screech away.
She stayed where she was, shaking so badly.
It had been so awful.
He was here in her town, and she was so afraid he was going to hurt her again.
* * *
"I'm sorry," she said again and again.
Rye brought her inside. He tucked an afghan around her once again, as he had that first day, and built up the fire, but she just couldn't get warm.
He brought hot tea, which he made her sip. She held it with hands that trembled so badly, the cup rattled against the saucer. It was a miracle she didn't spill it all over herself.
"I was so scared," she said finally, after she'd drunk half the cup. "And I hate being scared."
"Well, I don't know anybody who enjoys it," Rye said easily.
He settled himself on the floor in front of the fire, his back against the sofa. His arm was stretched along the cushions, his hand closing around her ankle. Just that made things a little better. As long as he was touching her.
She wanted to slip into that spot at his side. Maybe then she would feel safe again. Maybe she'd stop shaking. She was nearly there—to the point where she could have stopped shaking—when the phone rang.
She nearly jumped out of her skin, took a breath trying to calm herself, and then it rang again.
Rye picked it up and said hello. A moment later, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, "It's your neighbor. Mrs. Wells. She heard some of that outside, and now she's worried about you. You need to tell her you're okay."
Emma did that and only that, then gave the phone back to Rye. He told Mrs. Wells that he was a friend of Sam's and that he'd look out for Emma, and then he hung up. They got another call just like it not five minutes later.
"Small-town living," Emma said, thoroughly ashamed. Rye hadn't really told them anything, but if they'd heard Mark yelling, they knew enough.
"They're looking out for you. That's good. I told them if they see anything suspicious to call the sheriff. You know, it's not a bad idea for you to tell him what's going on, Emma."
"You think so?"
"Cops don't always take trouble between a man and a woman seriously," he said softly, his thumb lightly rubbing the bottom of one of her feet. "If they know ahead of time there's been trouble... Well, if you need to call them, I want them here fast and to know what they're getting into."
"You don't think he'll leave, do you? Not after tonight?"
"We can hope. I was rough with him. Not just because I was so mad. I was trying to scare him. I want him to think twice about what might happen to him if he comes back. I hope I didn't just make him angrier," Rye said. "He thinks there's something going on between you and me, which might also make him madder."
"I thought it was all over," she said. "I mean, I was scared, but I didn't really think he'd come here."
On the porch of her house, screaming at her and trying to grab her.
She started to cry again. Rye pulled her down onto the floor beside him and then into his arms, into that spot she'd wanted. She pressed her face into his shoulder, into that warm, dark place that was so comforting and smelled of him.
She'd spent another lifetime, up until she was not quite twelve, being scared. It was like living with a time bomb, except there was no face on this particular clock. She knew it was ticking, but never knew when it would go off.
Mark was like that now. She didn't know where he was or what he would do. She didn't know if he was coming back.
"I hate this. I hate it so much," she said, weeping into the hollow between Rye's shoulder and his chin, wishing she could just crawl inside of his skin, because she knew she'd be safe there.
All these things she thought she'd forgotten... They were still inside of her. She remembered what it sounded like when her biological father hit her mother. She remembered the sounds her mother made, awful, pitiful sounds. She remembered hiding from him and trying to make herself as small as possible, trying not to even breathe.
"Your father?" Rye
She stayed where she was, shaking so badly.
It had been so awful.
He was here in her town, and she was so afraid he was going to hurt her again.
* * *
"I'm sorry," she said again and again.
Rye brought her inside. He tucked an afghan around her once again, as he had that first day, and built up the fire, but she just couldn't get warm.
He brought hot tea, which he made her sip. She held it with hands that trembled so badly, the cup rattled against the saucer. It was a miracle she didn't spill it all over herself.
"I was so scared," she said finally, after she'd drunk half the cup. "And I hate being scared."
"Well, I don't know anybody who enjoys it," Rye said easily.
He settled himself on the floor in front of the fire, his back against the sofa. His arm was stretched along the cushions, his hand closing around her ankle. Just that made things a little better. As long as he was touching her.
She wanted to slip into that spot at his side. Maybe then she would feel safe again. Maybe she'd stop shaking. She was nearly there—to the point where she could have stopped shaking—when the phone rang.
She nearly jumped out of her skin, took a breath trying to calm herself, and then it rang again.
Rye picked it up and said hello. A moment later, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, "It's your neighbor. Mrs. Wells. She heard some of that outside, and now she's worried about you. You need to tell her you're okay."
Emma did that and only that, then gave the phone back to Rye. He told Mrs. Wells that he was a friend of Sam's and that he'd look out for Emma, and then he hung up. They got another call just like it not five minutes later.
"Small-town living," Emma said, thoroughly ashamed. Rye hadn't really told them anything, but if they'd heard Mark yelling, they knew enough.
"They're looking out for you. That's good. I told them if they see anything suspicious to call the sheriff. You know, it's not a bad idea for you to tell him what's going on, Emma."
"You think so?"
"Cops don't always take trouble between a man and a woman seriously," he said softly, his thumb lightly rubbing the bottom of one of her feet. "If they know ahead of time there's been trouble... Well, if you need to call them, I want them here fast and to know what they're getting into."
"You don't think he'll leave, do you? Not after tonight?"
"We can hope. I was rough with him. Not just because I was so mad. I was trying to scare him. I want him to think twice about what might happen to him if he comes back. I hope I didn't just make him angrier," Rye said. "He thinks there's something going on between you and me, which might also make him madder."
"I thought it was all over," she said. "I mean, I was scared, but I didn't really think he'd come here."
On the porch of her house, screaming at her and trying to grab her.
She started to cry again. Rye pulled her down onto the floor beside him and then into his arms, into that spot she'd wanted. She pressed her face into his shoulder, into that warm, dark place that was so comforting and smelled of him.
She'd spent another lifetime, up until she was not quite twelve, being scared. It was like living with a time bomb, except there was no face on this particular clock. She knew it was ticking, but never knew when it would go off.
Mark was like that now. She didn't know where he was or what he would do. She didn't know if he was coming back.
"I hate this. I hate it so much," she said, weeping into the hollow between Rye's shoulder and his chin, wishing she could just crawl inside of his skin, because she knew she'd be safe there.
All these things she thought she'd forgotten... They were still inside of her. She remembered what it sounded like when her biological father hit her mother. She remembered the sounds her mother made, awful, pitiful sounds. She remembered hiding from him and trying to make herself as small as possible, trying not to even breathe.
"Your father?" Rye
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