Amelia
I push the chicken cacciatore around my plate, watching the sauce smear in lazy circles against the white ceramic. The aroma of Maddox's homemade dish, usually one of my favorites, turns my stomach tonight. Each breath I take feels shallow, the world around me slightly muted.
My phone sits face-down on the table next to my plate, exactly where I dropped it when I walked through the door twenty minutes ago. I haven't touched it since. I can't. Just thinking about the screen lighting up again makes my hands tremble.
Today was supposed to be good. Todaywasgood, until it wasn't.
I spent the morning at the elementary school, running after a classroom full of energetic three to six-year-olds during recess. Their laughter had filled the playground, and for a few hours, I'd felt almost normal. Almost like the Amelia I used to be, before everything fell apart.
Little Maya had shown me her drawing of a butterfly, all purple and pink with glitter glue still wet and sticky. Thomas had held my hand during reading time and Shana had given me the biggest hug when I helped her sound out a difficult word.
The afternoon had been even better. The small preschool next door needed help with their three-year-olds, and I'd volunteered without hesitation. Those tiny humans with their chubby cheeks and gap-toothed smiles had made my heart feel lighter than it had in months. We finger-painted and read stories and sang songs about the alphabet. One little girl had fallen asleep in my lap during nap time, and I'd felt this overwhelming sense of peace wash over me.
For those precious hours, I'd forgotten to be afraid.
Then I'd left for the day, not even out of the parking lot before my phone had buzzed in my pocket. Just once. A single text message.
I should have known better than to look.
I'm coming to get you, you ungrateful bitch.
Eight words. That's all it took to shatter the fragile sense of safety I'd been building over the past few weeks. Eight words from Vincent, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. The parking lot had spun around me, the ground tilting beneath my feet. I'd gripped the car door handle so hard my knuckles went white, fighting the urge to vomit right there on the asphalt.
The drive to my brother’s house is still a blur. I don't remember most of it. My hands had shaken on the steeringwheel the entire way, my eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds, convinced I'd see Vincent's black truck following me. Every car behind me was a threat. Every turn I made, I prayed he wasn't there.
He found me. Somehow, he found me.
I left everything behind to get away from him. My apartment, my job, most of my belongings—all of it abandoned in the middle of the night three weeks ago when I finally found the courage to run. I'd driven for hours, not stopping until I crossed state lines, my hands cramped from gripping the wheel and my eyes burning from crying. I'd shown up on Dylan's doorstep at two in the morning, shaking and terrified, with nothing but a hastily packed bag and bruises I couldn't quite hide.
And still, Vincent found me.
A tear splashes onto my plate, disappearing into the red sauce. I blink rapidly, trying to stop the rest from falling, but it's useless. Another tear escapes, then another. My vision blurs as my eyes fill, tears streaming down my cheeks. I bite down hard on my lower lip, tasting copper, desperate to keep the sob building in my chest from breaking free.
I can't fall apart. Not here. Not in front of them.
Except I'm already falling apart, and they've definitely noticed.
"Oh honey, what happened?"
Maddox's voice is so gentle it makes my chest ache. I feel his hand on my shoulder, grounding me to the present moment. I can't look at him. If I look at him, if I see the concern I know is written all over his face, I'll completely lose it.
"You've been quiet since you got home," he continues softly, his thumb rubbing small circles against my shoulder blade through my thin cotton shirt. The touch is comforting, familiar.Safe. "Dylan, baby, come here!"
Oh god. I don't want Dylan to see me like this. My big brother has done so much for me already—taken me in without question,given me a place to stay, helped me find a job, and never once made me feel like a burden even though I know I am. He's already lost so much sleep worrying about me.
I hear him pacing at night sometimes, his footsteps padding through the hallway outside my room. I know he checks the locks on all the doors and windows at least twice before bed. I know he's been carrying his phone everywhere, volume turned all the way up, just in case I need him.
I can't ask him for more. I can't keep being this broken, scared thing that needs constant protection.
But I hear his footsteps thundering down the hallway from the bedroom anyway. Within seconds, he's in the kitchen, his presence filling the doorway. I still don't look up. I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, watching another tear drop into the sauce.
"Amelia?"
The concern in his voice cracks something inside me. Dylan rounds the table in three long strides and drops into the chair on my other side. His arm comes around my shoulders immediately, pulling me against his side. He's warm and solid and smells like the cedar soap he's used since we were kids. The familiarity of it makes the sob I've been holding back finally break free.
"Did Vincent text you?"
It's not really a question. Dylan knows. Of course, he knows. He's seen me spiral like this before, two weeks ago when Vincent found my new number, and even before that, when I'd show up at family dinners with hollow eyes and forced smiles. Back before Dylan knew exactly what was happening behind closed doors, but suspected enough to worry.
