Page 48 of The Prodigal

I’mnothesitating. I’m not. I just need…space.

“Okay.” She puts her hands on my chest and makes this soothing noise like she’s dealing with someone unstable. “You’renothesitating.”

She flashes me this smile that I want to hate but can’t. It’s honest and pure—it sucks the anger right out of me.

“Listen, I’ve slept in more cars than motels. Don’t worry about it. I’m not particular about where I sleep.” She pulls the key from her pocket and dangles it between her fingers. “Go take a shower and grab something to eat. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I’m already shaking my head, which she ignores. “I won’t steal your car, if that’s what you’re worried about, but take the keys if it’ll make you feel better.”

I take the key and step back, already feeling better now that her hands are off me. “What would make me feel better is you being quiet so I can think!”

“Fine. I’ll be quiet, but while you’re thinking, remember that there’s no guarantee the next motel will have any vacancies either. We aren’t in the city anymore.”

Though I’d never admit it, she’s right. We aren’t in the city, and if I don’t get food soon, the lives of people in this stupid town are in danger. Hunger triggers nothing but raging anger inside me.

It reminds me ofhim—shoving food down my throat, forcing me still so they could…I need a chair.And a cigarette.

Glancing at the room number on the keychain, I brush past Eden and lock my car with the key fob, so she can’t even think of getting in—sleep in the car, my ass.

“Where are you going?”

I can hear her coming after me, but I don’t care. All I can do is scour the motel for a chair.

“There’s a chair at the door to our room,” she says, like she knows what I’m thinking. “The clerk assured me the room had one.”

How considerate of her.

I still don’t care—not even when she stops talking and her footfalls quiet as I round the corner.

I just need…

A chair.

And as she promised, one sits next to our room.

I don’t wait to see where Eden went or apologize—I simply sit in the cheap plastic, letting all the tension in my shoulders relax into the hard back.

Some people prefer to snap a rubber band on their wrists to keep them grounded in the present. I don’t want some bracelet; I want the cold, hard chair chilling my bones, reminding me that this throne is mine. The person who sits in this chair is thereal me.

Not the Stetson thatheparaded in front of his socialite friends.

Not the face every parent could relate to.

In this chair, I’m not some social experiment. I’m not the face of a cause.

I’m simply Remington. I’m the king of nothing and the warrior of everything.

And nothing helps me remember where I’ve come from more than the simple reminder of being expendable.

These chairs aren’t built to last.

Their life span is a matter of a few short years before they are replaced with a newer, stronger version—one without weak legs and broken backs.

Hemight have broken my legs and taped me back together, but what he didn’t know is that broken pieces cut the deepest and may never heal.

Albrecht may not have been the one to have physically strapped me to these chairs, but my broken pieces are his reckoning.

“Hey.” Eden’s voice startles me awake. “I brought you some food.”

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