I can’t go back to that hotel and stare at the walls again. I’m afraid one day I’ll look in the bathroom mirror and see my mum’s face instead of my own.
I glance at the double doors of the studio, but nobody has come for me. Yet.
I speed out of the parking lot as the sun begins to rise.
—
I crouch behind the neighbor’sprivacy hedge, poking my head around the corner, looking up the street. The diamond-shaped leaves tickle my cheek, and the hems of my culottes are wet with morning dew. I parked two blocks away. Now I wait for my fiancé to leave for work, crouched behind a hedge like a madwoman.
The front door opens, and I reel back, breathless. I wait until I hear an engine hum to life, and duck to the ground as his car rollspast. I catch a glimpse of the back of his blond head, and the cuffs of his shirt on the steering wheel. My throat tightens as I scan the back seat of his Land Cruiser. But Jessie isn’t with him. Thank God.
I watch Oliver drive off to work, wondering how the hell it came to this. When his taillights are long gone, I run.
I sprint up the road, my house keys rattling in my pocket. I yank them out as I run up the driveway until I’m panting at the front door. Heart pounding, I shove my key in the lock, darting panicked glances behind me.
But the door doesn’t open. Stunned, I try it again and again, shoving the key in and jiggling it every way, swearing under my breath the whole time.
It won’t open.
I step back as the realization hits.He’s changed the locks.I’ve been gone fortwo days,and he’s already locked me out. I pay rent here—he can’t do that. But that’s how it is with him: crossing lines, while I stand there, pretending they aren’t broken. Was, I tell myself. That’s how it was. Not anymore.
Jessie sticks her golden head through a gap in the blinds. Her eyes light up when she sees me. Her tail flaps back and forth so hard, it rattles the blinds. I crouch down in front of her and press my palms against the window.
“He’s locked me out,” I tell her breathlessly. “Thebastardhas locked me out.”
Her tail falters, caught mid-wag, as if the hope in her heart just shattered. I jump up and wrench the door handle again; when it doesn’t budge, I slam my shoulder against it.
Jessie whines again, softer this time.Don’t leave me here with him.
It’s like I’m seeing my nine-year-old self in her eyes.Mum, don’t leave Heath and me with Dad.
—
Quickly, I scramble over theside fence, landing hard on the cobbled white stones of our tiny back garden. I dart around the side of the house until I come to the sliding glass door that leads to ourdining room. We always leave it open for Jessie while we’re out, so she can wander in and out of the yard until I get home.
The door’s closed. I grab for the handle. Locked. Jessie meets me at the sliding door, her eyes wide, wet and pleading.
The kitchen window…
I try to wrench it open, but it doesn’t budge. On top of the outdoor dining table is a god-ugly concrete vase housing a limp ficus. A gift from Oliver’s overbearing mother. Eerily calm, I scoop it up, stagger forward, and grunt, “Watch out, Jess!”
Obediently, she backs away. When I can no longer see her, I hurl it at the kitchen window, and it explodes in a hail of glass and sound.
I move quickly, ducking under the remains of the broken window, my suede boots crunching on the glass. Beneath the dining room table, Jessie’s golden head slowly emerges.
Jessie.
I half run to her, cramming her into my arms. She whines softly in excitement, spinning in her sweet golden dance, gently licking my face, my ears, my forehead. Thank God. I’ve got her. It’s going to be all right. It will.
“Let’s get the hell outta here.”
I hurry to our bedroom, Jess padding softly right behind. I grab the sports bag in my side of the closet and rip my clothes from the hangers in my haste to get them inside the bag. I don’t even know what else to take. Whatdoyou take when you’re fleeing your shitty fiancé? I have no cash in the house, thankfully; that’s all locked away in my bank account. I pause for one second.Oh my God. Mum.A memory flashes in my brain with a jolt. My mum standing over me with desperate eyes.
Always have a bank account in your name only,she insisted.Promise me!
I was eight, maybe nine years old at the time. Too young to understand why her voice was high and insistent and why she grasped my hand so tight that it stung.
But I kept that promise. I’m leaving with my own money. Not much, but enough to live off for a few months. I’ll be all right. Unless Joy decides to sue me. Surely, there’s a payment plan forattacking someone live on the air. Laughter bubbles out my mouth. This is crazy. All of it. Go, go, go!
