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CASSIDY
“Just keep moving,” I murmured to myself, urgently stacking my folded clothes into the purple duffle bag on the worn carpet beside me. “Don’t think. Just keep moving.”
If I stopped to think about it, the fear would catch up. It would grab me by the throat, pin me down, and play on repeat all those awful memories of the past two years. Over and over until I was too fucking scared to do anything but crawl into a corner and cry.
As it was, it had already begun to hammer away at my resolve, my hands visibly shaking with each movement and a deep ache beginning to build in my stomach as though someone had a hold of my insides.
Twisting them, squeezing them.
I gagged for a second, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.
I had to fight through it, even though each breath was nauseating.
I had no choice.
I couldn’t stop now.
Time was ticking.
If Brian walked in right now and caught me trying to leave, there was no doubt in my mind the consequences would be painful—and possibly deadly.
Though not a soul would believe me.
And I couldn’t blame them.
Two years ago, I wouldn’t have believed me either. Meeting Brian felt like a dream come true. He was charming, athletic, intelligent, and the perfect dimples he had in each cheek were the kind that made a girl’s stomach go all swirly when he caught your eye across the room.
His hands were just a little rough from working in the mechanic garage he and his brother, Emmett, owned together, which I thought told me he was a man who didn’t shy away from hard work. But what I should’ve really seen was a bastard who liked to use his fists.
With a momentary glance over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom, the muddy rainbow of fading yellow and brown shades peeking out through the space between my sweatpants and my shirt. The spread of colored patterns reminded me of watercolor splashed across my abdomen, the same designs decorating my arms and thighs—the reason why people often looked at me horrified when I walked around in jeans and sweatshirts in the middle of summer.
Because we’d had a fight.
Actually, not even a fight.
Just because he got angry.
“Just keep moving,” I repeated through tears that dripped down my cheeks, forcing myself to continue to place one item after another inside the bag until it was full. My whole life was in one bag. Two years of our relationship, and that was all I had to show.
A handful of shirts and pants.
Underwear.
Then the couple of pairs of shoes I owned.
The approved pairs.
Jesus Christ.
Pausing for a second, I twisted the final pair of socks in my hands and sucked in a deep breath, filling my lungs and holding it there as I fought to keep my heart from changing into the next gear. That’s where it would beat faster, pushing more and more adrenaline through my veins, making it harder for me to not panic and abandon the plan.
A plan I’d been working on for more than a month.
I’d prepared for this.
For weeks I’d practiced, planned, and saved. I timed how long it took me to pack, how far it was to the bus stop, and which roads to take that he’d never drive just in case, for some reason, he came home. I double and triple-checked the time the bus came so I was there exactly as it arrived and wasn’t waiting around out in the open.
Lastly, I made sure I had a place to go that was far enough away, where I couldn’t be easily found.
