TWENTY ONE
THE CITY LIGHTS blur into streaks of color as I speed away from James’s office.My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache.A loud sob escapes from the depths of me, quickly followed by another.
How could I have been so blind?
So stupid?
“Amy Beckett, you’re everything I’ve been looking for in a wife.Marry me, and I’ll give you the world.”
The memory, sickeningly sweet, pierces my despair.I remember that night.It was something out of a fairytale.
A thick layer of rose petals covered every inch of the floor.Countless candles flickered, their light reflecting off hundreds of red roses.And there he was, my James, kneeling before a matching lush arch, the words ‘Will You Marry Me?’lit up behind him.In that moment, my heart overflowed with a love I thought would last forever.
“Yes, a thousand times yes!”
The agonizing lie of that night versus the brutal truth of tonight is a vicious blow.I feel exposed, like a live wire buzzing with a dangerous current of fury.
James’s smug face flashes in my mind.My stomach clenches with renewed anger, intense enough to momentarily eclipses the heartache.
Hysterical, he’d called me.
Looking for drama.
My jaw tightens, my foot pressing down harder on the accelerator.The car lurches forward, tires screeching against the pavement.Streetlights flash past, their glare blinding me.My hands turn the wheel without conscious thought, taking a sharp left onto a quieter, tree-lined street that feels dimly familiar.
Then I see it.
Halfway down the block, the dark slope of the roofline, the single soft light near the front door.Drawn by an instinct I don’t understand, I wrench the wheel, pulling haphazardly into the driveway.The tires bump against the curb.The engine sputters and dies as I slam the gearshift into park.
The sudden silence amplifies the frantic drumbeat of my heart.
My chest heaving, I stumble out of the car, drawn to the front door.
I jab the doorbell repeatedly, fingers trembling.
Propping my hand up for support, I lean heavily against the stone wall.Each breath is labor.It feels like I’ve run a marathon, and every part of me, body and soul, is screaming.
The door opens.Matthew’s panicked voice cuts through the stillness.“Amy?!What’s wrong?”
He’s in a thin black tank top and matching sweatpants, his own breathing heavy.One hand is still gloved, the other holds the second glove against his chest.
“Yes!Just what I need,” I whisper in relief as I step past him into the house.
I kick off my ankle boots and grab the boxing glove from his chest, taking his other hand to undo the Velcro.
“Have you been crying?”His question, heavy with worry, brings fresh tears to my eyes.I take a deep breath, willing them not to spill.
My fingers brush his.The muscles in his arms flex, a vein pulsing in his temple.He stands there frowning, searching my face, letting me strip the glove from his hand.
“Amy…?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I turn and descend the stairs to his basement.
Matthew follows, his footfalls silent behind me.He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he watches me struggle with the boxing gloves.His eyes hold a wary tension.
Gloves on at last, I move up to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling.I throw my first punch.My arm trembles with the effort, the impact jarring my tired shoulders.
I take a step back.
