Sadie
Something in me flips.
It's the thing I pushed down ten minutes ago when he told me I didn't have friends. The thing that's older than fear. It comes up now like a fist through water.
"No."
The word comes out low and flat and final.
Jason blinks. I suppose it’s because for four years I have been the woman who folds. Who hands him water in her only mug, who sleeps on the far side of the bed so he has more room. The woman who forgives when he hits her, but still found the strength to walk out when his behaviour escalated to the point of risking my life.
"No, you're not staying here. Not tonight. Not ever. Get off my bed and get out of my apartment."
He stands slowly, not taking his eyes off me. He wants me to watch him unfold to his full height, wants me to remember the math. Six-one against my five-five. A hundred and ninety pounds against a diabetic woman in her underwear.
"Sadie." The voice. The one that used to make my blood run cold. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm being clear." My pulse is hammering, but my voice holds. Something about tonight, about the way Nick told mestop means stopand meant it to his marrow, has rearranged a pieceof me I thought was permanently broken. "You messed with my insulin. You turned the dial on my pen and put it back in the fridge. I watched you do it, Jason. I stood in the hallway and watched you do it, and then you walked out whistling."
His face changes. The mask drops and what's underneath is ugly. His jaw goes tight, his eyes go flat, and he takes a step that closes half the distance between us.
"You're crazy. You've always been crazy. Your numbers were off because you don't take care of yourself properly. I was the one making sure you ate. I was the one reminding you to check. And you repay me by sneaking out while I'm at work and spreading your legs for some guy you met in a car wreck."
"Get out," I say.
"Make me."
I reach behind me. My fingers scrabble around to find anything, but only the kettle sits behind me.
"Get out of my apartment, Jason."
"Or what? You're gonna throw a kettle at me?" He laughs, high and sharp. "Put it down, Sadie. You look ridiculous."
I don't aim. My arm moves and the kettle leaves my hand. It bounces against the wall a foot left of his head, and the sound of the plastic cracking is the sound of every single thing I've swallowed for four years.
He moves fast. He was always fast when he was angry, and the kettle was the permission he needed. His hand catches my wrist before I can pull it back. He yanks me forward and I stumble forward, my hip catching the corner of the island as he drags me into him.
"You stupid bitch."
His other hand goes into my hair. He grabs a fistful at the back of my head and jerks my face up, and the pain is brightand immediate, a hot sting across my scalp that makes my eyes water.
"You think you can just disappear? I found you in three days, Sadie. Then watched you for three more. You can't hide from me."
I claw at his hand. My nails catch skin and he hisses, letting go of my hair. He shoves me backward. My lower back hits the counter hard enough to knock the air out of me, and I double over, gasping.
He's breathing hard. His hand goes to the scratches on his forearm. His face does the thing I've seen twice before. Once in November before my wrist, then in June before my eye.
The decision face.
He grabs me by both shoulders and spins me. My hip clips the island again. His hand is back in my hair and he raps my head hard against the wall before he pushes me towards the bed. Pain screams out from the point of contact, my vision blurs and spots. But I’m still not going down without a fight.
My bare feet can’t find purchase on the smooth laminate as I try and push back against him, struggling wildly to get out of his grip, ignoring the trickle of blood that must be coming from where he banged my head.
Then I’m on the bed.
He stands over me. His hands are opening and closing at his sides the way they do when he's deciding whether he's done.
"Jason." My voice sounds far away. "You need to leave."
