My tears dry, leaving tracks on my face, as the book finishes beneath my thumb.I close the cover, hollow and heavy in the space where regret sleeps.
Setting the journal on the coffee table, I stare at the other book.
My book.
Write your story.
“Okay, Frankie.You mouthy little gangster.Here’s mine.”
Dropping my head back on the couch, I close my eyes.
I’m in a guest house on an island in Sitka.I don’t know if I’m straight or gay or maybe I’m stepsexual.Is that a thing?Because apparently I can’t have one stepsibling without the other.
The woman I want is a badass mechanic.Hard, honest work.The woman who gave birth to me was a rapist, and I killed her.
The man I want is a criminal stalker.Dangerous, dishonest work.The man who raised me is a pedophile, and Frankie killed him.
My real father?He’s one of the good guys.He loves like a man who refuses smallness.Too much love for a broken son like me.Too much grace.But I’m so fucking grateful for him.
I’m not where I was.I’m safe.My family is safe.I’m free to shop for clothes and feed my girl and lose my virginity.
I have a job that sparks joy and have more money than any man needs.I’m in a story where the narrator is unreliable, unhinged, and broken beyond repair.But I’m finally brave enough to put the nightmare into words.
Should I start at the beginning?That’s normal.Expected.But I’m not normal.I’m not expected.I’m not a book that follows rules or order.
If I’m going to open a vein, let it be honest.Let it be the aftermath, the scars, the hand job, and yesterday’s breakdown.I need to start with the now, today, and work my way backward, tracing the steps that made my damage unavoidable.
Might be braver.Might be lazier.Or crazier.Either way, it’s honest.
I flip to the last page.
“Let’s ruin the sheets.”
I light a cigarette.
I pick up a sharpie.
In the rise of ink and smoke, something inside me unclenches.
One sentence.No flourish.No fairy tales.
I write…
I woke up and wanted the day.
“Good night, Dove.”Taaq waves over his shoulder and follows Chester out of the garage.
I look up from a transmission rebuild and drag a sweaty forearm across my brow.
The shop goes quiet in the way it always does when the day folds up and tucks itself under half-dead engines.
Grime cakes my nails.Exhaust fumes soak my hair, and my back aches from bending under hoods all day.I check my phone for the hundredth time and return it to my pocket.
Still no message from Wolf.
I could stay, lose myself in this stubborn rebuild, and avoid whatever’s waiting across the water.
Will it be a confession from Wolf?Will he tell me he’s fallen for my stepbrother?That he prefers Jag over me?They always do.
