Every time a publication mentions her name, she shrinks just a little bit more. And every headline feels like a sniper’s scope. Maybe that’s melodramatic, but my body doesn’t know the difference.
“Who called you? Mum?” Another few hits land on the bag with a thump-thump-thump as my internal war ratchets up to an eleven. Protect Rhiannon versus do my job.
The last time I tried to protect someone, I failed. Maybe that’s why I’m still trying to earn the right to breathe easy.
Thump-thump-thump.
Use her for the story versus keep my promise and abide by the rules.
Thump-thump-thump. With every punch, my brain screams I’m not good enough for this woman and need to leave her be. I’m no better than the other men in her life, and that’s what she needs. Better. More.
“Emma.” He folds his arms. “She couldn’t get hold of you, so she tried me.”
Traitor.
“Don’t give me that look, she’s worried about you. They both are.”
So, he did talk to Mum. He shows no signs of guilt but narrows his eyes like he’s clocked what I’m doing, trying to outrun, or outpunch my thoughts, but at least for now, he’s respecting my boundaries and not pressing me.
“Rob…”
I shake my head. Thump-thump-thump.
He brushes his fingers through his long hair. “Rob…” He tries again.
Sully has been a part of the family since we first met. He followed me home from school, pulled up a chair at the kitchen table, and flashed a toothless grin at Mum. Being who she is, she slapped together another jam sandwich, poured him a glass of orange cordial, and that was that.
He calls her Mum and even sends her gifts for Mother’s Day. Does he have his own mother? Does indeed. But there’s a distance they’ve never been able to close, and my mum has no expectations of him. They’re as close as any mother and son can be, blood related or not.
“As long as they’re dumping on me, they’re leaving someone else alone.” I give the bag another couple of thumps. And another. And another for good measure.
Sully leans against the doorframe of my home gym,crossing his ankles. “Youshould stop dumping on you. They’re dumping on you enough for everyone. And I was trying to say your hand’s wrapped wrong. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
He’s not wrong, about the hand or the news report.
He’s not wrong about the rest, either. I’ve been off for weeks. Headaches, chest tightness, insomnia.
The article was short, scathing, and reading a list of all my shortcomings in black and white wasn’t fun.
Who will protect her from me?
Thump-thump-thump. Sweat runs into my eyes.
Ofcoursethey dragged Rhiannon into the article this time. If they give me a week to regroup after this morning’s article before trashing either of us all over again, I’d be surprised. Ironically, they don’t even need to be out to get me. My brain already does that job perfectly.
Hell, Iamsurprised. I don’t know why they aren’t talking about someone more interesting, someone more high profile. But since word of my relationship with Rhiannon broke—thankfully no one knows that it’s fake—I seem to have a target on my back, and I’m staring down a clock.
Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
The hand counting down to submission day ticks loudly inside my mind, and I haven’t even made the decision to write about her. I haven’t slept for days.
When I do, I dream about sand and static. I wake up gasping, heart going like a drum, half expecting to find a gun instead of my phone. Then I see Rhiannon’s messages—breathe, you eejit—and remember I’m not there anymore.
Anger fizzling under my skin has me punching the crap out of the bag every morning, and still, I can’t shake this feeling of being caged.
I can’t say I don’t have a choice; we always have a choice, even if we don’t like our options. But having to put pen topaper about Rhiannon is harder than I thought I’d find it. And not just because of our agreement that I wouldn’t use our relationship to further my career.
Sully pushes away from the doorframe and walks behind me. After a moment and some shuffling, he reappears, boxing gloves in hand. “Want to hit someone who can hit you back?”
