Page 45 of No Good Fight

“I missed that.” He glances at my drink, then signals to the server before I can speak. “She’ll have another blackberry ginger beer. Extra lime.”

The booth tilts.

It doesn’t actually. I know that. The sticky tabletop stays flat beneath my palms. The TV keeps playing basketball. The bartender laughs at something near the taps.

But my body isn’t in Lucy’s anymore.

My body is in every room where Preston knew things he shouldn’t know because he was stalking me even though we were in a relationship and he didn’t respect or acknowledge any type of boundary.

He knew my schedule before and better than I ever did.

My passwords, which I swear to god I changed at least three times but they were always changed back.

The friend I met for coffee once when he was supposed to be at work and I thought maybe she could give me advice.

Even the shirt I wore because he said it made me look cheap, and I wore it anyway because I was still stupid enough to think defiance and freedom were the same thing.

The server nods and walks away, completely unaware that she has just accepted a drink order from the human equivalent of black mold in a handsome coat and overpriced cologne.

“I don’t want that,” I say. “I don’t want anything that has to do with you.”

Preston leans back with a small, wounded laugh. “Still stubborn.”

“I’m leaving.”

His gaze moves to my laptop. “In the middle of work? That doesn’t sound like you. You always were so dedicated when you weren’t being difficult.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the table. “Leave.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“No.”

He sighs, and the sound scrapes down my spine. “You used to be kinder than this.”

There it is.

The first hook that he’s trying to drive into my soul.

A memory pressed into the shape of guilt.

I push my laptop closed slowly, because fast movements feel like danger even in public. “I used to be a lot of things until you destroyed me.”

“You were happy.”

I laugh once before I can stop myself. It comes out sharp enough that a woman at the next table glances over. Good. Look. Please look. Please see me.

Preston’s eyes flick toward her and back to me. The smile stays, but his jaw shifts.

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

My skin goes cold.

Not because I believe him.

Because I do, and I know what he thinks he can do to me.

Making a scene was never safe, and there was never a real gauge on what making a scene actually looked like. Anything that he didn’t like, essentially. Crying was disrespectful because it meant that I wasn’t taking his feelings about whatever was happening into consideration. Asking for space meant I was hiding something. Every normal human reaction turned into proof that I deserved whatever came next. And what came next was always violent and humiliating.