m terrified too.” He let out a long, slow breath. “I walk into a room and I see the calculations. I’m either a trophy, a wallet, or a threat. There’s a script for me, too. The oblivious jock. The gentle giant. The quiet guy with a secret heart of gold.” He gave a small, humorless shake of his head. “No one just… talks to me. Except my sister. And now you. The you who isn’t a decoy. The one who tells me I look miserable at a club and drags me out for bad coffee.”
He finally looked down, meeting her eyes directly. “So when that version of you disappears, and the polished version takes her place, it feels like losing the only real thing in the room. And I don’t know how to get her back except to wait and hope she comes out again. It’s… lonely.”
The confession undid her. His loneliness mirrored her own, a vast, silent echo. He wasn’t offering to fix her. He was showing her his own cracks.
She didn’t know who moved first. Perhaps they both did. One second they were standing apart in the dim alcove, and the next, her forehead was resting against his chest, just below his collarbone. His free arm came around her shoulders, not pulling her in, just resting there, a solid weight. She didn’t cry. She just leaned, breathing in the clean, simple scent of his shirt, feeling the steady, strong drum of his heart against her cheek.
Here, in this hidden hole in the wall, there were no decoys. No scripts. Just two people, terribly bad at armor, finally setting theirs down.