Starting over started with the back of my dad’s hand across my face. The gush of blood from my nose did exactly what it was meant to do. I stopped trying to jump out of the truck. Stopped begging him to turn around. Stopped asking questions.
It was the first time he ever struck me out of anger.
But it wasn’t the last.
That was three months ago.
“This is for me only, so I can reach you when I need to.” Dad tosses a cheap cell phone on the kitchen counter in our high-rise apartment. “No out-of-town calls.”
His subtext rings loud and clear. No calls to Jake and Jarret.
He made sure my phone and laptop didn’t make the trip to Chicago. But he doesn’t know about the cash I stole from his wallet the week we moved here. Doesn’t know about the phone I bought with it. Doesn’t know that every number I have for Jake, Jarret, and John Holsten has been disconnected since I left.
Or maybe he does know, and he’s just taunting me.
Cruelty has become his coping mechanism. And whiskey. When they both take the reins, I don’t recognize my father.
“I need a car.” I pocket the phone and cross my arms. “I won’t be able to walk in the snow.”
School started this week, but that’s not why I want transportation.
I’m stranded on a concrete island. The air stinks of exhaust and asphalt. Glass and steel blot out the sky. And the noise… I don’t know how city dwellers walk down the street without flinching at the blare of traffic and shouting and sirens.
Maybe Chicago is a nice place, but I’ve never lived in a big city. The air doesn’t smell clean. The food comes in paper boxes. The rhythm of life is too fast and impatient, and the constant din pounds inside my chest, making me feel unhinged and off-kilter.
I ache to go home.
I miss Ketchup.
I need Jake.
It’s been three months, and I haven’t spoken to anyone in Oklahoma. The unbearable isolation is making a meal of my guts, hollowing me out piece by piece.
With the advancement of technology, 928 miles should’ve been insignificant. But Jake and Jarret changed their numbers, and they’re not on social media. The emails I send go unanswered. Same with my handwritten letters.
I went so far as calling local businesses in Sandbank—the diner, post office, bank, and hardware store—and left my new number with the owners, asking that they pass it along when the Holstens stop in.
And still nothing.
Since my dad is alienating me, the same must be true with John Holsten. He’s somehow prevented Jake and Jarret from contacting me. But why?
It still doesn’t make sense why Dad left home. He wants to start over? He’s too ashamed to show his face in Sandbank? There must be another reason. And what’s John’s motivation in this? Severing contact with the only family I’ve ever known is driving me into a black hole with only my self-destructive thoughts to keep me company.
“It’ll be months before it snows here.” Dad hooks a finger around the bottle of whiskey on the counter. “When it does, you can take public transportation.”
He carries the bottle into the sitting room and unscrews the cap. It’s not even eight in the morning.
While the cabinets overflow with alcohol, there’s little else filling the apartment. Minimalistic furnishings shove against barren walls. A couch, TV, coffee maker, and breakfast bar for two. No dining room. No family dinners. No family.
The two bedrooms are just as empty and plain. He hasn’t bothered with warmth or decoration, and he shuts down my suggestions to add a rug, a lamp, anything. Because he doesn’t want to be here. He’s just as miserable as I am.
I follow him into the sitting room, glaring at his slumped, robe-clad back. “I want to visit Lorne.”
He goes still, shoulders stiff, and sets the whiskey on the side table in a calm, controlled movement. Too calm.
I step back, hugging my waist.
“Oklahoma is off limits.” His tone cuts like a knife, but there’s a trace of pain dulling the edges. “You will not go there. You will not contact anyone at the ranch. And you will not mention your brother again.”
He won’t even look at me.
A debilitating ache sears my chest. A septic, twisted, uncontrollable ache. I can’t breathe through it. My face scrunches up, and my hands ball into fists, clenching to smash his head in.
I don’t care if he’s turned his back on me. How can he do this to Lorne?
After my brother was arrested, he remained in custody in lieu of bonds totaling three-hundred-thousand dollars, which my dad refused to pay. Dad also refused to attend his hearings, no matter how much I begged.
I wasn’t there for Lorne when he needed me.
And there won’t be a trial.
