I rinse the dog hair and stench from my hands in the big stainless-steel sink, watching the bubbles swirl down the drain, wishing they’d take my broken heart with them. I think an empty void, a wasteland where my heart used to be would be preferable to this deep aching.

Yeah, Marie. Thanks for the heads-up about the suffering. Spot on, bitch. I wish I’d listened, believed her. But even if I had, I still would’ve fallen for Scott. I still believe that. I couldn’t have resisted his charms.

“Maddie, baby . . . really, just go home and get some rest. I can handle the dogs today,” Aunt May prods me, handing me a handful of paper towels and flicking her head at me, telling me without words to shoo.

She’d been relentlessly loving all day, listening as I’d told her everything. She had even promised to take Stella a casserole first thing tomorrow morning, which I know will be appreciated.

“Are you sure? I know you had help all weekend,” I start but can’t finish the sentence. I breathe, steeling myself. “You had help while I was with Scott this weekend, but I’m scheduled to help today. I’m fine. Or fine enough.” The implied ‘see, I even said his name without crying’ is silent but understood.

Aunt May scoffs. “Girl, you’re about useless today . . . for good reason. Go home, take a nap, and get ready for your shift tonight. I have volunteers coming in later today, but Stella needs you at one hundred percent.”

I nod, giving in because I know she’s right. I toss the paper towels in the trash and grab my purse from the office as she watches me with worried eyes. Right before I leave, she calls out. “Hey, Maddie, you might be a sparrow again right now, but I’ve seen you fly. You’ll be an eagle again.”

Aunt May’s Dolly-isms. Even now, they give me a smidge of comfort, a hint of a smile. It’s a start, but before the spark of flame catches, it dies out, leaving me cold once again. “Thanks, Auntie. I’ll be by tomorrow if I can.”

I don’t even pet Maple and Syrup as I walk out, a zombie unaware of the life surrounding her.

By that night, I’ve forced myself to rally. Not able to smile and be my usual self, but at least finding distraction in the busy work of running the bar.

My new helper, Dana, isn’t half bad, and she keeps the beer flowing smooth and suds-free with a smile. She looks great too, her dark hair and smoky eyes giving her a sultry exotic look. Thank God she’s eye candy for our tip jar tonight, because I’m definitely not holding up my end of the bargain there.

Tiff had done our last-minute tweaks for me, finally throwing a knotted bandana around my rat’s nest of hair and forcing three thick layers of mascara on my lashes because I flat-out refused to put on makeup.

Funny to think that only a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been seen without a full face. But Scott made me feel comfortable in my own skin and appreciated the flaws I hated, like my freckles and the little birthmark on my jawline. When he kissed and licked them, appreciated the beauty in them, I could finally see it too. And now, without him, I just don’t give a fuck. Am I masked? Am I exposed? Not my concern. I’m just here to help Stella and serve drinks. Everything else is unimportant, trivial shit, easily dismissed.

Hustling along, setting out drink after drink, I get lost in the repetition. I still have moments where Scott takes over my mind . . . when a customer ordered a Snow Queen martini, I’d thought they were fucking with me at first and almost came over the bar. Or when a drunken college guy flirted with me, I had a flashing image of Scott white-knighting me again . . . and sometimes, I look up and down the bar feeling like I’m missing something to realize it’s not a drink order. It’s him.

I’m swirling a white rag though a pitcher, setting up for the next round, when I hear it.

“A whiskey shooter, Wild Turkey, with a half-finger of water.”

I slowly turn, trying not to drop the pitcher, and it’s him. The same shit-eating grin, with the dimple on the left side that I thought was so fucking sexy when we first met. Those same devious-looking, psycho-killer eyes that I thought were just naughty before I realized just how deep the crazy went. It’s Rich, my ex-ex-boyfriend.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Trying to get a drink, but the service here sucks,” he says with a smile, like it’s a private joke. My jaw drops at his gall.

I clack my mouth closed, disgusted with him.

“Please leave,” I say with as much forceful strength as I can inject into my voice. I will not cower to him, not ever again.

