Page 2 of The Love You Fight For
This is a terrible, terrible idea.
“Samantha, open this door.”
My stomach churns at the authority in his tone. He’s not even trying to keep his voice down now—apparently, he’s over pretending like this needs to be kept a secret. As if anyone would care. As if anyone would do anything to stop it.
A heated discussion starts in the hallway. Two male voices. Both familiar.
My father has arrived.
I turn my body and grip the windowsill with shaky hands. Slowly, too slowly, I lower myself down. My shoulders and biceps ache with the movement. Sweat coats my palms, and I tighten mygrip. My head pounds. I’m hanging now, stretched out as far as I can, and all that’s left is to drop.
“Oh, god, please let this work. Please. Please, please, please.”
When I hear my door swing open, I release my grip on the windowsill and let myself fall?—
—I sit up with a gasp.
The bedsheet falls to my waist, the air-conditioning calming my sweat-slicked skin, and I take deep gulps of cool air into my lungs. My eyes burn, and my hands press on my chest to feel the rapid thrumming of my panicked heartbeat.
The dream.
It was just the dream.
It’s okay. I’m okay. It was just the dream.
I squeeze my eyes shut and fist my fingers in my hair, tugging at the root, willing myself to feel something else—to focus onanythingelse—but flashes of memory still paint the darkness behind my closed lids.
The sudden drop. The crunch of bone. The chase. The fear. The desperation. The pain.
My gut roils and my head throbs.
I kick off the bedsheet and climb out of bed, hurrying my way through the darkness toward my en suite bathroom. I don’t bother turning on the light. I just rush to the toilet, drop to my knees, and empty the meager contents of my stomach into the bowl. I heave until sparks dance before my eyes. Until my throat feels raw and my face is wet with sweat. Then I flush the toilet and stand, forcing myself to face my reflection in the mirror.
I reach over and flip the light switch, wincing at the shock of the sudden brightness, then look at myself in the mirror. My skin is red-splotched and shining. My blond hair sticks to my forehead and neck. I stare into my own bloodshot eyes, the blue stark against the red tint, and I don’t like what I see.
A scared, vulnerable little girl. A damaged woman. Avictim.
My lip curls in a snarl of disgust. This is who I promised myself I’d never become.
I open the cabinet under the sink.
With practiced movements, I pull out the bottle and the shot glass, then uncap the bottle and pour some of the amber liquid into the glass. I will my fingers to stop trembling as I bring the shot glass to my lips and swallow back its contents.
The bourbon burns, and I welcome it, breathing through my nose to try to calm my still racing heart. But when I close my eyes, I still see it. I’m right back there, picking up where it left off before I jolted awake.
I pour another shot and choke it down, gritting my teeth against the desire to cry.
When my eyes start to well anyway, I slam my fist on the quartz countertop. Once. Twice. I relish the vibration that shoots up my wrist and forearm. I pound once more just to feel the ache in my shoulder.
I swore I wouldn’t let them take up any more space in my head. That I wouldn’t spend another second feeling scared. I force myself to feel anger instead, then will that anger to swallow my fear, and thoughts of revenge, of getting even, fight through the haze. I latch onto them.
I pour a third shot and swallow it as a single tear breaks past my lashes. It rolls down my cheek and falls onto my chest. With the back of my hand, I wipe it away, then meet my own eyes in the mirror once more. I glare at my reflection until the panic starts to fade. Until the scared, vulnerable child I’ve outgrown is gone. Until she’s tucked back safely where she belongs.
I return the bottle and shot glass to the shelf under the sink, then slip on the silk robe hanging next to my shower. Back in my bedroom, I turn on the light. The guy in my bed flinches but doesn’t wake, so I round the bed and pull the blanket off him, giving the mattress a shove in the process.
“Get up. Time to go.”
He cracks open a confused eye. “What?”
