Page 12 of Eternally Devoted

“C’mon,” I tell the dog, who stands patiently next to me, his leash in my hand. I walk him to my van, and drag open thesliding door to let him inside. Collecting his face in my hands, I press a kiss to his snout. “You’re safe now. I’ll be back.”

The heavy doors closing echo through the nearby ravine. Looking across the horizon, impending evening scattering flecks of orange along mountaintops, I apologize to the beautiful land bordering Soulsby Road.

I apologize as I traipse over to the motionless man in the dirt, because I know what I’m going to do. Sucking in a breath, I curl my hurt hand beneath him and grunt as I roll his lifeless body to the edge. With my boot poised on his butt, I give one strong nudge—the last of my energy. Dust clouds snowball as he rolls, landing with a hard thud, the noise echoing in finality. Blinking down, my heart rate still in panic, sobs tear free from my tightened chest.

Uncontrollably wild, from the depths of my soul, body-rocking sobs.

I don’t like when it happens this way. It makes me feel like even more of a monster. Controlled, private—that’s how I like itifit has to happen.

A car rushes through, taking the tight turn of the curve too fast, snapping me from my haze. After collecting broken bits of the jar, I toss them into the ravine and kick the driver’s door closed on his truck.

Then I get in my van, the golden dog coming to rest his head next to me on the console. Petting him, sifting my fingers through his luscious, soft coat, I assure him he’s safe. Thatwewill be okay.

The truck can’t stay there. His body can’t stay there. My jam jar is down there. My hand is— I bring my hurt hand in front of the wheel to check it while using the other to guide my van in a tight turn, heading back to the heart of Bluebell. The hand I used to strike the man is mangled. And my tire tracks are out there for anyone to photograph.

Panic stings my sensibilities as I drive back into town, following the speed limit so as to avoid attention.

“Okay, think. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It's gonna be okay,” I coach myself, a job I’ve grown comfortable doing. You have to be strong when you have hobbies like I do.

I make a mental plan to head home, wash the van, shower, then take care of my hand. It helps me if I picture my plan. As I steady my hand on the wheel, the evening streetlights flitting past as I curve my van onto the main street of Bluebell, I envision my house.

Then it dawns on me.

Today was the mid-week market. That means Hudson and Dolly will have company. Deuce and Ev at the least, but it’s usually more. They host a dinner on Wednesdays, and if I show up now, I’ll be sure to get noticed. They eat on the patio. There is no way for me to get out of my van covered in blood and dirt with a bloody dog and go unnoticed.

I chew my lip as fresh tears cascade my cheeks. It occurs to me just then as I pass Goode’s Diner and Ink Time thatI really fucked up.

I can’t pull that man from the ravine. There’s no way.

I need help.

CHAPTER

FIVE

AND IF I WERE JUNI, I’D CHOOSE HIM OVER ME, TOO.

Sterling

The third one doesn’t quite hit like the second, and the second isn’t quite as crisp as the first. But either way, beer is beer. It numbs me nicely, as intended. Still, the plate of food and empty seat across from me are all I can focus on.

I made steak tonight, with Hasselback potatoes and roasted Broccolini. Dash likes “the fancy broccoli” better, so I make sure to buy it when I’m cooking for the both of us. I had to drive to Oakcreek for it earlier, in fact, since the Eat O Rama doesn’t have fancy stuff. I don’t know many roommates that routinely cook for one another, but I’ve never worried about what others do.

My eyes unfocus, envisioning him across from me, his forearm flexing as he saws through his steak. Instinctively I tug at the hem of my shirt, then fold my arms over my chest, sipping my beer. Even if I don’t feel physically self-conscious, covering my body sometimes makes me feel more comfortable, so I do, seeking comfort as I imagine watching him eat. Sinking the tines of his fork into a perfectly cut bite, his lips seal around the meat as he moans his appreciation. “So good, Sterl,” he says.

Rousing me from my curiously arousing thoughts, the front door opens. “Hey, man,” Dash greets. I twist in the chair in time to catch him unclipping his duty belt, still watching as he hangs it next to my coat. One easy shrug and he’s out of his Bluebell PD jacket, hooking it over his belt. Foot to heel, he toes out of his unlaced boots. He normally unlaces them on his drive home when he’s stopped at lights. He told me that the first time I asked why he came home with his boots untied. He’s eager to relax, and I like that.

I relate to that.

“Hey, how was your shift?” I ask, even though I’m wondering about the farmers market. I don’t think I can see the adoration and pleasure lift his eyes as he recounts seeing Juni. I’ll eventually get used to them being together, when it happens, and I’ll be able to talk to him about their life.

I will.

He clamps a hand on my shoulder while he moves toward the kitchen to wash his hands. After drying them, Dash unbuttonsthe top three buttons on his uniform and makes his way toward the table.

“Fuck, this looks amazing and smells even better, Sterl,” he groans, his voice raspy. He stares at the food a moment before finally looking up at me. “Shift was fine.” Gray eyes search mine, an uncomfortable knotting in my stomach at the way he pays me such intimate attention. “You already eat?” he asks, my gut tugging not from the mention of food but from his attention.

“Yeah,” I nod.

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