Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
She brushes my jaw with her thumb. “You don’t have to tell me,” she states steady, voice low. “But you know I can take it, right? Whatever it is. You’ve always taken on my demons. I don’t mind facing yours.”
I swallow. She needs this. She needs to know I see her strength. She isn’t the broken woman she was. The words are heavy. “A man said something filthy,” I manage to get out. “About you. About… before. I didn’t give him the chance to finish.”
There it is. Enough to name the thing without bringing its weight into our bed. The corner of her mouth lifts, not in humor, in understanding. She nods once. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For not letting him finish.” She shifts, winces at a hair pulled wrong, settles again. “And for coming home to me instead of finding him for another round.”
“You’re my anchor,” I share with her. “And my first place to run to. And my forever place to fall.”
She huffs a laugh that hits deep in my chest. “Poet.”
“Don’t use that word on me.” I find her hand in the dark and kiss her knuckles. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She stays quiet for a long beat. “Are you?”
I could say yes. I could lie to help her sleep. But we don’t do that anymore. “I am now.”
“Good.” She tips up, kisses the edge of my mouth where it isn’t swollen. “Tomorrow, you’re putting ice on that eye, and I’m making you eggs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We drift. There’s a moment right before sleep where the brain decides if it’s going to take a ride through nightmares or if it’s going to sit steady after a good, quiet ride and stare at the stars.
Tonight, mine sits steady. It’s because of her. Because of what we share without saying.
Six
Jami
The day starts like any other.
Sun through the blinds. Coffee in the travel mug Tommy left ready on the counter. I head to work and embrace the day. The smell of sawdust and fresh paint hit me as soon as I walk into the new build house.
I’ve been doing this long enough that my body moves on autopilot. Gloves on, broom in hand, bagging up drywall scraps, broken tile, and any other remnants of construction left behind. I hum along to the radio one of the crew has blasting from the scaffolding, some old country song about heartbreak that used to make me cry and now just makes me roll my eyes.
Normal. Steady. Safe.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unfamiliar number.
I frown, swipe, hold it to my ear. “Hello?”
Silence.
Not static, not a butt dial. Silence.
“Wrong number,” I mutter, hanging up.
Back to sweeping.
Five minutes later, it buzzes again. Same number.
I sigh, answer sharper. “Hello?”
Nothing. Just breathing.
The hair on my arms stands on end. “Listen, if you don’t say something, I’m blocking you.”
Click.
I shake it off. Probably kids, or some telemarketer messing around. I’ve had worse. Hell, I’ve survived worse.
But something about the way the breath slid down the line sticks to me like grease. I should have listened to my instincts but I’ve never been good at that.
By lunch, I’ve forgotten about it. Sandwich in one hand, Coke in the other, I sit on an overturned bucket in the almost-finished kitchen and watch the crew argue over whether NASCAR still counts as a sport.
My phone buzzes again. Different number this time.
I answer, irritation flaring. “Hello?”
A voice. Low. Male. Familiar enough to twist my gut.
“Still got that little heart-shaped mole under your left breast?”
The sandwich slips from my fingers. My whole body goes cold.
“Who is this?” My voice cracks like a teenager’s.
He laughs, soft and mean. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. I remember everything. The way you taste. The way you sound when you beg.”
I hang up so hard my thumb aches.
The crew doesn’t notice. The radio’s too loud. My heart’s louder.
I shove the phone deep in my pocket, but it feels like it’s burning through the fabric.
The calls keep coming. Different numbers. Always unable to give a result when I search them.
“Miss your thighs around me.”
“You still got that crow tattoo on your hip?”
“You were my favorite. None of the others compared.”
Each word is a knife.
I try blocking, but new numbers keep popping up. I try ignoring, but the voicemail pings, filled with silence and breath or words of filth that makes bile rise in my throat.
By mid-afternoon, my hands are shaking so bad I can’t hold the broom. I lean against the wall, knees weak, air stuck in my chest.
It’s like I’m back there. Back in that body that wasn’t mine, not really, because men like him took it like it belonged to them.
I thought I’d buried it. I thought these years of sobriety, years of Tommy’s steady hands and steady love, had built a wall high enough to keep the past out.
Turns out the past knows how to dial a phone.