Page 59 of Beneath the Stands (Sugarlake 2)

His hand pulls me back. “You know that, right? I’m so damn lost in my love for you.”

I nod sharply at his words, my fingers tugging on my curls.

“Becca?” His voice is soft, pleading.

I don’t open my eyes.

With a deep sigh, he kisses my forehead and leaves the bed.

My eyes snap open, my gut burning with the need to call him back, but the screams in my head stop the words on my tongue.

It’s late when Eli finally comes back and falls asleep.

Silence blankets the ground, but the quiet is a fraud. Momma’s voice drains from my mind to my heart, piercing holes through

the tissue, leaching away the serenity I’ve worked so hard to find. My body fights the intrusion, desperate to stay whole. Anguished in its plea to forget that Eli spoke pretty words I begged him not to say.

But I can’t forget.

I don’t want to be Eli’s disease.

Sliding out of the bed, I’m careful not to wake him as I pick up my clothes. Halfway through putting on my jeans, realization of what I’m doing hits and my heart splinters, the shards prodding against my lungs. My hand covers my mouth to muffle the cry.

I pause at the bedroom door. My hand shakes against the metal knob, causing a sharp rattle to puncture the calm air. My blurry eyes close, and I focus on the noise. Anything to keep me from turning around.

It doesn’t work. I look anyway.

Eli’s sleeping peacefully. Beautifully. Perfectly. My heart sputters and falls, diving into my stomach and laying there to bleed.

“There was a time I thought that man would move mountains for me.”

I will not become my momma.

With a deep breath, I turn the handle and slip out the door.

30

Eli

It’s the glare of the sun that wakes me. It beams through the curtains, my eyes squeezing tight against the shine. I roll to my side, arms reaching to pull Becca in. Only… I grasp a ghost, my fingers meeting Egyptian cotton instead of her supple skin.

My eyes crack open, forehead scrunching as I gain a bearing on my surroundings. I look around, but don’t see Becca in the room.

Maybe she’s already up?

I stretch before getting out of bed, throwing on a pair of boxer briefs, and stumbling to the bathroom. It’s empty. Grabbing my phone, I head downstairs, the flipping of my stomach urging my feet to move fast.

“Becca?” Her name echoes off the walls I still haven’t filled, and a prickle creeps up my spine.

I reach the kitchen.

Empty.

Dropping onto a barstool, I light up my phone screen. No missed calls. No messages.

I dial her number, not bothering to bring the phone to my ear—straining to hear it ring somewhere in the house. My insides cramp when there’s nothing but silence. I hang up and try again. Straight to voicemail this time.

Something’s off.

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