Page 1 of Peaches & Pistols

1

“Everly, baby. I need you to stay right by mama, okay?”

Carter just left for work and the first check-in phone call usually comes about thirty-six minutes from now. I have a half-hour to pack as much of me and my daughter’s life as I can carry in our backpacks, walk to the bus stop, praying the A-line’s running on schedule.

“Can I have a chewy bar?” my sweet six-year-old asks, as she follows me around the house, unaware of how I’m about to turn her life on its head.

“Mama will get you one here in a minute, baby.” Agreeable as always, Everly’s content to wait and lets me tear around the house like a madwoman.

Everly first. Where’s her backpack? Coat closet! I hung it up after our park outing yesterday so Carter wouldn’t yell at her because of the clutter.

Her stuffy is non-negotiable, small blanket, her ninja books. Shoot, her backpack’s nearly full. If I remove her blanket and put it in my backpack, I can fit a few outfits for her. Do I need her winter coat? It’s August, but I don’t know where we’ll end up, or if I’ll be able to afford to buy her one. No, there’s just not enough space.

“Everly, where's your hairbrush?”

“In the braid box.”

Braid box, under her sink. I can’t take the whole box, but if I wrap some hair ties around the handle of her brush, and the leave-in spray, it should get us by. That mop of hair will get out of control in a heartbeat. Baby wipes, perfect! I can use those for everything. Oh, her toothbrush! She won’t use my toothpaste, so I need to take hers.

“What’re you doin’ Mama?”

“We’re going on an adventure today.” I check the clock—shit. I’m not going to have enough time.

“Baby, do mama a favor and go to the pantry and get your lunchbox and fill it with as many snacks as you can, okay? And grab your water bottle for me?”

“Can I get my chewy bar?”

“Yes, of course,” I say too quickly.

She looks at me with that tiny furrow in her brow that tells me she’s wary, breaking my heart, but goes anyway.

I zip her preschool-sized backpack and sling it over my shoulder. At least she has her things. I race to my room on featherlight feet, accustomed to moving through the house without drawing Carter’s attention.

Slipping on my stocking feet on the cold bathroom tile, I catch my hip on the vanity corner. For Pete’s sake. Why’d I have to bump into that bruise? Examining my hip, the pain from my bump is nothing compared to the bone-deep ache left from Carter’s boot.

The wood of the towel closet door bows against the hinges as I rip it open. It rebounds and catches me on the cheekbone.

“Shit!” My hand flies up to protect my face. What’s another bruise to add to my gallery?

I sweep the contents off the top two shelves onto the floor. Anxiety claws up my throat at the consequence there’ll be for the mess.

Except we won’t be here.

The emergency bag I stashed is intact. Carter would never bother to open this closet, let alone grab his own towel or know anything was hidden here. That fact doesn’t stop me from unzipping it and pinching the stack of bills hidden inside. The vice grip around my throat loosens knowing the money is untouched.

My stomach twists that our documents aren’t in here. When I went to steal them from the home office, they weren’t in the filing cabinet where they were supposed to be. My cheek was raw for a day after I asked him where Everly’s birth certificate was, claiming I needed it for school registration. I was informed that all our important documents, everything I’d need to run away, was locked in the safe which I “had no business accessing.”

“I packed my lunchbox!” Everly bops into the bathroom, her hair’s already a bird’s nest from rooting around in the pantry.

“I picked my purple water bottle ‘cause it matches your purple water bottle.” Her tiny hands are holding both hers and mine, and from the way she wobbles, she filled them.

Her gesture pinches behind my sternum, but I don’t have time to get emotional. I grab my empty backpack from the other empty bathroom shelf, rolled as small as it could be. All that hides inside is a first aid kit, including concealer for the…darker areas on my face.

Bathroom…think, Mia. Toothbrush, I can share Everly’s toothpaste and hair supplies. Deodorant. What else?

I scramble to the walk-in closet and ask Everly to check the digital clock. “Seven-one-eight.” Shit. I have less than ten minutes. I stuff underwear, socks, and whatever clothes are nearest into my backpack.

A pair of leggings snags on the prongs of my wedding ring. The metal burns like molten lava against my finger. I wrench it off and drop it where I stand. I never want to see or feel that shackle again.