My soon-to-be ex-husband’s family.
Only six more months to go and I’ll be free of him. He won’t contest the divorce due to the plea deal worked out with his lawyer, and the don’t-talk-to-the-press money his family deposited into my checking account is enough for me to live on for years. I’m not exactly proud that I took their money, but Penn owed me since he had taken every dime of mine. Spent every penny of my hard-earned money on whores, drinking, and gambling…big trucks and fast boats, just like in a country music song.
Fitting, I guess, since that’s how I made a living before we married—making videos of me singing covers and original songs, and then posting them on Facebook.
Picking myself off the floor, I move to the living room and lie down on the sofa. Staring up at the distressed tin squares that make up the ceiling, I force myself to breathe in and out until my racing pulse slows to a walk.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so scared of men anymore. Penn served his time in jail and has moved on, living it up in some tropical country while his family maintains that he’s getting healthy. Always, they want to blame the drugs and alcohol and his post-traumatic stress disorder from serving in Afghanistan. Yes, I know those things fueled his rages, but as the one on the receiving end of his fists and kicks, I don’t give a good damn.
My lawyer told me I should be grateful he got any time at all because most sons of prominent political figures don’t serve at all.
“Grateful—ha!” I mutter. The only thing I feel like I should be grateful for is the easy divorce. Although waiting for twelve months to be allowed to divorce is a joke, especially when you consider the circumstances. Or the pictures of what he’d done to me.
In any case, Forrestville was supposed to be where I start over, not relive my past. Officer Hunter Sloan is not the person I want as my neighbor. He’s not someone I’m interested in at all. The entire male species is off-limits until further notice.
And there’s no way some hot cop with a sexy smile and—
“Stop it,” I snap. That’s how things started with Penn. I was nursing a broken heart and met him. A very sexy bad boy in Army fatigues—the exact opposite of my pacifist Boy Scout of an ex-boyfriend who was the epitome of a good guy.
Apparently, I find extremes very attractive.
Obviously, I am a stupid girl.
Dust motes fall, catching the last rays of the sun. They seem to fill the room and sparkle. Reaching out my hand, I try to catch them, but they fall through the cracks between my fingers.
It’s useless, just like me.
I have no use.
I’m empty, but I don’t want to be filled anymore.
—
The next day, I go for a walk around the block. I hate running. Mostly I hate running because my right kneecap hasn’t completely healed from where Penn stomped on it.
The day is already humid, heat rising in waves from the sidewalk on the side of the street that isn’t shaded by trees. It would be better to walk on the shaded side, but I want the sun. I want a tan, but thanks to Penn’s handiwork, I have scars and bruises that haven’t faded completely, so no beach daycations for me.
Besides, who would I go with? I have no friends or family nearby. In fact, my friends are no longer my friends—Penn had put a stop to that, claiming that my friends were sluts who didn’t respect their husbands. As for my family, they think I’ve moved to the West Coast and have a new job that won’t allow for time off until Christmas.
My phone rings and I sigh at the familiar tone.
Somehow my mother knows when I’m thinking of her and always calls. She even called the first time Penn hit me so hard that I couldn’t see straight, which made answering the phone difficult.
“Hello?”
“Evangeline, sugar. I was thinking of you,” she begins and I brace for the lecture about coming to see them.
“I still can’t come home until Christmas.” My heart catches at the sight of a group of mothers pushing strollers. They look so happy in their group, like best friends who have been together for years.
Quickly, I step into a yard dotted with pink flamingos that have mini HAPPY FIFTIETH, PAULA banners across the front of each one to avoid them.
“Which is why your father and I are going to fly in to see you,” she says excitedly. “But not until Thanksgiving.”
Panic fills me and I stumble into a flamingo, sending it to the ground and causing pain to radiate up my leg. I bite back a curse and kneel in the yard to fix the stupid bird.
I can’t tell her the truth. She doesn’t know the reason why Penn and I separated, only that things didn’t work out and he’s in rehab. I think my parents are sympathetic to that, and maybe even a little disappointed that I would leave my husband in his time of need. Yet another thing that’s my fault.
But I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t admit that my husband abused me and I stayed with him for six years before finally escaping that hell.
I just can’t.