Page 186 of King of Pain
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The floor threatens to drop out from under me, but I can’t afford to fall.
I need something to ground me. Something to keep me upright.
Distraction.
I stand, suddenly needing to move. I yank on a pair of jeans and throw a t-shirt over my head. When I step back into thestudio, Chance is standing near his easel, brush in hand, eyes narrowing slightly when he sees me.
“You okay?” he asks, already clocking that something’s off. Of course he does.
I lean forward, press a quick kiss to his lips. “Yeah. Just want to grab those boxes while it’s still early.”
Before he can push, I’m grabbing my keys off the counter and heading for the door.
“Text me when you’re heading back,” he calls gently after me.
I nod, hand already on the knob.
And I’m gone.
This is a good distraction. The boxes, the packing, the act of physically sorting my life into what stays and what comes with me. After the call I just got, I need it.
I toss another hoodie into the box on the floor and close the drawer with more force than necessary.
Everything about being back with Chance has been so good. So right. Packing up my apartment, bringing pieces of my life into our shared space—it’s more than just moving. It’s a reset. A clean start. It’s the way things were supposed to be between us, and I’m not interested in revisiting a past that almost broke me.
I’m glad people are coming forward. That someone is shining a light into the rot, unearthing what was always there under the marble steps and stained glass at Holy Cross. If those priests see consequences, it’ll be more than most ever have. But I know how it works. I’ve researched it. I’ve heard other survivor’s horror stories. The Catholic Church fights dirty. They throw money at it. Pressure. Harassment. Fear.
I’ve spent years in therapy to find my peace. With the abuse. With the silence. With the fact that the people who should have protected me—lovedme—didn’t. There’s a scar there that will never really go away. But it doesn’t bleed anymore. I’m not looking to cut it wide open again.
Still… if it comes down to it—if my voice is the difference between them walking free or being held accountable—I’ll do the right thing.
But not today. I can’t make that decision today.
Today, I’m choosing my future.
I walk into the closet and reach for the top shelf, pulling down one of the old storage boxes I stashed up there a couple years ago. I forgot how much crap I managed to tuck away in this apartment. Most of it probably isn’t worth saving, but I slide down the first box anyway and pop the lid.
Inside are a few old Devil Records t-shirts, a ticket stub from the first ‘80s-night cover band show Chance and I went to together, and a folded copy of a sketch of me Chance had drawn in art class.
I pull down the next box. It’s labeledChance. Yeah, I saved all the stuff he left behind.
My chest aches in a sweet way as I open it and find a stack of his vinyl records. Stuck to the cover of the top album is the note he left on my mirror once that just said,You’re my favorite song.
I start to flip through the albums and see a patch of maroon fabric peeking out. Smiling, I lift the stack of vinyl up and pull out the two articles of clothing folded neatly at the bottom: theBRING BACK THE ‘80sshirt Lexi had given Chance, and the Arizona football jersey with my name and number that he wore to my game.
I laugh under my breath. “Oh yeah… these aredefinitelycoming on this trip.”
I press my lips together, close the box, and set it gently by the door.
I pull some of my hanging clothes from the closet and fold them into a larger box. Sweeping through the bathroom, I grab anything I haven’t already taken to the condo. In under an hour, I’ve got everything loaded into the car.
I shut the trunk and stand there for a minute, staring up at this place that’s been mine for the past couple years. The apartment where I healed. Where I rebuilt.
I’m ready for the next chapter.
I pull out my phone, shoot a quick text to Chance.
