1
AVAH
The metallic tasteof blood in my mouth makes me wince, but it didn’t start this way. It never does. Because of what I’ve seen, and who I am, I figured I’d asked for it. Maybe even deserved it.
How pathetic.
I’ve reduced myself to a cliché.
After years of watching my mother do the same and hating her for it, I’m no better.
All because I’ve never believed I was anything more than nothing in the first place, which is exactly what landed me here.
Landed is the right word.
Sprawled on the floor of an overwater bungalow at Solstice House—the fanciest resort on the island of Bora Bora—next to a coffee table with a beveled glass edge that hurt like a bitch when I caught it on my way down. I shouldn’t be noticing that even the hardwood planks smell like tiare, the ubiquitous Tahitian flower that’s everywhere in the resort, but my brain serves up that detail like it’s trying to distract me from the main event.
When I lift my fingers to touch my throbbing temple, they come away red.
“Damn, baby. You’ve got to be less of a klutz.” My fiancépicks up his phone with the hairline crack across the screen and shoves it into the pocket of his linen pants. Jon’s voice holds that mix of annoyed and dismissive I’ve come to know so well. “And don’t ever try to grab something away from me.”
As I stare up at him, my chest cracks open, way wider than the fractured phone. It’s not my heart, which has been slowly calcifying for months. This is the thing I keep in a locked box. The truth I’ve been hiding behind excuses and rationalizations, just like my mother used to.
He hit me, and not for the first time. Although he’s careful, and the bruises can typically be hidden by long sleeves or turtlenecks.
This is the pattern, a no-good, rotten, very bad dynamic. But I’m finally ready to let the truth out into the light, even if it hurts worse than my pounding head.
“I’m not a klutz.” I stand up and smooth a hand over the front of my floral dress, ignoring the blood I feel dripping down my face. “You’re an asshole. An abusive one.” The words feel like acid on my tongue, but my voice doesn’t waver. “This was a mistake, Jon. All of it.”
We were supposed to get married on a mountainside in Colorado a week ago—just us and an expensive photographer. God forbid I have a real wedding where people might see behind the carefully constructed veil I’ve draped across my life. Then a wildfire broke out in the area, and instead of pivoting to another location like normal people, Jon suggested we do the honeymoon first and get married when things were back to normal.
That should have been a sign. The universe set our wedding plans on fire, and I just went with it.
Jon stops halfway to the bathroom. He’s probably going to get a washcloth so we can smooth this over like we always do. First there’s the explosion, then the apology he doesn’t mean, then the part where I convince myself it won’t happen again. Or that I somehow asked for it.
His dark eyes are glazed over thanks to the two bottles of wine he drank at dinner, mostly on his own. At some point over the last several months, I stopped drinking more than a glass. As if one of us being in control of our faculties could manage the chaos. Not so much.
“I’m not marrying you.” My voice is steadier than my pulse. “Our honeymoon is over as of right now.”
He turns to face me, and the glint in his eyes makes my breath hitch. I’ve spent two years pretending our relationship was just intense. That we had the natural friction of two strong personalities.
I was lying to everyone, but mostly to myself.
“You can’t walk away.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “What will people think? What will my father?—”
“Not my problem.”
I want to call him a douchenozzle or a cockwaffle. Among my friends, I’m Avah-on-the-spot, with vulgar insults that land like a comedic punch. Only my dickhead fiancé lands the real kind, and I’ve learned to tamp down my brashness to keep the peace.
And while I’d like to tell him to fuck right off, I need to get out of here first.
My purse and phone are on the bathroom counter where I left them when I was psyching myself up for a seduction that could distract him from whatever work shitstorm had put him in a dark mood mid-dinner. My passport is tucked into the safe in the bungalow’s closet. Everything I need to make my escape is behind the man who just backhanded me hard enough to make me see stars.
But I know how to survive impossibly shitty situations. In his own twisted way, my father taught me that. When the FBI showed up at our Connecticut McMansion, and my whole world turned upside down, I learned that sometimes you walk out the door with nothing and get yourself right on the other side.
I’m thirty-one years old and basically an orphan. My father isin federal prison for defrauding elderly people out of their life savings. My mom took off for Florida the day after my high school graduation. She taught me to duck and flee, and that playing the part of a bitch is the best defense against people asking questions I don’t want to answer.
“If you leave,” Jon says, “we’re done.” I hear the menacing promise in his voice but have zero fucks to give about the future right now.