“Why?” Rich asks, leaning on the bar and grinning more, his five o’clock shadow crinkling as he chews his ever-present bubblegum. “I haven’t done anything to anybody.”

I look for help, recognizing in one sweep of my eyes that my bar knife is way at the other end of the bar, Tiffany is in back, taking her break, and Stella looks like something that the cat dragged in after it got run over in the street. I’m on my own. But I can do this. He doesn’t have a hold on me anymore. “What do you want?”

“A Wild Turkey, finger of water,” he says again. I grab the cheap booze, pouring it for him and setting the tumbler in front of him. Rich takes it and sips his drink. “So . . . hear you been dating a big shot.”

“That’s none of your business,” I reply automatically, not wanting to give him any ammunition. A beat later, I realize he said it not to get information but to let me know that he already knew. It sends a chill down my spine that he knows anything about my private life at all. “How’d you find out? Have you been following me?”

“Maybe,” Rich says faux-casually. “A man has to have hobbies, after all.”

My heart freezes, and I nearly turn to call 9-1-1, but the cops will just make him leave the bar. A stressful scene is the last thing Stella needs. And in some twisted way, I want to handle Rich on my own. Aunt May was right. I can fly like an eagle. I might be broken right now, but it’s not because of a pussy like Rich. With him, I can handle myself. A tiny voice whispers in the back of my mind, and if not, there’s a roomful of people who might jump in to help if it gets ugly.

I head down to the other end of the bar, where I get a couple of locals a microbrew. Tiffany comes out, and I give her a little look, and she glances and sees Rich, her eyes narrowing. “Should I get Stella?”

“No . . . but keep your eyes open and watch my back. I don’t want Stella to be stressed out if she doesn’t have to be,” I whisper.

I go back to work, hoping Rich will leave, but after twenty minutes, he’s still there, obnoxiously rapping his tumbler on the bar. “Another Wild Turkey!”

Sweat dots my forehead, but I head down the bar. “Rich, I don’t think—”

Quick as a snake, his hand shoots out to grab my wrist. “You dumb bitch, you don’t think. That’s your problem. I want to talk.”

“Let go of me!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. None of the other patrons notice anything, and I try to pull away, but Rich’s grip is iron hard.

I look at his hand wrapped around my wrist, like he did so many times before. Sometimes gentler, sometimes more forceful, but that last night . . . it’d been different. He’d been testing me to see where my boundary was. He didn’t think I’d push back. He was wrong then, and he’s sure as fuck wrong now.

“We’re over and I have nothing to say to you.”

“Over?” Rich growls, pulling me closer to the bar. “You walked out on me. I never said it was over. I fucking own you,” he snarls. “You wouldn’t be shit without me. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Fury fills my body, and before I even think about what I’m doing, my free hand swings out, slapping him across the face. In the moment of shock, both his and mine, I twist my wrist, jerking away. “Let me go!” I yell, stumbling back. The bottle of Wild Turkey tumbles and shatters on the floor like a bomb, freezing everything in the bar.

Rich laughs, shaking his head. “You stupid bitch. Just like you to—”

I don’t let him start up with his gaslighting insults, interrupting him to yell, “Get out. Now!” as patrons stare with dropped jaws and wide eyes.

Every bit of anger I felt each time he hurt me, emotionally and physically, pours out of me in waves of hot resistance. He made me weak, drop by drop, bit by bit, so subtly I didn’t even notice it at first. But I see it now, hear the countless manipulations he put me through echoing in my head. And they wash away in the tide of my strength. I am powerful. I am capable. And the people in my life, especially the men, need to fucking realize it.

Stella is suddenly next to me, the mama bear out of her hibernation and her hand trembling with rage as she grips Slugger, our steel-core baseball bat. “Get the fuck outta my bar!”

Rich looks unconcerned, brushing off his jacket. “I was just leaving anyway. See you around, sweetheart.” The endearment that had once seemed loving sounds ominously sinister.

