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“Give it back—” I jump off the counter and immediately squeak in pain.
He curses again, scoops me back onto the counter, lifting my foot, peering at the bottom of my cheap sneaker. “Jesus,” he mutters, plucking a tack out from the sole and dropping it into the bowl.
I loved these pushpins when I picked them out a couple of months back. They have cute sparkly butterflies topping the short silver tacks, and I used them on my bulletin board we had in our kitchen, used them to display the bright, happy moments I thought would fill my future.
Memories that are tarnished now.
Because of Ashley and George.
I loved them—the tacksandtwo of the most important people in my life—before today.
I hate them now—the tacks,notthe people, though I want to—and not because they were poking at the bottoms of my feet, pricking into the skin of my hands, jabbing at me through my jeans, not because they hurt me.
I’m used to pain.
But I can’t stand to stare at that glittering beauty and know it’s all bullshit.
“Stay,” Lake repeats, pressing on the tops of my shoulder, dropping the unfolded picture into my lap before retracing his steps out to the garage.
I stay—better than Steve ever has.
Because when Lake walks away, he’s left the photograph on the counter and our faces are looking up at me—Ashley’s, George’s, my own—smiling like the future is limitless. And back then, it had been.
Now it’s…
Different.
Painful.
Not what I want.
But what I have to accept anyway.
There’s noise in the hall, and I look up, see Lake coming in with my bags over his shoulders, including my old duffle whose zipper had busted. It’s open, and I can see from my spot on the counter that it’s been filled back up, Lake having seen God knew what while shoving my shit back inside.
My nape prickles with embarrassment.
And shame.
But I shove it down, lean forward and search for any sparkling butterflies with sharp points ready to jab me.
When I see the floor is clear, I hop down, ignoring the sparks in Lake’s eyes as I move toward him, clutching the photo in my hand. I open my mouth, intending to thank him—something I should have done a while ago, if I’m being honest, but just then, Steve runs down the hall, moving toward me with his adorable little smooshed-in face.
I scoop him up, clutch him close. “Lake—”
He sidesteps me, sets my stuff on the counter, turns back to face me.
I open my mouth again.
“I’ve got shit to do.” An abrupt announcement as he turns away and disappears down the hall, the bedroom door shutting with a decisiveclick.
Leaving me alone.
With a painful, gaping wound in my chest.
Steve licks my chin.
“Right,” I whisper, hugging him close and heading for my things. “Not alone. It’s you and me, bud.”
