Jo-Jo: Have you ever regretted something?

Abby Girl: Um, is this a trick question?

Jo-Jo: Humor me.

Abby Girl: I suppose we all do.

Jo-Jo: But I mean, really regretted it? Like so bad it made you sick?

Abby Girl: What have you done, Joey?

Jo-Jo: Whatever you do, don’t miss avocado and bacon. You’ll regret it.

Abby Girl: OMG, Joey. Really?

Jo-Jo: Ha! Mostly kidding. Bacon is great with everything.

Abby Girl: Ugh. I have homework to do ya know.

Jo-Jo: …

Abby Girl: don’t you have insurgents to shoot?

Jo-Jo: I do have a shift in a few, but it’s a little more complicated than that.

Abby Girl: Laters, buddy.

Jo-Jo: Later.

I’d never spent the night in jail before, but somehow that text came back to me from a couple years ago. Abby would have been in grad school then, and probably even been pregnant with Zoey. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her, but I chickened out, like I always did. She never told me she married Evan, and I know now I could have ruined everything for her. My biggest regret was definitely not telling her how I felt over the years.

Not on my regret list?

Taking out Malachai. My fists ached with the minor cuts and bruises; the sheriff who booked me didn’t even feel the need to call a doctor. It didn’t matter. I flexed my fingers and looked at them in the early morning light that shone through the bars across my jail cell. It felt good to hit something. I made a mental note to get back to the gym when I got out of here. I needed to release the anger anywhere else than a kidnapper’s face.

Because I certainly didn’t want to go to jail ever, ever again.

Last night was absolute shit. I’d never even been arrested. Once, my first year in the Marines just after boot camp, I had gotten so drunk with some other privates that we stumbled back to the barracks and fell down a flight of stairs. I often wondered how I’d made it out of that alive. This time, I didn’t deserve this. Malachai was an asshole who took what he wanted, or at least tried to. I wasn’t going to let him have Zoey, not this time. He deserved every punch I landed, which had been every single one.

My head pounded with the small amount of alcohol as it receded my system. I’d been over the limit by less than a point, they said last night, but still enough to land me in the drunk tank. There had been one other guy in here, a large Hispanic man, who sobered up within an hour of arriving and was promptly released. Me, however? They were holding me overnight. Apparently, drunk and violent didn’t get you booked and released in this county.

“Get used to it,” the Sargent who processed my booking said gruffly. They tossed me in a huge cell with a pillow and blanket.

“My hands,” I started to say as another deputy pulled me away.

The Sarge just gave me a look that said, ‘Don’t be a pussy.’ I knew that look well, especially when you’d been in the suck as much as I had.

So here I sat the next morning, anxiously awaiting my paperwork to get released. No charges, they said, and I nearly collapsed with relief. I asked if Malachai Years would be charged, but they blinked at me as if I had asked about an alien.

When they finally opened the hulking steel door and showed me to the outside door, I blinked at the sunrise of the late morning. My truck was still at the bar, and I should call Abby, but something told me that wasn’t the best idea. As much as I had tried to calm her last night, I could sense the anger coming from her. Was it directed at me? I didn’t know.

I rummaged through the prison-issue bag and finally found my cell phone. I dialed her number immediately, but it went straight to her voicemail. For God’s sake, Abby, answer your phone!

It immediately blinked red at me with five percent battery. I groaned and dialed the number of the one person I knew would answer.

“Sam?” I asked when he picked up after a few rings.

“Joey?” His voice was quiet, groggy. He cleared his throat. “What’s up, bud?”

I don’t think I’d ever called him. Like most of my college friends, text was the way to go. “I’m sorry to bother you so early,” I started, “but I need a favor.”

“Yeah? Everything okay?”

“I need a ride.”

Sam chuckled. “Did you hook up with Jessica last night?”

“No,” I snapped, annoyed. “Look, long story, I’ll explain, but I’m at the jail.”

“The jail?” Sam sounded fully alert now. “What the hell did you do last night, Joe?”

“I said I’ll explain. Just pick me up as soon as you can, alright?”

“I’ll be right there.”

Too late, I realized that Sam couldn’t drop me off—he’d figure out who I was living with. Thankfully, Abby’s car wasn’t in the driveway as he pulled up. I’d told him part of the story; that my girlfriend had some drama and there was a breaking and entering. Sam applauded me for beating the shit out of the assailant. I was careful not to mention names.

No sooner had his car rounded the corner down the street than Abby pulled into the driveway. She stepped out of the car to see me standing at the top of the driveway.

I didn’t know what I was expecting, other than maybe holding her. I opened my arms and stood there like a fool while she walked right past me.

“Joey,” she drawled, and I noticed the lines under her eyes.

“Where’s Zoey?” I asked, jogging to keep up as she strode to the front door and unlocked it. “Where did you go?”

“We spent the night at my mother’s,” she said, not looking back as she went inside. I followed her.

“What smells like Windex?”

She threw me a look, then went in the bedroom.

From the doorway, I could see her pull out a suitcase from the closet and begin filling it. “I’m going to stay at my mother’s for a couple of days,” she announced without looking back at me.

“What?” I felt like she’d punched me in the face. I strode into the bedroom, grabbing her wrist and spinning her toward me. “What’s going on, Abby?” My hands settled at her waist.

