I climbed out of that bathroom window because staying with him meant gambling with my life and my daughter’s. Any sane person would say I made the only possible choice.
So why does it feel like I’ve ripped something out of my own chest?
Lily is half-asleep against me, her small hand fisted in my dress. I stroke her hair, my throat burning. She deserves boring problems. Lost shoes and late homework and stupid playground politics. Not…this. Not air thick with gunpowder and shattered glass. Not a man who can say “I’ve killed people” without flinching.
I close my eyes and see him anyway.
The way he threw himself over us in the car. The way his hands shook for half a second after, even though he tried to hide it. The way he held Lily this morning, clumsy and careful, slicing pancakes into perfect tiny pieces.
The way he looked at me in that diner like I was the only solid thing in the room.
I hate that part.
I hate that beneath all the fear and anger and self-preservation, there’s this aching, stupid, inconvenient pull toward him. A part of me that remembers his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the way my body lit up when he touched me. A part of me that felt safer with him in that car, in the line of fire, than I did the year before I met him.
What does that say about me?
The bus rattles over a pothole. Lily whimpers in her sleep and I hold her tighter.
“You did the right thing,” I whisper, but I’m not sure if I’m talking to her or to myself.
I picture his face when he realizes I’m gone. The open window. The empty bathroom. Part of me hopes he’s furious, offended, insulted that I could slip away. Another part of me knows he’ll be scared. Really, truly scared.
That thought makes me feel sick and warm at the same time.
I shake my head, angry at myself. Wanting someone doesn’t make them safe. Loving someone doesn’t make them good. He told me who he is. He didn’t lie. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him just because his hands felt right on my body and his voice sounded like a promise I’ve secretly wanted for years.
The bus announces the next stop in a flat, mechanical voice. Brooklyn is close enough now that the streets look familiar, even if this neighborhood doesn’t. My phone buzzes—a text from Maya:10 mins. Stay put.
Okay. Good. A plan. A small one, but it’s something.
I press my cheek to the top of Lily’s head and breathe her in. She smells like sweat and fries and the floral shampoo from my shower in Boston. She’s real. Solid. Here.
He’s…somewhere else.
I did the right thing. I know I did.
So why does my chest feel like I left half of myself back in that diner, sitting in a booth with a man I have no business wanting and a sticker on his sleeve like he belonged at our table?
The bus wheezes to a stop with a long, tired sigh. My phone buzzes again.
I’m here. Silver Honda. Outside the station exit, Maya’s text reads.
My stomach gives a nervous twist.
“Come on, baby,” I murmur to Lily, shifting her on my hip as we shuffle down the aisle. The driver barely glances at us when we step off.
Outside, the air smells like exhaust and fried food. People move fast, heads down, each wrapped up in their own mess. For a second, I feel completely unmoored.
“Bella!”
I look up.
Maya is sprinting toward us from a badly parked silver Honda that’s seen better years, her braids flying behind her, tote bagbanging against her thigh. She looks exactly like herself and not at all prepared for the version of me she’s about to get.
I don’t realize how close to crying I am until she reaches me. She doesn’t hesitate—she just throws her arms around both of us, squeezing hard enough that Lily gives a muffled squawk between us.
“Oh my god,” Maya breathes into my shoulder. “What the hell, B? You scared the life out of me.”
