seeking to comfort her, people who told her she’d be all right eventually, that the passage of time would heal her emotional wounds. What she’d been unable to tell them—the thing she wouldn’t voice to even her closest girlfriends—was the sad truth of the situation; that she wasn’t heartbroken over her husband’s abandonment of her.
What she mostly felt was relief.
And she’d felt gratitude when her friends thought she should feel only anger. None of them knew the real truth of her marriage to Kent, that it had been a loveless sham from the beginning, a case of two broken people brought together by circumstance.
The footsteps grew louder.
Then Kent stepped through the archway into the living room.
Amy’s heart sank.
Go away , she thought.
Go away and never come back.
She sigh. “You’re back.”
Kent shrugged. “Yeah.”
He sounded tired.
He looked worse, emaciated, like a heroin chic model from the early 90’s, only in Kent’s case there was no accompanying hint of decadent glamour. He wore ill-fitting clothes, a billowy t-shirt and baggy jeans that accentuated his gaunt appearance, made him look like a stickman.
Amy felt a twinge of sympathy. “Kent…what the fuck?”
She couldn’t think of anything else to say—the situation was beyond inexplicable. Her husband had been gone nearly two months, and now he’d returned looking like an Auschwitz survivor. She knew he’d withdrawn a couple grand from the bank the day of his disappearance, which wasn’t a fortune, but it meant there was no good reason he should be looking this bad.
So “What the fuck?” was pretty much the prefect summation of her feelings.
Kent opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on the tip of his tongue.
His lower lip trembled.
And then he was crying, his misty eyes yielding fat tears that rolled quickly down his cheeks, a waterfall of inarticulate emotion.
Amy sighed again.
She got to her feet and went to him, pulling him into a half-hearted embrace. She patted his back and made cooing noises. “There, there, baby, it’s okay. You just get it all out, cry until you’re dry, then we’ll talk about it, okay?”
She lifted her head off his shoulder and smiled at him.
Then he was smiling, too.
Amy stepped back.
He seized her wrists, halting her sudden backward motion.
And his smile kept expanding, growing exponentially more obscene by the moment.
She opened her mouth to scream.
He smothered the scream with his own mouth.
Then she felt something warm enter her, something thick, slimy, and pulsating, and she was pretty sure it was that awful yellow thing she’d glimpsed at the back of his throat.
But then she wasn’t thinking about that anymore.
She was a kid again, watching her daddy hit her mommy.
She was a teenage virgin, an innocent being assaulted by a predator the police were never able to apprehend.
And she was an unhappy mother-to-be who felt only shameful relief when she miscarried.
And more, so much more.
A parade of misery.
The, worst of all, she was left alive on the living room floor.
With something new growing inside of her.
The old Chevelle was parked in a corner of the convenience store’s parking lot, its front end pointed toward the street. An Escalade with fake bullet hole stickers on the driver’s side door rolled to a slow stop at the nearby intersection. Heather Campbell tracked the Escalade’s snail-like progress through squinted eyes, an ugly scowl painted on otherwise lovely—albeit haggard—features.
“Why do people do that?”
Josh Browning, slumped down in the shotgun seat, blinked at her through eyes bleary from smoking too much weed. “Huh?” He sat up straighter, and his head swiveled slowly to the right. He squinted at the Escalade, which was now sliding through the intersection on its way, no doubt, to some appropriately white trash destination. Then his head wobbled back in her direction. “Why do people drive Escalades? All sorts of
What she mostly felt was relief.
And she’d felt gratitude when her friends thought she should feel only anger. None of them knew the real truth of her marriage to Kent, that it had been a loveless sham from the beginning, a case of two broken people brought together by circumstance.
The footsteps grew louder.
Then Kent stepped through the archway into the living room.
Amy’s heart sank.
Go away , she thought.
Go away and never come back.
She sigh. “You’re back.”
Kent shrugged. “Yeah.”
He sounded tired.
He looked worse, emaciated, like a heroin chic model from the early 90’s, only in Kent’s case there was no accompanying hint of decadent glamour. He wore ill-fitting clothes, a billowy t-shirt and baggy jeans that accentuated his gaunt appearance, made him look like a stickman.
Amy felt a twinge of sympathy. “Kent…what the fuck?”
She couldn’t think of anything else to say—the situation was beyond inexplicable. Her husband had been gone nearly two months, and now he’d returned looking like an Auschwitz survivor. She knew he’d withdrawn a couple grand from the bank the day of his disappearance, which wasn’t a fortune, but it meant there was no good reason he should be looking this bad.
So “What the fuck?” was pretty much the prefect summation of her feelings.
Kent opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on the tip of his tongue.
His lower lip trembled.
And then he was crying, his misty eyes yielding fat tears that rolled quickly down his cheeks, a waterfall of inarticulate emotion.
Amy sighed again.
She got to her feet and went to him, pulling him into a half-hearted embrace. She patted his back and made cooing noises. “There, there, baby, it’s okay. You just get it all out, cry until you’re dry, then we’ll talk about it, okay?”
She lifted her head off his shoulder and smiled at him.
Then he was smiling, too.
Amy stepped back.
He seized her wrists, halting her sudden backward motion.
And his smile kept expanding, growing exponentially more obscene by the moment.
She opened her mouth to scream.
He smothered the scream with his own mouth.
Then she felt something warm enter her, something thick, slimy, and pulsating, and she was pretty sure it was that awful yellow thing she’d glimpsed at the back of his throat.
But then she wasn’t thinking about that anymore.
She was a kid again, watching her daddy hit her mommy.
She was a teenage virgin, an innocent being assaulted by a predator the police were never able to apprehend.
And she was an unhappy mother-to-be who felt only shameful relief when she miscarried.
And more, so much more.
A parade of misery.
The, worst of all, she was left alive on the living room floor.
With something new growing inside of her.
The old Chevelle was parked in a corner of the convenience store’s parking lot, its front end pointed toward the street. An Escalade with fake bullet hole stickers on the driver’s side door rolled to a slow stop at the nearby intersection. Heather Campbell tracked the Escalade’s snail-like progress through squinted eyes, an ugly scowl painted on otherwise lovely—albeit haggard—features.
“Why do people do that?”
Josh Browning, slumped down in the shotgun seat, blinked at her through eyes bleary from smoking too much weed. “Huh?” He sat up straighter, and his head swiveled slowly to the right. He squinted at the Escalade, which was now sliding through the intersection on its way, no doubt, to some appropriately white trash destination. Then his head wobbled back in her direction. “Why do people drive Escalades? All sorts of
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