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“No. You can’t leave.” He tries to be forceful but it comes across more sulky now.
“You’re hurtin’ me, Will. Let go of my arm.”
My words seem to have the opposite effect as his hold tightens and he tugs me in closer. His voice is a dark whisper as he says, “Youcan’tleave. I won’t allow it, Van.”
Most people would be frightened of someone who’s nearly twice their size in weight and nearly a foot taller, but many years ago, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t ever be afraid of anything.
At this point, I just want to get out of here and find somewhere to stay because it’s getting late. I’m tired. From the traveling and having this one-sided conversation.
Yanking my arm and putting my weight onto my heels does nothing to loosen his grip on me, but it does allow me to put a small amount of space between us. He’s definitely going to leave a bruise. It’s the one thing I dislike most about my fair skin; how easily it is to bruise. When he tries to pull me into him again, I know there’s nothing else to do.
The way I see it, I have two choices.
Fight, or let him do whatever his drug-fueled desperation thinks is a good idea to keep me here. There’s no way I’m going to let him hurt me more than he currently is. Pulling my free arm back, I swing forward and connect my fist with the left side of his face.
I never back down from a fight.
Will steps back, shock written all over his face.
“You hit me,” he whines, his palm splayed out on his cheek. The spot I hit burns a bright red on his pale face. It might not have been my best, but he will have a nice bruise later and it had the desired effect.
“You were hurtin’ me. What did you expect? I’m leavin’ now, and I suggest you don’t try to stop me again.” Just to be on the safe side, I pull my phone out of my pocket, ready to dial 911, should he try anything funny.
Turning on my heel, snatching up my keys before I march out of the door, tugging my suitcase behind me. I’m grateful that he’s at least not following me now.
I pick a direction and start walking. The city is still warm into the evening this time of year, so I don’t mind walking for a while even with my aching feet. The adrenaline coursing through my veins takes some of the edge off the pain anyway. It’ll at least help me calm down and figure out where I’m going tonight because the sun will start setting soon. I’d rather not be hauling a suitcase around the city too late.
As I walk, I try to come up with a plan, my mind running through everyone I know that lives in the city. My best friend, Cecila, who I’ve known my whole life, moved to Minnesota for work last month, so she’s off the table. Sasha lives in a studio apartment and with her getting up every day at 4am to open her bakery, staying with her is also out of the question.
How have I lived in New York for as long as I have, and only managed to make acquaintances?Nobody else in my contacts is someone I could call and ask to sleep on their couch. They probably wouldn’t even answer the phone.
When I get two blocks away, I’ve got a plan.Call Jack, and beg to stay at his place until I can figure out how to get the rest of my stuff back.I’m not even sure what’s in this suitcase. Turning to open my duffel and grab a sweater to throw on later, I come up short.
Oh, crickets.
How could I be so silly?
A picture of the bags I dumped by the front door at Will’s populates in my head, taunting me. The ones with my make up, straighteners and the majority of my personal and very necessary belongings. That’s going to be another expense to cover; replacing everything that was in them.
Maybe I can get them when he’s had a chance to calm down.
There’s nothing I can do about it and I’m certainly not going back there now. I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, and move over to a quieter part of the sidewalk. Not that anywhere in New York is quiet.
A sense of ease washes over me as I dial Jack’s number. My brows tug together when an international dial tone rings in my ear. I don’t remember him telling me he’s going away. It hasn’t been that long since we last went for lunch. Has it? It feels like an eternity before the call connects.
“Sav? What’s wrong?” Worry only an older brother could feel laces his voice, mixed with a sleepiness, that tells me I’ve woken him.
“Where are you?” I ask, ignoring his question.
Jack pauses for a moment and when he speaks, he doesn’t bother to hide the hesitation in his voice. “I’m in England, Sav. I moved here.”
“What? Why? When did you leave New York?”
I try to do the math for when I last spoke to Jack. It’s been a while, but surely he would have told me he was moving out of the country? That isn’t just something you do on a whim. I’m lost in my racing thoughts when Jack’s voice pulls me back into the moment.
Resignation coats his words as he says, “A few months ago. I needed to get away and I thought I’d oversee the new project. I did tell you this, Sav.”
I’m such a bad sister. How could I forget that my brother told me he was leaving the country. Distractedly, I ask, “When are you coming back?”
