Page 1 of Where You Belong

Prologue

Haelynn

I’ve stared at the same text on my phone for the past thirty minutes. The dread filling the pit of my stomach is insurmountable. The darkness of the room nearly swallows me whole.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living two different lives.

During the day, I put on a brave face for my son. He’s the only thing I have in my life to keep me going, and I fight every day to keep from burdening him with my pain.

When he drifts off to sleep, the sinking depression I’ve managed to keep at bay during the day threatens to break the barrier until nothing is left to fend it off.

I rub my fingers over my face. My hair falls around me like a curtain, and I continue my path, pushing them through the strands and gripping them in my fist.

Every night I sit here, overwhelmed by the impending moment when he’ll come home, and I have nowhere left to run. Nowhere to hide.

Headlights flash through the window, and unease twists in my stomach like a knot. In the distance, I hear the faint sound of the garage door open, mixed with the steady beat of my heart hammering in my chest.

Tears fill the brim of my eyes, and my lips quiver as I fight to keep my emotions bottled up tight. I squeeze my eyes shut as a teardrop lands on my cheek and streaks down my face. I quickly swipe the palm of my hand over my damp skin and let out a heavy exhale.

It will get better. One day, it will get better.

I’ve repeated those words to myself so many times, I’m beginning to wonder if I believe them to be true or if I’m trying to will myself there.

The door leading from the garage into the house slams shut with force and jolts me from my thoughts. My hand pats around on the bathroom rug, searching for my phone to check the baby monitors to see if Huxton woke up from the noise.

Atlas is in one of his moods. I could sense it from the clipped responses in his text he sent me earlier tonight. As expected, he couldn’t care less about the fact our son should be sleeping in the bedroom next to ours.

Huxton is fast asleep in bed with his little arm draped above his head. His soft snores are drowned out by the white noise machine. When enough time has passed without him moving or crying, I’m convinced the door slamming didn’t wake him.

My husband is the reason I dread putting my son to bed. I know when I do, I’m only another minute away from when he’ll walk through the door.

In the early part of our marriage, I spent so much time trying to convince him to come home earlier. I tried telling him how much I missed him, how hard it was doing it alone when he’d be gone anywhere from ten to twelve hours a day only to come home, eat, and go straight to bed.

In the beginning, he tried, but as the days went by, it started happening more and more until we were back to where we started. I’ve spent so much time crying, practically begging him to put us first.

I have no more energy left.

I can make out the faint sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing he’d change his clothes and go to sleep. I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, saying a prayer he’ll leave me alone tonight.

When his footsteps draw near, I blink through the tears forming beneath the crack of the door. He doesn’t bother knocking, reaching for the doorknob only to find it locked.

“You gonna lock me out of my own fucking bathroom?”

“I’m getting ready to take a bath,” I lie.

It’s not like it’s a stretch, though. If it’ll give me space from him, I’ll do what I need to do. Sometimes I’ll slip in here when he gets home, light some candles, and turn on soothing music to try to relax enough to fall asleep.

“Open the door.” His stern voice sends chills up my spine.

I stand, hitting the light switch above the bathtub. It’s soft, muted, and less harsh on my eyes. If he knew I was sitting here in the dark, he’d ask questions, and I don’t think either of us is ready for the truth of my answers.

My eyes are red and bloodshot from crying. I do a quick swipe under my eye and try to shake the dread eating me up inside. I flip the lock and open the door as he pushes into the space.

His tall frame towers over me. He leans against the doorframe, his eyes roaming over my body, narrowing when they meet my face. The scent of alcohol on his breath wafts through the air.

It takes everything in me to fend off the urge to curl my lip in disgust at the thought of him driving home, further proving his selfishness.

“C’mere,” he drawls, reaching his hand out toward me.

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