"Gemma." His voice dropped to that register I used to find soothing, back before I understood what it meant. "I love you. Everything I've done has been for your own good. You know that. You're just confused right now. Stressed. Let me help you."
"You can't help me." I took a step toward the door. "You're the thing I need help getting away from."
What happened next happened fast. His hand on my arm. The wall against my back. His breath hot on my face as he told me all the things he would do if I tried to leave, all the ways hewould find me, all the people he would tell about the things I'd let him do to me in the bedroom.
"Who's going to want you after me?" he whispered. "Who's going to look at you and see anything but a desperate little slut who begged for everything she got?"
I left the next morning while he was at work. Took the car, drove to the storage unit, loaded everything that mattered, and pointed myself toward the only place I could think of.
Home. Cole. Safety.
Three days in Anchor Bay, and I'm still not sure I made it.
The memory releases me, and I'm back in Cole's spare bedroom, staring at the ceiling fan and trying to remember how to breathe.
My parents died three years ago. I wasn't there. Craig convinced me we couldn't afford the time off, that Cole would understand, that funerals were morbid anyway. I let myself believe him. That's the thing I can't forgive—not Craig's manipulation, but my own willingness to be manipulated. Cole buried our parents alone, and I didn't even fight to be there.
My phone lights up on the nightstand. I don't have to look to know who it is.
Craig has called fourteen times since I arrived. Left voicemails that started apologetic and have devolved into something else entirely. I listened to the first few before I learned better. His voice in my ear, even through a speaker, made me feel like he was in the room.
The last message I forced myself to hear was two days ago. His tone had gone flat and strange, all the charm stripped away.
"You think you can just disappear? You think I won't find you? We're not done, Gemma. We're not done until I say we're done."
I deleted it. I blocked the last number he used. Changed my voicemail to a generic automated message.
It doesn't matter. He'll find another way to reach me. He always does.
The sky outside the window shifts from black to gray to pale pink, and I give up on sleep entirely. My body aches with exhaustion, but lying still feels too much like waiting. I need to move. Need to do something with my hands besides twist them in the sheets.
I shower, dress in clothes that hang too loose, and make my way downstairs to find my brother already in the kitchen.
Cole stands at the stove with a spatula in one hand, scrambling eggs with the focused attention of someone who learned to cook out of necessity. He's wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, and his hair is still damp from his shower. When he hears me on the stairs, he looks up with a smile that doesn't quite hide what's underneath.
"Morning." He gestures toward the coffee maker. "Fresh pot."
"Thanks." I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter, wrapping my hands around the mug. "You don't have to keep feeding me, you know."
"I like cooking." He slides eggs onto a plate and adds toast and bacon. "And you need to eat more. Don't argue with me about it."
There's an edge to his voice. Not anger. Fear wearing a mask of frustration. I've heard that tone before, in the voices of people who love someone they can't fix.
"Cole." I set down my coffee. "I'm okay."
"No, you're not." He puts the plate in front of me with more force than necessary. "You haven't been okay since you walked into the Ironside three days ago. You barely eat. You don't sleep. You won't tell me what happened." He stops, takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice is gentler. "I'm not trying topush. I just need you to know that I'm here. Whatever it is, whatever he did, I'm here."
The eggs are scrambled perfectly. Golden, fluffy, seasoned with something that smells like herbs. I pick up my fork and take a bite because it's easier than answering.
"The marriage ended badly," I say after a long moment. "That's all. It ended badly, and I needed to get away, and you're my brother. Where else was I going to go?"
"Gemma." Cole sits down across from me, his own breakfast forgotten. "I saw your face when I hugged you. I felt you flinch. That's not a bad marriage. That's something else."
The eggs turn to chalk in my mouth. I force myself to swallow.
"I'm not ready to talk about this." The words come out smaller than I want them to. "Please. Not yet."
He wants to push. I can see it in every line of his body, the same stubborn set to his jaw that our father used to have. But he nods, letting it go. For now.
