The scent hits me first—lemon balm, rosemary, warm linen, and old paper. I inhale it like a memory. The house is unchanged. Records scatter across the floor like old lovers. The same fraying quilt drapes over the couch arm. Even the one-eared, ill-tempered cat acknowledges me with a glance before settling back to sleep. Everything remains the same.
Except for me.
I sink into the armchair like I don’t belong. Like I’ve been molded into something uglier than the girl who used to laugh here. I fold into myself, but the bruises won’t let me hide. They scream louder than I do.
Constance pulls the stool in front of me and lowers herself down, her eyes wide and glassy. She doesn’t speak right away. She just looks—like she’s trying to count every piece of me that’s been broken.
“What’s happened?” she asks at last, her voice softer than I remember. “You look like death warmed up. Has that son of a bitch hurt you?”
I nod.
Her mouth opens slightly, but no words follow.
Adelaide sets her mug on the table and reaches for the incense stick she always lights in moments like this. She sparks it; smoke rises in thin ribbons of lavender and earth—a silent attempt to smooth over what none of us can say.
Constance’s tone sharpens. “That fucking piece of shit!”
I stay silent.
Leaning forward, Constance braces her hands on her knees. “You need to leave him, Summer. Now.”
I nod again—slowly, hesitantly.
“I know.” My own voice startles me—small, splintered, like it belongs to someone else. “But it’s not that simple.”
Adelaide’s answer is a blade. “It is. You pack up and walk away while he’s at work.”
I drop my gaze to my lap, my nails digging crescents into my palms. “And he’ll find me. He’s the sheriff. It’s what he does. He will always find me. And there are worse people than him out there.”
Constance’s expression softens, but her voice trembles between fury and worry. She reaches for my hand, squeezing like she can anchor me back into the room.
“Summer… what’s going on?” Her eyes search mine. “We never understood why you flipped like that. You hated him. We used to hide from him, laugh about him stalking you. Is that what this is? Are you so scared of him that you caved?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s not about fear,” I whisper. The words drag up my throat like glass. “It’s something else….”
The room goes still.
At last, it rips out of me. “I think… ugh—” My voice cracks. “I can’t explain it.”
Silence swells, thick and unbearable.
“I hate him,” I breathe, each word trembling. “But he’s keeping me safe. Safe from men who are much, much worse than him.”
Constance’s face shifts—familiar and alien at the same time—her eyes darting over me like she’s trying to make sense of a puzzle with missing pieces. Adelaide exhales, concern radiating from her breath.
“What men?” she asks.
“I’m not supposed to tell a soul,” I whisper. My head shakes like I can fling the words back into the dark where they belong. “I’m going batshit crazy.”
“Summer,” Adelaide snaps, a little harsher now, but her voice trembles. “This is us. You, me, Connie. We don’t keep secrets. Let us help you. Talk to us.”
“I know,” I murmur, torn between relief and panic. “I know….”
The name crawls up my throat like splinters.
“Jackson Moore.”
Their brows knit in unison. I keep going, the words tumbling out—unstoppable now.