She looked up at me, her wide eyes dilated, exhausted. This close they were also red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying most of the night. “I need some space. You can stay here—or go back to your parents’. I don’t care. I just need some time to straighten things out.” She threw my hands down and turned back to packing.

“I know last night was stressful, I’m sorry it had to go that way. I’m so sorry. Abby.”

She looked at me briefly. “Why was there only one bullet in the gun, Joey?”

I blinked at her. “One shot, one kill.”

She turned again, gaping at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

“What?” I said again, wondering what I’d said wrong. “You shot at Malachai and missed, Abby. What if you hadn’t the second time?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have missed.”

I blinked at her. What? “Well, I wouldn’t have.”

Her mouth gaped open at me. “You said that so coldly. If you had that gun last night, Joey, this would be a different story. Malachai would be dead, and you would be on the other side of the prison bars!”

“No jury would convict me over a breaking and entering!” I blurted. “What is going on, Abby? I saw the way you held that Glock. Don’t tell me that was your first time touching a gun.”

She ignored my comment. “This is why I can’t be with a soldier, Joey. I’m sorry. It’s over.”

I stepped back from her. Her words wounded me greater than anyone who had ever shot at me in Fallujah. “Abby, this is your father talking. Please, let’s talk about—”

She slammed the suitcase with a bang and hoisted it to the floor. “I did a lot of soul searching last night, Joey. If I want to continue to teach and keep Zoey safe—and those are my two priorities right now—then I can’t be with you.”

“Okay, alright.” I conceded because I knew she was upset, and last night had been hard on both of us. “But one thing, before you go?”

She sighed. “What, Joey?”

“Please come to dinner with my parents in a few days? I promise you, this is the last thing I’ll ask.”

She bit her lip for a moment.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally. She turned to go.

“Before you leave, Abby, I just have one thing to say.”

“Joey, don’t, please.”

“I love you.”

She dropped her suitcase handle. “Jesus, you had to say it now? Why, Joey?”

“Because you and Zoey mean the world to me. At this point, I don’t think I can live without either of you.”

“We’ve been together five weeks, Joey. That’s it!”

“And years before that, in high school. Remember?”

“We were never together. You remember that, don’t you?” Her eyes flashed, and her fists balled at her side. “I asked you to date me, and you turned me down.”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”

“I do!” she yelled. “I remember exactly what you said to me!”

I stared at her, speechless, as the memories flooded into my head.

“Let me tell you what you said, in case you don’t remember it clearly enough. ‘Sorry, I don’t date fat girls, but we can be friends.’” Her cheeks heated with rage. “I died that day, Joey, and for eight years after that. Did you even care?”

“I cared. Jesus, Abby, I did.” I ran a hand through my hair. I’d barely slept in that jail cell, and exhaustion was killing me. “I have loved you for eight years. Even when you told me you’d moved on, I still loved you.”

“You say that,” she argued, “but what are we now, Joey? What am I? A conquest? A notch on your belt? Because the whole fucking town knows about us. The Dean knows about us. She called me this morning. They won’t renew my contract next term. I’m going to lose everything!”

Everything from two days ago at the bar hit me like a sack of bricks. Jason and Jeremy knew. Even Sam knew, or thought he did. And apparently, they couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

“I don’t care about that,” I told her, “let them talk. I just want you. We can figure this out.”

“You don’t want me, you don’t even know me. You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know.” She threw her head back and squared her shoulders, but even I could see the shimmer in her eyes. She was minutes from falling apart.

I stepped toward her. “For once in your life, Abby, will you stop being so damn stubborn? I want to know. I want you to break. Break, for me, and let me put you back together. Let me be the one to carry some of your burden. Don’t do it alone anymore—for Zoey’s sake.”

Zoey’s name was what did it. A tear slipped out of her eye and she stared at me. In that moment she was so broken, so vulnerable, I didn’t know what to do.

“Evan.” Her voice was a whisper. “You don’t know about Evan. Haven’t you ever noticed why I don’t go downstairs?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “What is downstairs, anyway?”

“That’s where he died,” she said softly. “I know, because I was there.” She tried to swallow but I could see was struggling to hold it together.

I sighed. “Oh, Abby.” I couldn’t imagine what she’d walked into, or seen. I had questions, too. Was Zoey there? Did Abby try to convince him not to?

None of that mattered now. I couldn’t let her stand there and suffer. I pulled her to me and held her tight.

Just as I figured, she wouldn’t cry. Even now, even when everything was falling to pieces, she wouldn’t let herself. Her hands lay limp at her side as I wrapped my arms around her, but she let her head rest into my shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” I murmured into her hair, “I’m not going anywhere. If it’s space you need, take it. But I promise you, I’ll be right here waiting when you decide to come back.”

“What if I never come back?” she whispered into my shoulder.

“I’ll wait as long as you need.”

“I can’t promise you anything.”

“Shh,” I said. “I don’t want your promise. I already told you, I just want you.”

Her arms wrapped around my neck then and I pulled her closer. She turned her head and I dipped mine to kiss her.

“You can’t fix me,” she whispered when we parted. “I’m too broken.” I could see her biting her lip. What wasn’t she telling me?

I decided I didn’t care.

“I don’t want to fix you, Abby girl, I just want to make you feel alive again.”

“I love you, Joey Harrison. I’ve always loved you.”

I kissed her again, and as I did I slid my arms under her legs and picked her up. I carried her back to the bedroom, abandoning her suitcase by the front door.

I made her feel alive.