At the corner, he stops. “You still ashamed of what happened with her?”
“With Felicity?” I ask.
He nods.
“Every day.” I run a hand through my hair. “I wanted to feel something.Anything. I hate myself for it.”
He squeezes my hand. “Now you need to stop beatin’ yourself up. You made a mistake. Own it, learn, move forward.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not, trust me. I do think it’s worth trying.”
I look at him then, really look, and realize how much I need him. His steadiness. His quiet faith in me when I’ve got none left for myself.
He steps closer. “We’ll figure it out, yeah?”
“Yeah.” My voice is rough. “We will.”
We stand there for a long moment, the city lights glinting off puddles, his breath mingling with mine. Then he leans in and kisses me, tasting of mango and promise.
When we finally pull apart, I whisper against his lips, “You’re gonna ruin me.”
He smiles, forehead resting against mine. “Maybe. But I’ll make it worth your while.”
For the first time in weeks, the noise in my head quiets.
Whatever comes next. Tour, chaos, heartbreak, I know tonight will stay with me.
The moment when I believe something will last forever.
Even if it won’t.
fourteen
Avonna
One Month Later
I’mnotsupposedtobe here.
This thought follows me everywhere. All the time. Every minute.
Clings like the grease film on my diner apron. Lingers like the Lysol stench in the communal shower. It’s embedded in my bones when I scour mildew from strangers’ baseboards on a cleaning job. The air in my lungs when I call three hundred numbers a night to sell some insurance policy I’ll never use.
Life on the outside is more grueling than I ever imagined.
I wasn’t raised for this. I was meant to be someone’s wife. A vessel to bear children. A helper. A silent shadow behind a hallowed man.
Instead, I’m in Tacoma with no car, no family, no future. A pay-as-you-go cell phone I don’t know how to use properly, three jobs, and a body I don’t recognize as mine.
I’m not sure how to crawl out of this hole.
It’s difficult to break ingrained patterns. I still fold my clothes like they’ll be inspected. I pray without thinking. Out loud, sometimes. Quiet little words under my breath when the anxiety turns to static. People around me look at me like I’m a ghost.
Maybe I am.
The house I live in is probably not even legal. Me and eleven other women. Six rooms. Bunk beds with scratchy sheets and sparse furnishings. The bathroom doors don’t lock right.