Rich retreats, and as the door closes, my shakes start. Tiffany rushes over to hug me while Stella strokes my back, and the patrons give us a little bit of space. “Are you okay?” Stella asks. “I didn’t see him come in.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll be fine,” I whisper, staring at my hands until they stop shaking. “I was hoping I’d never see him again.”

“You keep the bat near you under the bar, you hear?” Stella says. “Take that thing straight to his head if he comes back in here. If I see him, I’ll do it myself.”

I nod and set Slugger near my station, where I can get it quickly. I’m proud of the way I stood up for myself, so much different from the times before. But as the adrenaline wears off, my hands keep shaking. For the rest of the night, I try and concentrate, but by the time last call comes, I’m weak and shaky.

Tiffany notices, coming over after she shoos the last customer out. “You okay, hun?”

“I don’t feel good,” I admit. “Stomach feels like I had too many Devin burgers.”

“I heard that!” Devin growls, but Tiffany ignores him.

“I don’t blame you. After that fucker came in, I’ve had my head on a swivel all night. Here, you go on home and let me finish up with Stella. You’ve done that enough for us, and tonight, we can return the favor. You just get home, lock the door, and try to sleep. Text me when you get there, ‘kay? We’ll be fine here.”

I know I should decline. But I feel off-kilter, and curling up in my bed and hiding away from everything sounds like a relief.

“Thank you,” I mumble, exhaustion taking my voice. “I really do need to lie down.”

Tiffany shrugs. “That’s what friends are for.”

I head to the back, slipping my sweatshirt on over my work tank top. It’s getting cool at night, and it feels good to have the extra layers. Leaving, I stick my head in to say goodnight to Stella. “Hey, heading home. Tiff will close up, and I think Devin’s gonna take you two home.”

“Thank you, honey,” Stella says. She somehow looks stronger, but still older. “And Madison, if that son of a bitch ever comes back in . . . you whack him first, ask questions later, got me?”

I nod, giving her a thumbs-up. Devin offers to walk me to my car, and though it seems silly, I play it smart and agree. The full moon’s out, and it’s already cool enough that a light mist is rising from the ground as we cross the parking lot. I keep looking around, but everything seems clear. I don’t see anyone as I get in and lock the doors before cranking the engine. Devin waves, running back inside to finish up for the night. And I pull out, ready to collapse in bed and hit restart for tomorrow.

I’m barely halfway home, though, when I notice the car in my rearview mirror. Something about the shape of the lights niggles in the back of my mind. I change lanes . . . and the car does too. I slow down to let them pass . . . but they slow down too.

I speed up, but the other car closes the distance, and my heart freezes when I finally recognize the car. It’s Rich. The black matte paint, a custom job that was his pride and joy.

I step on the gas harder, but I’m driving a twenty-year-old Toyota with wheezy valves and a worn automatic transmission that even right off the assembly line has an engine like two hamsters under the hood.

Meanwhile, Rich is driving a car with three hundred and seventy-five horsepower, a number he drilled into me. He must’ve bragged about it a thousand times. The wide tires grab the pavement and gobble up the distance between us, and as he gets close enough, I can see the grin on Rich’s face.

Terror grips me as I whip around a curve, but he takes it easily, seconds later back on my bumper so close I think he’s going to run me off the road. I lay on my horn, hoping to get him to back off or to get someone’s attention, but it’s late, and we’re in an industrial part of town. Nobody’s nearby.

I whip the car left and right, trying to shake Rich, but he’s on my bumper like a magnet. As we pass a warehouse, he bumps me from behind. Not hard, just a tap, but enough to tell me he’s not fucking around. He’s upping the ante, ready to play a game I’m nowhere near prepared to handle against a psychopath.

I cry out and press the gas harder, but I was already almost to the floor, and my leg quakes with the force. I see another turn up ahead, and I swing right, hoping to make it to the gas station ahead, but it’s still about a mile away, the light of the sign filling my vision like a beacon of hope.

The scream that comes out of my throat as Rich taps me again, sending my car careening out of control, is louder than the scream of the bodywork of the Toyota letting go. My rear tire gives out, and I feel the car start to flip as darkness overtakes me.