Page 17 of Lace 'em Up

I swallow hard, brave a bit harder to come by.

Then I walk by the wall of pictures, move toward the stairs, start climbing them slowly and carefully and…painfully.

Shoes. Clothes. My computer and makeup and the box from my dad. My papers and purse—not the tiny one that Chrissy had promised to retrieve for me from the church with just my ID and an emergency bride kit, but the larger bag that has my life in it.

The first thing I see is my suitcase parked on the far wall right next to Phillip's, packed and ready to take on our honeymoon to Hawaii.

The sight makes me…

Sad. Angry.

Broken.

I sigh and hobble over to it, grabbing the handle, dragging it near the door. I hit the closet, grab a duffle and shove more clothes in—but comfortable ones, not the stylish ones that are filling my suitcase. These ones are of the comfortable-I-just-broke-up-with-my-fiancé-because-he's-an-abusive-asshole variety.

Loungewear is a requirement for this situation.

Not dresses and blouses and lingerie.

I exhale, putting a hand against my ribs when they protest, then finish shoving as much as I can into the duffle, along with my makeup and a couple of pairs of comfortable shoes.

Now for my papers.

I leave the bag by my suitcase, hating how much of a struggle it is to heft it and carry it over, and then hobble down the hall and into my office, snagging my backpack and computer and cords and the file with all of my important documents.

Social security card. Passport. Birth certificate. Car insurance.

All of those go in alongside my computer and cords and then I’m hobbling back to my bedroom, and…my heart is suddenly in my throat.

Because I don't like to look at what I'm going to retrieve next.

Because it's pretty much the most important belonging I own.

Because it contains the only memories I have of my parents.

And if it's not there, if Phillip somehow remembered how important it is to me and came back to the house and?—

Well, if it's not safe and whole then I think he's lost any chance of kindness altogether.

I move to the side of the bed, to the little door that encloses the bottom of my nightstand, grasp the shiny metal knob, and pull it.

Then exhale sharply when relief floods through me.

The box is there.

I slide it out, careful to keep it perfectly level, to not unduly jostle the precious contents.

And then, so damned slowly, I open the lid.

More relief. Another breath making my ribs protest.

But it's there. The picture of my parents, smiling and happy. The photograph of baby me in my mother's arms, her expression tired but incandescent. The only picture I have of the two of us.

I carefully put it back inside, blinking back the burn of tears as I flip to the last picture, the one of me on my dad's shoulders, hair in pigtails, grinning like a tiny lunatic.

He's smiling, but it's not like the first picture.

His happiness tempered by grief.

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