Page 12 of Sparrow

I TAKE Along look at myself in the mirror of the public restroom. Jaxon is eight floors above me right now. He doesn’t know I’m coming here today.

Today.

Our wedding anniversary.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t give a single, solitary, flying fuck, but I do. Even after everything he’s put me through. I do. Even after the beatings, the days without speaking, the need to fuck me only to exert power over me—even after all of those things—I care.

Call me crazy, but I’m scared. I’m sad. I’m alone.

I’m scared to leave him, but I’m too scared to stay. If he keeps his word, I know how this is going to go. He’s told me enough. Threatened me enough, because that’s the kind of man he is now.

A junkie. Strung out on the prescription meds he illegally prescribes to other junkies for a profit.

An abuser. A coward of a man who hits me because he’s too afraid to beat up on other men.

A monster.

I have to leave him today, but at the core of it all...I love him. How fucking stupid does that make me? I always saw these Lifetime movies where the woman stays in an abusive relationship because she thinks she can ‘change’ her abuser. Because she thinks that one day, he’ll turn back into the man she fell in love with. I always laughed and called bullshit.

Yet here I am, standing in my very own goddamn Lifetime movie.

I splash water on my face and take a breath. He forgot our anniversary and it stings. It shouldn’t, but the fact is, it does. He forgot our anniversary and hasn’t even called me. He hasn’t even texted me.

But I know why. At least, I think I know why—Greta Gracin. What a stupid fucking name.

She’s a nurse here in the hospital. A nurse in his office in particular. Every time we’ve met at social functions, she’s always been near. Flashing her pearly white smile, and her obviously fake cleavage, and he has fucked her with his eyes too many times to count.

I’ve never called him on it though, because I know what it would mean. A blowout fight and a black eye for me; followed by an apology then a quick fuck from behind to regain his power over me.

That changes today.

As I stare at myself in the mirror, I see a woman I barely recognize. I see a woman with sad eyes and an even sadder face. I see a woman covered in makeup to hide the still fading mark on her cheek from her husband’s last explosion. I see a woman who is tired of his shit. I see a woman that, even as she silently pep talks herself, is scared shitless to go through with this.

I pull out my phone and dial my best friend. She answers after one ring.

“Tell me you’re safe.”

“I can’t do this, Nora. I don’t think I can do it.” I hold my hand over my stomach, its contents threatening to show themselves.

“Shh. Listen to me, Amelia. You can do this. You can. You have to. You know that,” she coaches.

“I know. I know I have to, but what if he does something he can’t take back?” The unspoken insinuation hangs in the air.

“He won’t. That’s why you’re doing it at the hospital. You’re going to tell him off, then come straight to me,” she says.

She and I have slowly been packing things I can’t live without and taking them to her house. I’m leaving behind everything he’s given me over the course of our marriage. Every designer dress, every piece of lingerie, everything. I want no part of him after this.

“He knows where you live. Nor, this isn’t a good idea.” I’m near tears.

“Breathe, Amelia, breathe. You know Marco will take care of you if shit goes sideways.”

I almost smile at that. Her brother has always promised to fuck Jax up if necessary.

“You’ve got this, babe. Just remember: make it quick, leave the door open, and call me as soon as you’re done.”

I take a deep, cleansing breath and reach up to hold the sparrow at my neck, using it for strength. “I can do this.”

We end the call after exchanging “I love you’s” and I shove my phone into my purse; then, before I lose my courage, I exit the bathroom and step onto the elevator.

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