“What’s it to you, caveman?” I snap in a shaky voice while stepping closer, close enough to feel his heat. “I’m leaving. Go back to your booze and your brother.”
He pushes off the pillar, closing the gap between us and bringing that cedar smell with him.
“You leaving? Alone? That’s dumb as shit,” he drawls in a mocking voice while his eyes scan me up and down. “You’ll get lost or worse, and I’m not going to look for you this time.”
My fingers grip the suitcase handle with so much force it turns my knuckles white. “I don’t need you looking for me,” I fire back in a wobbling voice while stepping closer, our chests almost brushing. “I’m done with this island, my parents, all of you. Especially you.” I press my index finger into his chest. “Go play hero somewhere else.”
His eyes flash with surprise before they harden.
“Hero? I’m keeping you from getting snatched by some creep,” he growls in a rough voice while stepping into my space, his breath hot on my face.
“For your brother?” I ask mockingly, reminding him about all the times he brought my not-happening fiancé up.
He clearly doesn’t like the answer because his jaw clamps shut.
“Right.” I laugh. “You are saving me from a nonexistent creep, swooping in like a hero.” I push onto his chest. “Go away, caveman.” Another push. “I don’t want to see you.” Another. “I don’t want to know you.”
The next push doesn’t happen because he circles his hands around my wrists.
“Bea.” My name is a whisper on his lips. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I lift my face to hiss into his. “Don’t feel what I feel? Don’t escape this shit show? Don’t save myself?”
“Don’t leave,” he swallows, “your family like this.”
My mouth falls open from such impudence. “My family.” My chuckle is dark. “My family?” My voice gains strength. “Or you?”
For a second, I expect him to man up and respond like the grown man he is.
But he doesn’t.
So I walk away.
PART II
NEW YORK
9
Bea
I pacemy shoebox apartment with bare feet shuffling against warped linoleum, feeling like a hamster trapped in a wheel that’s going nowhere. It’s late September, the air outside crisp with the promise of fall and pumpkinblahttesaround every corner, but in here, it’s stale, heavy with the weight of my slim options.
This place is all I can afford—a tiny cave with a leaky ceiling, a hissing radiator from the last century, and neighbors whose every sneeze, moan, and argument bleeds through the paper-thin walls. A tall window with brown grills provides the only rays of sunshine around here.
A queen mattress on a creaky platform bed, a fold-down table barely big enough for a plate, a kitchenette with a temperamental stove that always wins, and two mismatched forks that I wield like weapons of freedom.
And despite all the mismatch, no one tells me how to dress or sit, which fork—out of the two I own—to use. No one’s here to humiliate me for slouching or having a hair out of place. This ismine, my slice of independence, and it’s currently hanging by a thread.
My starving bank account is a ticking bomb, and I’m scrambling to find a job that pays enough to keep me here, away from my parents’ suffocating control. To be honest, finding a job is not the problem. Keeping one is.
My head throbs from overthinking—waitressing gigs that fired me for mouthing off, retail jobs that laughed at my resume, even a barista stint that ended when I spilled espresso on a customer’s laptop. I’ve tried everything, but New York is a beast that doesn’t like me as much as I hoped, and I’m running out of moves.
The jarring sound of a doorbell snaps me out of my spiral. I’m not expecting anyone, so I grab the cheap, ten-dollar frying pan from the secondhand store and wield it as a weapon. It’s no cast iron, but it’ll do some damage if I try hard enough. Security in this building is a joke—the first-floor lock is always busted, and I’m sure I saw a drug deal happening in the staircase this morning.
Breathing tightly, I peek through the peephole with a thumping heart, ready to swing the pan when I see Maeve and Martin. Rolling my eyes with irritation at my unexpected guests and lowering the pan, I swing the door open.
“Hey, Bea,” Maeve exclaims in a bright voice as she envelops me in a sudden hug, her warmth catching me off guard. I’m still not used to her being so touchy, not after the cold, polished distance of our upbringing.
