TODAY IS NOT MY DAY.
As soon as I woke up, I felt off. All day, there’s been an aching weight crushing my chest and making it hard to breathe but I can’t for the life of me figure out the source. My brain feels itchy, like I’ve forgotten something, but whatever it is is a complete mystery to me.
The malfunctioning lungs, the sudden memory loss, both are attributing to a particularly shitty mood, hence why I’m stomping around work like a disgruntled child, a dark cloud of frustration hanging over my head. To make everything even worse, it’s Luna’s day off; instead of reveling in a good rant with my best friend, I’m stuck throwing my negative energy into wiping down sticky counters and scowling at handsy men. Plus I get the pleasure of spending my shift with the grouchy bartender old enough to be my dad who only speaks to my boobs and the ditzy waitress with the hand-eye coordination of a toddler.
Lucky me.
Only once does my bad mood lift. Right as the dinner rush comes to a blessed halt, my phone dings.
Nick: My bed smells like you.
Despite my sour temper, I grin at the message. In a wondrous, well-needed turn of events, Nick’s had the house to himself for the last few days; the others have gone on some bonding retreat for baseball so we’re taking advantage of his empty house.
Well, not full advantage—I still have yet to tell Cass so Nick’s inane rule is still in place. But we get to sleep in his much bigger bed for once, and that’s definitely a win.
Nick: It’s giving me a hard on.
Sweet to nasty in a millisecond.
My man.
Before I can reply, a pointed cough draws my attention. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I paste on a fake smile, readying myself to apologize to whatever customer is undoubtedly about to berate me for daring to use my phone during work.
The smile is overridden by a glare the moment my gaze lands on the woman sitting smugly at the counter, her expensive purse gingerly propped on a counter I suddenly wish I hadn’t just scrubbed clean of spilled soda. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
At my deservedly harsh words, Diane’s face twists into a disapproving grimace. “Language, darling,” she reprimands. “Honestly, I don’t know who raised you to be so rude.”
I clutch the counter tightly in an effort not to put my handy new fighting skills to use and punch her square in the face. “Certainly not you.”
Raising a brow, her upper lip curls in haughty disdain as though it irritates her that I’m sticking up for my father; it’s a skill, really, how she’s managed to convince herself she’s not the villain in our story. She kisses her teeth and flashes a fake smile that rivals mine. “I’ll have a coffee, please. Black, three sugars.”
Never in my life has it been so hard to pour a cup of damn coffee.
I slam a mug on the counter and fill it with steaming hot liquid, contemplating pouring it in her purse instead—that’s better than wanting to chuck it in her face, right?
When I’m done, I step back. I want her to leave. Or, better yet, I want to physically throw her out myself. But fuck, I’m kind of curious too. I want to know why she’s here, how she’s here, if I wasn’t clear enough last time about how much I don’t want her in my life or if she’s too dense to understand. Settling on the question most prominent, I ask, “How did you find me?”
Diane’s mouth twitches in satisfaction as she digs through her purse, fishing out her phone and tapping on the screen. When she turns it my way, my face falls at the sight of a familiar article, recognizing it easily because I witnessed the written words being spoken aloud. I was there when the journalist approached Cass about the article after that exhibition game. I stood beside him, beaming with pride as she piled on the compliments and told us she wanted the inside scoop on the future star player of the MLB.
How the hell she got her hands on it, I have no idea; I didn’t even know it was out yet.
“Wonderful interview,” Diane coos, unwarranted sarcasm dripping like acid. ‘Sounds like he’s a talented man.’ Studying my reaction, she taps her phone screen again and a photo appears. It’s of me and Cass at the game, one that I didn’t even know was being taken but I can guess is my boyfriend’s handiwork; I didn’t see anyone else flitting around the field with a camera. We’re tangled up in a hug, him spinning me around, both laughing our asses off, both so damn happy. “He mentioned you a lot. His ‘good luck charm’. Adorable.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but my anger intensifies. I hate that she knows who Cass is. I hate that she used him to find me, that she’s using him and something he’s so damn proud of as ammunition against me. I hate that she thinks she deserves to have an opinion on him. Before I can stop myself, I’m snatching the phone from her hands and dumping it back in her bag. I would’ve preferred to smash it against a wall, but I don’t want to make a scene. Not yet anyways. Shoving her purse into her arms, I demand, “Get out.”
Diane the taps her nails against the side of her still-full mug. “I’m a customer, Amelia.”
I correct her swiftly, “You’re a bitch, Diane.”
