Page 79 of The Misfits
“K-knife.” My voice still sounds so foreign to me. Not because of a lack of use, but because it’s been so long since I’ve used it I keep anticipating a girl’s voice, but the one that leaves my mouth is far more feminine and mature. I don’t sound like a silly little girl who does as she is told and only speaks when spoken to. I sound like a woman.
Like a woman in love.
After nodding in agreement to the one voice in my head, I work the words I want to speak through my head three times before stuttering out, “I-I didn’t make h-his sandwich right.”
Dexter traces the scar gentler this time while muttering, “A smidge to the left, and you would have lost an eye.”
I grit my teeth when I recall a doctor saying the same thing. I wasn’t angry about his assessment of my condition. It was the fact he sent me home with the man I told him had stabbed me.
The system is flawed, and more times than not, it is the victims who get harmed further by it.
After weaving my fingers through Dexter’s thick hair, I trickle my fingertip over a scar I noticed when he had his head buried between my legs.
When I lock my eyes with his, I wordlessly ask him what happened.
“That was a broom,” he murmurs a couple of seconds later. He rolls onto his back, which pulls my hand away from his scar before saying, “We had recently returned from a hunt. I didn’t know my mom had mopped the floor, so when I trekked across it with muddy boots, she struck me over the head.” He smiles before he shakes his head. “For how little my mom was, you wouldn’t think she was capable of thirteen stitches.”
I desperately want to ask why his mother never used her strength against his father, but before I can, Dexter stands from the bed, stuffs his feet into a pair of jeans without any boxer shorts, then shifts on his feet to face me. “Come on. We need to get on the road before the sun completely disappears.”
As my eyes dart between his, wordlessly asking where we’re going, I scoot past the outdated candy bars we gorged on when my stomach rumbled louder than Dexter’s grunts when he comes. I was starving, and although I would prepare Dexter’s food without the special ingredients I forever placed in my father’s meals, he’s adamant I willnevercook for him.
I would have been upset if he didn’t grin while muttering his comment.
He has a nice smile.
I like it a lot.
And so do we.
“Ravenshoe, remember?” Dexter answers after tying his boot laces. “The band flies out next week.”
I freeze, unsure if it is hurt enraging me or jealousy. Rise Up’s spouses travel with them everywhere they go, so is Dexter rushing to Ravenshoe to stop Cleo leaving with Marcus or was he being honest when he said he’d make the people who hurt me pay.
I want to believe it is the latter, but I’m not a girl who’s ever placed first.
Last is the only spot I’ll ever achieve.
“What was that?”
I peer past my shoulder, curious as to what has Dexter’s attention. When I see nothing behind me but walls ruined by tape that held onto the paint better than the magazine articles I covered them with, I drift my eyes back to Dexter.
I swallow harshly. He isn’t looking at anything behind me.
He’s staring straight at me.
“The look in your eyes. What was that?” A mix of anger and disgust crosses his face before he spits out, “Surely, you don’t think he should be let off scot-free. He hurt you, Megan. He lied to you time and time again. He should be licking the mud off your fucking boots, and I’m going to make sure he does if it’s the last thing I do.”
I stare at him in shock.
In absolute bewilderment.
He didn’t mention Cleo once. Not even his thoughts veered toward her.
This is all about me and him wanting to right the wrongs people have done to me.
I told you, mutters a voice in my head.Carving his name into your stomach was the right thing to do. He loves it, and he loves you too.
Incapable of denying the absolute accuracy of her statement, I dip my chin, snatch up the schedule Dexter printed last night, then hightail it down the stairs to get dressed.
