Chapter 5
?
— Indira —
Iwoke up reaching for him.
My hand slid across cold sheets, finding nothing but empty space, and for one disoriented moment I didn’t know where I was. Then the beige walls came into focus, the unfamiliar ceiling, the industrial carpet—and it all came flooding back.
The extended-stay hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee wasn’t much to look at—beige walls, industrial carpet, and a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the nineties. But it had strong WiFi, weekly rates I could afford, and most importantly, it was over two thousand miles away from Millfield, Oregon—and Dutch.
The room smelled like industrial disinfectant and stale air freshener—nothing like Dutch’s house, which always carried hints of leather and motor oil and, underneath it all, him. I’d hated that smell at first. Now the clinical sterility of this place made me feel untethered, like I could float away and no one would notice.
I’d been here for a week now, living out of the two suitcases and handful of boxes I’d managed to pack in my panicked escape. Everything else—my furniture, my books, most of my clothes—was still sitting in my apartment like a museum of my old life.
I had another three weeks left on my lease, so there was no rush to deal with it all. I could donate most of it to charity, or maybe hire movers to pack everything up and ship it here. What I couldn’t do was face going back to Millfield myself.
The humiliation was still too fresh. Everyone at that clubhouse had known what Dutch was doing. His brothers, the club girls, probably half the town. They’d all watched me play the devoted girlfriend while laughing behind my back about how naive I was. I’d thought some of those men were my friends—Holden with his quiet kindness, Glitch who’d helped me set up my laptop, even Handful who always made me laugh with his ridiculous stories. The first time I’d met Handful, he’d tried his usual routine—the “accidental” brush against my chest as he reached past me for a beer. Dutch had grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the bar hard enough to crack the wood. “She’s mine,” he’d growled. “Touch her again and I’ll break every fucking finger.” Handful had kept his hands to himself after that, and I’d felt protected. Cherished, even. Dutch had drawn a line around me that no one was allowed to cross. Too bad that line only applied to other men touching me—apparently it didn’t extend to him touching other women.
But clearly none of them had seen anything wrong with Dutch’s behavior. Or maybe they’d just decided it wasn’t their business to tell the stupid civilian that her boyfriend was a cheating bastard.
Either way, I wasn’t ready to face any of them again.
I forced myself out of bed and went through the motions of a normal morning—shower, coffee from the stale pod machine in the kitchenette, getting dressed in clothes that still smelled faintly of the lavender detergent I’d always used back home. The mundane routine felt almost therapeutic, like proof that I could still function without him.
My laptop sat open on the small table by the window, showing the Willowbrook General campaign I was supposed to be reviewing. The small-town hospital had hired us to help them attract specialists to their rural Oregon location—two and a half hours from the nearest city, half an hour from Millfield. They wanted messaging that made them seem cutting-edge and metropolitan, but the reality was they were a community hospital serving farmers. The disconnect between what they wanted to project and what they actually were was a classic branding problem, and normally I’d find the challenge engaging.
Working remotely had been easier to arrange than I’d expected. A quick call to my boss about a “family emergency” and suddenly I was cleared to work from anywhere with an internet connection for as long as I needed.
If only all of life’s problems were that simple to solve.
I spent the morning working through the campaign materials, making notes about positioning strategies and target demographics. For a few hours, I actually lost myself in the work—the familiar comfort of problem-solving, of having clear questions with concrete answers. It felt good to focus on something I could actually control.
By early afternoon, I’d made real progress. I had a draft positioning statement, three potential tagline options, and the framework for a digital marketing strategy that might actually work. It wasn’t brilliant, but it was solid. Professional. The kind of work that reminded me I was good at my job, even if I’d been terrible at choosing men.
That’s when my phone buzzed against the table with a notification I’d been dreading all week. The patient portal app, showing new test results available.
I’d gone to an urgent care clinic in Knoxville immediately, sitting in that sterile waiting room filled with people nursing colds and sprained ankles while I filled out forms asking aboutmy sexual history. The nurse had been kind but professional when I’d explained why I needed a full STD panel, but I’d still felt like everyone in that place could see my shame written across my forehead.
Stupid woman who trusted the wrong man.
With shaking fingers, I opened the app and scrolled through the results. Negative. Negative. Negative. All clear.
For now, anyway. The nurse had explained that some infections had window periods—I’d need to come back for follow-up testing in a few weeks, and again at three months to be completely certain. Just one more way Dutch’s betrayal would keep violating me, long after I’d left him behind.
I should have felt relieved by the initial results. Instead, I just felt hollow. Because even though my body appeared fine, the violation of trust felt just as damaging. How many times had Dutch come home to me after being with Crystal or god knew who else? How many times had we been intimate when he’d been with someone else that same day?
The thought made my stomach churn all over again.
I closed the app and shoved my phone away, but the damage was done. All the progress I’d made today—the productive work session, the tentative plans for the future—felt fragile now, threatened by the reminder of just how naive I’d been.
I stared at my laptop screen, but the Willowbrook campaign materials blurred together. The positioning statements I’d been so proud of an hour ago now seemed pointless. What did any of it matter when my entire life had been built on a lie?
My phone buzzed again, and my stomach clenched automatically. But it was just a work email, not another call from an unknown Millfield number. I’d blocked Dutch, all his brothers, and the clubhouse landline within hours of leaving. But he’d started using other numbers—probably burner phones or phones belonging to people I didn’t know. I’d learned torecognize the Oregon area code and let those calls go straight to voicemail.
The last voicemail I’d listened to had been enough.
“Indira, this is fucking ridiculous. Whatever point you’re trying to make, you’ve made it. Call me back so we can work this out like adults.”
