Page 28 of Worthy

We hang up, and I finish packing. Once that’s done, I sit at my desk, pulling up the airline’s website. Lucking out, I’m able to snag a flight that leaves in two hours.

The airport isn’t far from my house, and at this time of night, there shouldn’t be much traffic, so I decide to call an Uber instead of driving and parking there. Who knows how long I’ll be gone, and I’d rather not worry about it being stuck in the lot.

I don’t know what happened, but it has to be bad if she called me after four in the morning her time.

Penelope Boswell—formally Monroe—orNelly, as only I call her, is my best friend of close to twenty years. We met in middle school in San Diego when her family moved here. She was a Navy brat who was newly stationed there. She was quiet and awkward and shy, while I was loud and friendly and bubbly. It was a match made in friend heaven; we hit it off immediately. Being a fellow Navy kid, I knew what it was like to move mid-year and not know anyone.

She also ended up living three houses down from me, across the street. It was all military housing, that neighborhood. We would walk to and from school together, eat dinner at one another’s houses, and when I say we were inseparable, I mean we wereinseparable.

After we graduated high school, we went to San Diego State University together until she met and married her husband, Anthony Boswell. He’s in the Navy too and got stationed in Illinois about five years ago. Our friendship has been long distance and a little strained ever since. To be honest, I’ve never liked the guy. He’s an arrogant asshole who’s always spoken down to her, and I’ve thought she deserves better since they got married when we were twenty-two.

I’ve suspected he’s been at the very least emotionally abusive to her for a few years, but I’ve never had any proof. Any time I’ve broached the topic, she’d shut it down and berate me for even bringing it up. So, now here I am, flying across the country in the middle of the night to save her from the very man I warned her about.

***

Just under six hours later, behind the wheel of my new rental car, I pull up outside the run-down motel she’s staying at. Sending her a text letting her know I’m here, I flip through my Spotify, finding a song I want to listen to while I wait for her to come out.If You’re Gonna Lieby the queen herself, Fletcher, comes on, but as soon as it starts playing, I spot Nelly. Her long blonde hair is tied up into a bun on the top of her head, and she’s got on large sunglasses and an oversized hoodie. The closer she gets to the car, the more I notice… Like the busted-up lip and the faint, barely-there marks around her neck. My throat feels thick as she opens the back passenger door, tossing her bag inside before climbing in the front. Peach aroma fills the car; a scent I’ve associated with Nell for as long as I can remember.

Nelly keeps her glasses on and doesn’t look at me, instead staring down at her hands in her lap. She looks exhausted and dejected, and I want nothing more than to pull her into me for a hug, but I don’t want to overwhelm her, so I don’t do that.

“What happened?” I ask gently, skipping thehelloaltogether.

Despite spending most of her life in southern California, Nelly has always been pale. If she ever did manage to get a tan, it was only after she burned first. Because of her creamy complexion, it’s easy to spot when she’s crying, even with the huge bug-eye sunglasses covering half her cheeks. Her face reddens as she fiddles with her fingers, teeth chomping down on her bottom lip.

She doesn’t say anything for several long moments. So long, I wonder if she’ll ever answer the question at all. But then, after a heavy sigh, she shoves her glasses up until they’re sitting on her head, peering over at me with wet, puffy eyes. My breath hitches and I have to fight to not outwardly react.

Her left eye is swollen and bruised. It’s not so bad that she can’t open it, but it still looks painful. She also has a half inch cut under her right eye, that I wonder how she got. And then, of course, the split lip and the faint fingerprints around her throat.

“He did this to you?” The words come out hushed, thick emotion lacing every single one. Pressure builds behind my eyes as they well up.

Carefully, she wipes her face. “Can we grab some coffee first, and then I can tell you everything? Please.”

Chapter Two

Wren Carlisle

This isn’t the first time.

It’s the one thought that continues to cross my mind as I listen to her tell me how Anthony has a temper that only seems to be getting worse. How he was promoted earlier this year, and the new workload adds a lot of stress onto his already heavy shoulders.

I want to kill him. Fucking gut him. Watch him bleed out and take a sick satisfaction in watching the life drain from his miserable, pathetic, cowardly eyes. It sounds like the emotional abuse has been going on for several years now—just like I suspected—but the physical part only started this year. Thankfully, I was able to talk her into calling the police. They contacted his command, and we’ve been here talking with them for the last few hours. Growing up in the military, we’ve been around their procedures our whole lives, so we knew what to expect. An MPO—military protection order—is going to be put in place, and he won’t be able to come near her.

Not that that’s really a concern, since Nelly told me she wants to come back to California with me, when I asked her what her plan was, if any. That answer surprised me. It was the one I was hoping for, though.

The year we graduated high school, we spent the summer before college road tripping around the country. We had talked about wanting to do it for years, and when we finally did, it was a blast. We took a couple more road trips, just her and I, before she got married and eventually moved across the country. They’re our thing, so we’re loading up my rental car and driving from Chicago to San Diego.

It makes sense that she’d want to move back home with the ending of her marriage. Her parents still live in San Diego, and I do too, obviously. The only person she has out here is Anthony. They never had any kids, and she’s still the same shy, awkward girl she was when I met her, so she hasn’t made many friends here other than the casual acquaintances of the other Navy wives in her neighborhood.

Anthony’s command ensured that Anthony wouldn’t be at the house this afternoon, so we’re heading there now so Nelly can pack up some of her stuff before we hit the road. Military housing can be hit or miss. Sometimes they’re newer neighborhoods, with well-maintained backyards and amenities within the area. Other times, they’re run-down units that could use a serious case of TLC. As far as housing goes, the one Nelly currently lives in is on the nicer side. It’s in a seemingly pleasant neighborhood, a two-story house with a fully fenced backyard—two-bedroom, because they’re strict about that.

Walking through the front door, the first thing I notice is the overwhelming stench of liquor—whiskey, if I had to guess. It’s making my eyes water.

“I’ll run upstairs really quick to pack and be down in a few minutes,” Nelly tells me before jogging up the stairs.

This is the first time I’ve ever been here. Anthony and Nell moved into this house, I want to say, two years ago. We haven’t seen each other a whole lot in person over the last few years, and the couple of times we did, it was when she flew to San Diego.

Walking farther into the living room, a gasp falls from my lips, and I stop in my tracks as I take in the mess. Shattered glasseverywhere. The sofa is wet with what I can only presume is liquor—that must be where the smell is coming from—shards of glass all over that, and the floor. On the other side of the room, picture frames lay on the ground, broken. It’s pictures of Anthony and Nelly throughout their marriage. Wedding photos, vacations, homecomings, military balls.

What the hell?

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