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"I know," I say quietly, suddenly exhausted. "I know, Mark. But you're doing so much better, aren't you? You seem to be—“
"You want to wipe your hands of us, don't you? Leave me to support Dad on my own? You don't give a shit if we end up on the streets."
"I'm on the streets," I yell back, calm failing me. "Right now. I am on the streets. I have nothing."
"Bullshit. You still have that big cushy job, don't you? That fancy one, working with all those rich motherfuckers?"
I look away, and he chuckles. "Yeah, you still got it. You still got that big paycheck coming in. There ain't no reason you can't send a little my way."
I don't know how he figured out I got a promotion, but he knew almost as soon as I got it. He always seems to know everything about my life before I do. In fact…
"You already knew I got evicted." It's not a question. And as good as he thinks his poker face is, I see it. The guilt. "You did. You knew, and you didn't try to help me."
"You don't need my help, princess. Why don't you ask one of those rich guys you work for? I bet you could get one of them on the hook pretty easy. I mean, as long as you keep your legs open, and your mouth shut...wait. Mouth definitely open. Just don't speak. They'll catch on to how dumb you really are.” ” He laughs again, and my chest aches.
He leans back on the cracked, red, padded seat, face impassive. "You better hope at least one of them likes big girls, or you'll be shit out of luck."
The crack about my weight doesn't bother me. He's been pulling that one out since I was little. I figured out a long time ago that most women don’t look like the magazines, and that’s okay. But his implication that I should let someone use me just to give him what he wants makes me so angry. I don't think I've ever been this angry, and it feels...freeing.
"I'm done.” The words come out strong and clear. Maybe stronger than I’ve ever been. I’ve never spoken to him like this. Never.
He quirks his brow, the faintest hint of interest on his face. "What now?"
"I'm done. I've paid and paid for over a decade. I'm done. I have absolutely nothing left to give you."
It happens so fast I don't have time to protect myself. He grabs the cup of coffee, pulls back, and throws it straight at me, hitting me on the right cheek. The shock of pain makes my ears ring. The hot coffee stings my skin. It trickles down my throat into the neck of my sweater.
A roar pierces through the ringing in my ears. It's followed by a blur as Mark is yanked out of the booth and thrown — thrown — across the room. His attacker turns, pinning me with a shattered look.
I’d know that tall strong body, and that thick head of hair anywhere. All the air is sucked out of my body.
"Jonas."
6
JONAS
Is she ever going to get off the bus? I've been following it for hours. I could have asked one of my brothers to meet it at a stop, but the routine, following it from stop to stop, has given me a chance to calm down. Janey's on the bus. She's safe. The urgency in my gut has decreased for the moment. There's still too much I don't know, like why she's on the bus in the middle of the night and not safe in her bed behind a locked door.
When she finally gets off, I almost miss it. I'm a couple of blocks back, but I spot her quickly, sticking out in the dark night, in her thick cream sweater, clutching her purse to her chest, she doesn't belong here.
And now that she's off, I wish she wasn't. She's cold, and I don't want her getting off here, in this neighborhood. It's not safe, despite some efforts at gentrification. I should know. We spent a little time here when we were younger. I remember doing a lot of running. I'm still not sure who from or who after. When my brother said run, I took off and didn't stop until my legs gave out or one of them grabbed me.
Janey heads away from me and right into a diner. I pull up to the curb one building over. From here, I can see her disappear into the bathroom, then return and settle into a booth. An older waitress comes by, then comes back with a coffee.
Janey and the waitress look tired. I would give anything to wipe that look off her face. To tuck her into a warm bed and watch the tension in her face ease. That tension isn't new. It took me a little while to understand what it was, but now, there's no mistaking it.
I take a few minutes to take some deep breaths, letting the repetition clear my mind. Janey's resting in the booth, her head leaning on the wall. I can't screw this up. It's obvious she doesn't have anywhere to go, and I'm not leaving here tonight without her. But I can't make another mistake with her. I am going to be calm. I'll be cool. I'll be her friend for a little while.
At least until I can convince her to let me be her husband.
Opening the door, I give myself a second to stretch out the kinks. Tension-filled hours of driving have left me stiff. Then I lean back in and grab Janey's coat, and slam the door. I only get one foot on the curb when I freeze.
She's not alone anymore.
There's a man sitting across from her. He's dressed in a battered leather jacket, has shaggy dark brown hair, and a dark beard. His eyes are mean. I'm sure there's a more specific word for that facial expression, but I learned early on just to pay attention to people's eyes. They always told me if I was safe or not. Right now, my gut is saying not, but while there's tension in Janey's body, she doesn't seem to be afraid. She actually seems to know him. I give myself a second to recalibrate.
Do I go in now? Do I wait until he leaves?
