MY BODY TENSED as I watched them walk out of the aisle a couple of minutes later. A growl came from low in my chest as her husband wrapped his arm around her waist, and without giving myself a second to think about what I was going to do, I took three steps in their direction before a strong hand came down on my shoulder to stop me.
I jerked to a stop and my head whipped to the side to glare at whoever had stopped me, and found Pete laughing so hard, no sound was coming out. I started to step away from him, but those few moments were what I’d needed in order to breathe and remember what could happen to Harlow if I were to try to approach her in front of her husband.
I forced my body to relax—a process that took longer than it should have—and plastered a smile as I turned to look at the other guys, who were laughing as hard as Pete was. I was just glad they hadn’t seen Harlow with her husband; I didn’t need that shit from them. “What did I miss?”
Everyone sobered up when distinct tones went off on our radios, followed by a dispatcher’s voice calling out which engines, ladders, and battalions were needed to go out to a structure fire. Before the dispatcher had even finished, we were already hurrying to the front of the store. The rest of the guys ran toward the truck, but Pete and I went to leave the cart containing bags of the vegetables and fruits we had managed to grab in the short time we’d been in there with an employee.
As we turned to head out, I caught a glimpse of Harlow walking toward the checkout lanes. Her face was filled with pain—not the kind I would expect when she was near her husband, but a kind I knew and felt deep. Pain because we were so close, but there was still so much separating us. Pain because we’d lost years, and didn’t know if we’d ever be able to make them up. Pain because I had always loved her, and knew she still loved me, and even after seven years, she was still technically untouchable.
Chapter 14
Harlow
Present Day—Richland
FLIP EGGS; DON’T burn the eggs. Flip eggs; don’t burn the eggs—they have to be perfect. Flip eggs; then grab the toast. Coffee . . . coffee comes last, I chanted ceaselessly to myself two days later. It was the only way to keep myself composed at that moment.
I slid the spatula under the edge of one of Collin’s eggs, and after checking the bottom of it, flipped it over, then did the same with the other. Don’t leave them long; they need to be perfect. Put away the bread. Grab the toast and butter it, then check the eggs again. I took a step away from the stove and reached for the loaf of bread, but my hand stilled on it when I finally noticed the unpleasant feeling moving through my veins. He’d come in silently, but I knew he was there.
It wasn’t at all like the feeling I had when I was in a room with Knox. That kind of energy left me feeling like I was floating—like his presence, or even just the sound of his voice, was giving me the greatest kind of high. This energy that filled the room whenever Collin was near had a pit forming in my stomach. It left me shaking, and I would often find myself holding my breath—as if somehow that inane act could help me get in control of my body again. Or maybe because I was secretly hoping that it could help me disappear from his radar.
Child . . . my husband had reduced me to a chanting, frightened child.
Forcing myself to continue making Collin’s breakfast and not acknowledge his presence, I failed to stop my shaking even though my lungs were protesting the lack of oxygen.
Tie the bread off; put it up. Grab the knife; stop shaking. Stop shaking. Stop shaking. Damn it; stop shaking! Butter the toast; grab a plate. Check his eggs . . . they need to be perfect. You can’t make him mad again.
I’d woken up to my monster this morning. No. Not my monster. My new monster . . . the unpredictable one—even more terrifying than the one I’d been living with for the past two and a half years. The rest of Tuesday and all day Wednesday, he’d been strange. He’d tried to be loving and attentive, but had moments where he’d lash out, only to rein it in just as fast. He’d also told me not to work so hard. The house is already spotless, Harlow. Why are you cleaning? I can make lunch for us. Why don’t I take you out to dinner tonight; you do too much for me. Just make sure to cover up that . . . thing, he’d said as he gestured to my throat.
This morning, however, had been different:
I’d woken up with his hand covering my nose and mouth; my arms and legs were flailing before I was even fully conscious.
“Two days of spoiling you, and suddenly you just sleep through alarms?” he’d yelled.
A deep, warning growl soon followed when I’d finally connected with his stomach. It had been the wrong thing to do, but it was instinct when he was making it impossible to breathe. He’d released my face, and I’d immediately began dragging in air. But before I could take in two breaths, the back of his hand had come down across my right cheek.