Page 43 of Debt of My Soul

He was my first, and he was going to be my only. Forever.

The confusion from that first flash of the bag on our bed is eroding and I’m falling. I run to the door, shove my feet back into my boots, and I dart out the door without my coat.

The first tear blindsides me as I lean on my car door, trying to take in breaths. Pressure and pain crush my chest, and I clench my teeth, determined to get out of here.

He …

He was …

I back out of the driveway, narrowly missing the mailbox as I swing back on the street. The last thing in my rearview mirror is that damn sticker.

I’m so naïve. I’m so stupid. How did I not see this?

I grip the wheel, shock shaking me to my core. I can’t stop fidgeting. My heart pounds while every car on the road is a blur around me. Through the crippling ache in my chest, I manage to avoid a complete breakdown.

What do I do? Why did I just leave?

I should’ve stormed in there. I should’ve knocked on the door. I might have done … something. Anything.

Why does it feel like I did something wrong? I went from bringing dinner home to my future husband to feeling like a stranger in my own house.

My muscles are taut as I stare straight ahead, speeding to the safest place I know.

I’m utterly devastated.

A text message flashes across the screen on my phone, but I can’t bring myself to read it. Ironically, I can’t even bring myself to feel rage at this moment.

My childhood neighborhood comes into view and instant relief floods through me at the sight of my parents’ vehicles there. I fumble out of my car, my knees shaking as I reach the front door. The cold temperatures dip lower as the sun sets over the horizon, and I shiver while I knock. It’s pathetic and weak, just like me.

How did I miss this? My thoughts vacillate between trying to search my memories for red flags and disbelief—maybe I misheard?

The door opens and my dad stands there.

“Fleur?” he says. “What are you doing here? Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Where’s your coat?”

My dad’s voice soothes the panic bubbling in my chest, and it eviscerates the hold I have over my tears. A sob bursts from my throat. Followed by another, then another.

I fall forward, the scent of my father’s aftershave bringing me home. I shudder as he wraps his arms around me, and I release a flood of tears on his sweater.

Present Day

I stare at the box on my kitchen table. The memories of that day are still fresh in my mind when I look at it. My dad held me, broken, for hours after I arrived at my parents’ house. My mother made coffee, and I worked through what I was going to do.

My whole life was in the house. Wrapped up with Chris.

As much as my mother told me it wasn’t my fault, that he’s the asshole, I couldn’t help but feel the need to run away. Far away.

I spent that abysmal night ignoring every phone call from Chris and searching for a place to disappear. One result yielded theTop Ten Smallest Towns in the Southblog post, and after scanning the photos, I found Ruin.

Old Hillside was the only place in town to stay and when I clicked over to their website, they were hiring. It sealed the deal.

Circles. That’s what I walk around the table as I stare some more at the box. When I walked up to my front porch with the brown package sitting there, I had a feeling about who had sent it. Took three hours for me to bring the box inside, and it’s been in the front entryway for a week now.

He doesn’t have my new address, so it took me a minute to realize I had my mail forwarded to this address through the post office. I guess he assumed it would get to me.

I left almost everything behind. Tossed a few items into a duffel bag that my mom went to retrieve for me. There was no way I was going back into that house. But it left me starting over.

I don’t want to open it. The mirror in the corner of the room captures my reflection and I pause, sighing. The box needs to go. Adam is coming over later today. For the first time in several weeks, he’s coming over to chill and watch a movie. He’s been busy and unavailable lately, but I told myself in August I was committed to moving on. Or trying to.

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