Gone is the smugness, replaced by an enraged sneer, nostrils flaring in a delightfully unladylike move. “I’m your mother.”
“No, you’re not.” God, she really is dense. “My mother is wonderful and kind and did an amazing job raising me, and that sure as shit isn’t you.”
Diane opens her mouth to argue but clearly thinks better of it. Pressing her lips together, she relaxes her uptight posture and sighs. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came to explain.”
For the first time since walking through the door, Diane drops the mask and lets some sliver of real emotion break through.
Desperation.
She looks, and sounds, desperate.
My curiosity spikes against my will—what could possibly drive this awful woman to show actual emotion? Sucking in a breath, I nod stiffly, permitting her to carry on.
Perfect nails tap a nervous rhythm on the counter as Diane clears her throat. “I was very young when I had you.”
“And I was very young when you fucked off. What’s your point?”
“I wasn’t prepared to be a mother.”
“I wasn’t prepared to be motherless.”
“Amelia, please.” Diane pinches the bridge of her nose in irritation. “I was young and clueless. Your father was always studying or working.” I tense automatically at the mention of Dad; ironic how her solution to a supposedly absent husband was becoming a definitely absent wife and mother. “I was lonely. I wasn’t ready to be a mother or a wife and I didn’t realize until it was too late.”
Six years. It was six years too late before she realized her life was one big mistake.
When she reaches for my hand, I jerk away, and I swear, something akin to hurt crosses her features. “I’m getting married, darling, and I want you to be there. I want to get to know you.”
Remarried, I correct her silently. She’s getting remarried. Fuck, it’s like Dad never existed.
“I don’t know how to make myself any clearer, Diane,” I start, relieved as hell when the words come out strong and clear. “ I don’t want you in my life. I don’t need you in my life. I already have a mother. I’ve been perfectly fine without you for over a decade, and I will be perfectly fine without you for the next. Do not come near me or my family again or, I swear to God, you’ll regret it.”
Surprise floods Diane’s face, like she never fathomed her visit ending in anything other than me forgiving her. “Amelia, I’m trying to make things right.”
“I don’t care.” She made her bed and now she has to fucking lie in it. She doesn’t deserve to make things right. If I’ve learned anything the past couple of months, it’s that not everyone deserves a second chance. “Don’t test me, Diane.”
Because I know it will only irritate her more, I don’t watch her walk away; I turn my back on the woman who did the same to me. It’s only when I hear the click of her heels walking away, the clang of the front door closing, do I let myself breathe.
There’s a business card sitting on the counter when I turn back around. Hands trembling, I snatch it up with the sole intention of chucking it in the trash but something catches my eye, the address printed neatly on white cardboard.
Phoenix.
All these years, she’s been in Phoenix. I always assumed she hightailed it to the other side of the country where there was no chance of her ever bumping into her forgotten family again. Never in a million years did I expect her to settle a measly drive away. God, no wonder she ran into Nick and I around Christmas; we’re practically fucking neighbors still.
Head shaking in disbelief, I can’t help but laugh; not only did she leave, she did a pretty shit job of it.
As soon as my shift ends, I sprint out the door, leaving Leery and Dopey to lock up. I’m not entirely sure they know how, considering they share about three brain cells between them, but that’s not my problem; I’m focused on going home, indulging in a long ass shower, and begging my boyfriend to fuck me despite the fact I’m a massive coward.
I barely make it five steps out the door before someone barks my name, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. My high-pitched screech echoes down the street, keys brandished like a weapon as I spin to face my potential attacker.
“It’s just me, Mils.”
It’s just me, Dylan says.
Just me, said so casually like the prospect of him posing a threat is unthinkable.
My ex-boyfriend—otherwise known as the man I could go my entire life without seeing again and be perfectly content—frowns in genuine, laughable confusion when I don’t relax, my keys still ready to gouge his eye out if he so much as breathes wrong. The universe is clearly working against me today; I’m not taking any chances.
When Dylan steps forward, I step back, and his frown morphs into an icy glower. “I want to talk.”
“No, thanks.”
His jaw ticks, a silent warning. “You’ve been busy, babe.”
I cringe. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why?” He spits. “Only Silva allowed give you nicknames now?”
Dylan’s climbing fury is a palpable thing, and what little self-preservation instincts I have urge me to get the hell out of here but I can’t. I’m frozen in place like I so often am when I’m the frequent victim of his rage. And something in my gut tells me that running for my car right now would be akin to running from a hungry predator; a really fucking foolish move.
