“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
He leans against the doorway with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowing at the half-packed bag on our bed. He scoffs. “You think you can just dip out? Who’s gonna makeusmoney?”
I straighten slowly, my hands stilling on the zipper. My heart pounds, but my voice comes out even. “I’m going to Tennessee. Trying out some new content.”
He stares at me, long enough that the silence stretches, prickling across my skin. He scoffs again, rolling his eyes this time. “Whatever. It won’t work because you need me.”
Need him? But I suppose I’m the idiot for staying.
I refuse to flinch at his cruel words. Instead, I bend, grab my bag, and sling it onto my shoulder. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, but I don’t look away.
He pushes off the doorframe, his lips curling into that sly smirk that makes my stomach twist. “Pay for your own shit,” he tosses over his shoulder, already walking out. “Gonna go hang with my girl.”
That fucker.
The sound of the door slamming rattles the walls, but I don’t let myself crumble.
Not this time.
I suck in a breath through my nose, then let it out through my mouth, forcing my shoulders back, and focusing on the weight of my bag digging into my palm.
Tennessee is waiting.
reed
. . .
My phone buzzes, her last reply lighting the screen.
I should be used to it by now: the silence that follows messages I want to respond to, the way my chest stirs as if it remembers what hope feels like. But I’m not. The second her name lights up the bar top, it hits me in the gut.
Butterflies. Goddamn butterflies. I don’t even recognize the sensation. It feels strange, wrong, somehow, like my body’s betraying me for something it shouldn’t want.
Tucking my phone into my pocket and letting the dull ache settle, I reluctantly grab the worn rag. The counter is spotless, with the wood gleaming beneath the soft light, but I scrub anyway.
It’s routine. It’s something to do with my hands while my head spins in circles.
The bar is alive tonight; perhaps a bit too lively. Laughter crashes like waves against the walls, boots thump on the floor, and glasses ring as they’re set down a little too hard. Perfume blends with whiskey and wood smoke, creating a thick haze in the air.
In the corner, my brothers are wrapped up with their wives. Maverick’s grin is wide enough to split his face in two, with his hand resting on Amelia’s rounded stomach, admiring her and caressing her belly as she carries his son. She cradles his face in her hands, kissing his lips in gentle, continuous pecks.
Carter, Christ, the man is soft clay around Catalina. She talks loud enough to drown out the music, and he watches her like she’s the only reason he bothers breathing.
They have the kind of love people write songs about. The kind I stopped allowing myself to believe in.
I force a smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes, not when I notice the looks sent my way across the bar. Women let their eyes drift over me, but not for long. Some pause a second too long on the jagged lines crawling down the peak of my cheekbone, down my neck, beneath the collar of my shirt. Their gazes harden. Lips curl—a whisper here, a quick nudge to a friend there.
They see me the same way everyone does.
Scarred. Disfigured. Less than.
A freak.
I’ve heard the word hissed before when they thought I couldn’t. I’ve seen how they flinch when the light hits just right, when my face turns, and the skin pulls tight. I’ve felt the recoil when I brushed against someone in a crowded room, and they jerked back in disgust.
It never gets easier.
Pushing away those harmful memories, I move the rag in continuous circles against the wooden counter; the rag squeaks as my hand presses harder than needed. I let it. The sting in my palm is easier to hold than the hollow ache in my chest.
