Page 17 of Taking Chances

“She’s good. Now.” He pauses. “Had a nasty encounter with a door frame a few weeks ago.”

“Shit.” The knot in my stomach turns to a boulder.

“I wanted to call you, but you told me not to do it.”

“It’s fine, man. It’s not your fault.” There’s nothing he could have done. Just like me. No matter how much I tried.

The first time my father slapped my mother—instead of his usual litany of disgusting words—I was eleven. Her trembling chin and quiet whimper made my palms turn sweaty and my body freeze in place. When I managed to get enough air in my lungs, I rushed to call the cops. Mom acted like I was silly, denying anything happened, and it’s not like they care enough to dig deeper. I’ll never forget how my mind raced when she denied it. She explained that the police would take Dad away, but that would’ve been a good thing. They wouldn’t let him hurt her again.

The second time, I was big enough to fight back. Somehow, my mom seemed more terrified of me hurting my dad than she was of him hurting her.

“Stop!” she screamed, getting in between us. “You can’t do that. He’s your father!”

“I won’t let him hurt you anymore,” I bit back.

“You’re hurting me now! Stop it!” Her face was a crying mess. “Please, I can’t take this,” she pleaded. “If you hurt him, I will hurt myself. I won’t be able to live with this.”

Her words stopped me in my tracks. My body turned numb even though my heart was beating out of my chest. Even while he was hurting her, she was taking his side.

I tried to get her to leave a hundred times, beforeandafter leaving home for hockey, but with no fucking success. It’s something I had to come to terms with after years of guilt eating me alive. No matter what I offered, a house, money, taking care of her, she refused to leave him.

“What would people say?” she’d ask, like it’s more important than her fucking life. The bruises would fade, my father would apologize, and the cycle would start again.

That was her priority. Being the perfect family on the outside. With disgusting secrets safely hidden under the layers of carefully coated makeup and fake smiles.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I broke off any contact with them and told Jason not to call me about it unless it was life and death. I couldn’t stand there and do nothing, and I was terrified of what would happen if I intervened. My mom knows my number, not that she’d use it. I also opened an account in her name with enough money to get away and start over, but so far, there’s no sign she touched it.

“Look, Len. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s fine. Really. How you’ve been?” We talk a little longer, and when we’re done, I glance at the clock on my bedside table.

Shit, it’s not even 10:00 a.m. and the day is already ruined.

The knot in my stomach shows no sign of unclenching, so I get up, take a quick shower in the dated garage bathroom, and go for a ride.

My Ducati 916 is one of my proudest possessions. The bright red beast saw many of my breakdowns. I zip up my winter leather jacket, put on my helmet, and hop onto it.

The pure horsepower underneath me grounds me in the best possible way. I get out of my driveway and onto the open road. I haven’t explored Seattle on my bike much, but the scenery is gorgeous.

I drive along Lake Washington before coming to a secluded place with breathtaking views. Taking a deep breath, my lungs freeze with the cool air, but the coldness is soothing. Showing me I’m alive. Showing me I’m choosing to be alive.

It’s why I came here. Hoping for a new beginning. For a new life.

After probably an hour and a half of driving, my thoughts start to clear, my shoulders relaxing.

Some people meditate, some drink, I drive my bike until I outrun the demons chasing me.

9

ANNE

Every time I think I’ve reached my rock bottom, fate shows me there’s further down to go.

I stare at the wedding invitation in my hand, practically shaking with despair and rage as Luna circles my legs, asking for attention.

There’s a note attached to it.

Dear Anne,

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