“I gotta say, I’m surprised he’s not bored of you yet. Not like you’re anything special.”
“Is that why you won’t leave me the fuck alone?” I snap before I can think better of it; while my legs might’ve ceased functioning, my mouth clearly hasn’t. “Because I’m nothing special?”
It’s the wrong move and I know it.
In the blink of an eye, a hand locks around my arm, and as I realize not a soul besides us lingers on the dark street, it dawns on me how fucked I am. Bravado eviscerated by his painful grip, it’s replaced by the overwhelming need to flee because something is so very wrong. God knows I’ve seen Dylan angry before, irate like he is right now but there’s an eerie calm about him too. And it’s the calculated composure that truly terrifies me. “Please,” I beg, hating myself for it. “You’re hurting me.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
Sharp pain emanates from the back of my head, shooting down my spine in the most sickeningly uncomfortable way, and it takes a moment to register he’s slammed me against the wall of one of the many buildings lining the street. Hard, jagged concrete digs into my back as I blink away the dark spots dancing in my vision, overly aware of a sticky substance dripping down the nape of my neck.
“I treated you well, Amelia, and this is how you repay me?” He’s not shouting, and I wish he would because this sinister poise is worse. “You’re a worthless, broken, pathetic little slut.”
For the second time tonight, I make the wrong decision.
“Bullshit.” One tiny word is shocking enough to catch us both off guard. Dylan’s grip slackens and I take advantage of it, shoving him away as hard as I can. “You treated me like shit. You cheated on me. You fucking abused me, Dylan. If anyone is pathetic here, it’s you.”
I don’t see his fist coming.
I just feel it slamming into the side of my face, my cheek exploding in pain. The force of it senses me tumbling to the ground, the skin of my hands and knees splitting as I hit the uneven sidewalk hard. Pain shoots up my left knee, the one I injured all those years ago, and the almost nostalgic agony makes my eyes burn. I’m only down for a split second before a hand drags me upright my hair, before I’m shoved against the wall again.
“You need to stop fucking talking, baby,” Dylan sneers, “and I’m gonna make you.”
He descends on me and, for some reason, it’s his tongue trying to tangle with mine that really ignites my fight or flight, something in my brain registering that unless I make him, he’s not going to stop.
With all of my might, I raise a knee and slam it into his groin using as much power and fury as he doled out on me. A sick thrill rushes through me when Dylan crumbles to the floor with a wounded wail, but I don’t stop to revel in my handiwork. I sprint toward my car, a sob of relief escaping me when I realize that somehow, I managed to keep hold of my keys. Throwing myself inside, I slam and lock the door, my hands trembling and my eyes unfocused as I ignite the ignition and peel away without a backward glance.
Drive, I tell myself when my brain gets fuzzy, when the feel of something warm and wet dripping down my cheek becomes unignorable, when I glance down and see my jeans ripped and bloody at the knees and red streaks smeared across the steering wheel from my stinging palms. Just drive.
I don’t know where I’m going until I get there, until some of the tension eases from my shoulders and I slump against the steering wheel, the word safe echoing in my brain. Safe yet I can’t bring myself to move.
I have no idea how long I sit in my car—time isn’t measured in minutes in here, it’s measured by the increasingly painful throbbing in my face, my hands, my knees, my lungs, my fucking brain—and I have no idea how long passes until knuckles tapping gently against the window make me jump in my seat, my hands flying instinctively to the door to check the door is still locked.
“Querida?” A sob builds in my throat. “What’re you doing here?”
He sounds so happy to see me and I hate that I’m about to ruin it. When I unlock the door, I hate that I flinch when he opens it. I hate that I drop my head to use my hair to shield my face, covering the rips in my jeans with my hands. And most of all, I hate that when I start to cry, burning hot tears of pure fucking shame because I can’t believe I let this happen to me again.
Over the sound of my own wailing, I hear Nick ask what’s wrong and it only makes me cry harder. The emotions I try so hard to rein in explode in a series of anguished sobs that wrack my body from head to toe. In between whimpers are strangled words, my attempts to explain but they’re completely unintelligible.
‘Amelia,” Nick utters name and it sounds like a plea, it makes me cry harder. “Meu amor, I can’t understand you.”
When I lift a hand, exposing my torn knees, and tuck my hair behind my ear, exposing my bleeding, probably bruised cheek, Nick chokes on a gasp. When I turn to him, his eyes widen in shock, gaze trained on my cheek. All it takes is three barely audible words for shock to turn to fury.
‘He hit me.’