During his arraignment, he pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to ten years in Oklahoma’s maximum-security state penitentiary.
Ten years.
I don’t know how to swallow that. It’s permanently stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I cry and cough and vomit, I can’t loosen the agony of it. I can’t accept it.
Why didn’t Lorne fight? Does he think everyone gave up on him? Did Jake and Jarret go to his hearings? He must feel more alone than I do, and that thought hurts so damn much.
“I miss him.” My whisper shivers with vulnerability, imploring a reaction, empathy, some sign that my dad’s still in there somewhere.
“Write him a letter.” Cold. Callous. He lifts the whiskey and drinks from the bottle.
I’ve sent dozens of emails and letters. Is Lorne even getting them?
I also sent a letter to Levi Tibbs, outlining all the ways I hope he suffers. He took a plea bargain. One that will set him free in seven years. I didn’t even get to testify, and I wanted to so badly. Just to be in Oklahoma, to visit my home and my family and Ketchup. And to see Jake again.
Lifting my hand, I stare at the angry pink gash across my palm. In seven years, nothing will stop me from returning to Oklahoma and honoring my oath.
“The man who…h-hurt me will go free before Lorne does.” I curl my fingers, squeezing the scar. “That has to make you feel something. Please, Dad. I’m—”
“Enough!” He slices a hand through the air and grips his nape. “Lorne is dead to me, and I don’t want to hear another goddamn thing about it.” He slouches onto the couch and flicks on the TV. “You’re late for school.”
“I know you’re hurting. If not for Lorne or me, then for the loss of our life. Our home. Mom’s home.”
“You’re walking a dangerous line, little girl.” He stabs a finger at the door. “Go. To. School!”
The heartache constricting my chest is so familiar I should be used to it by now. But every day, it grows louder, more formidable, and I’m too bone-weary to ignore it.
“Why are we here?” I sniff back the rising tears. “Why aren’t we at home, fighting for him? He’s your son and—”
“Get out!”
“Dad, please. I feel so alone.” And sad. I don’t know how to dig my way out of this infernal emptiness. “Living here is slowly killing me. I need my family.”
He bursts from the couch and forcibly grabs a handful of my hair. Wrenching my neck at a painful angle, he uses his grip to haul me toward the door. My legs twist and drag, and my hair rips at the roots, searing pain across my scalp.
“Stop it! You’re hurting me!” I clutch his arms and try to wrench free. “Please, Dad. I’m sorry!”
He yanks open the door and tosses me into the hall. My backpack lands at my feet, and the door slams, rattling the walls.
Sharp, acidic loathing hits me hard in so many places. My knees buckle. My lungs gulp for air, and the corridor closes in.
I grab the backpack and bolt for the stairs, desperate to escape the downward spiral. But it chases me like a charging, fire-breathing monster, ramming through me, seething, raging, and clawing at my bones. I sprint faster, push harder, trying to outrun it. I can’t let it pull me down.
In the stairwell, I slow my gait and catch my breath.
Pull your shit together.
Tuck it all away.
Bury it deep.
God, if I could just talk to Jake, this wouldn’t feel so terrifying.
The urge to text his old number trembles my fingers, but an undelivered message would only twist the knife. Doesn’t matter if I can’t hear his voice. I know he’s thinking about me, and I trust in the love that tethers us. We’re strong enough to weather time and distance and everything else this forsaken world throws at us. I just need to be patient. He’ll contact me as soon as he’s able.
Until then, Dad is all I have, and I don’t know how to help him. He didn’t drink when we lived on the ranch. Didn’t use profanity or raise his hand against me. He worked all the time. Cattle ranching is what he knows. What did he think he’d do here?
Escape seemed to be the only thing on his mind.
Since he sold his shares of the ranch, he doesn’t need a job. But he needs something. A hobby, a passion, a thing to latch onto and distract him from drinking.
He needs to be my dad again.
Eight floors down, I rub away the tears and pull in a bracing breath. Then I step onto the crowded downtown street. Pedestrians breeze by me, and my shoulders hike against the ungodly clamor of traffic.
With the bag slung over my back and my eyes on my square toe boots, I make my way toward school.
It’s only my third day of eleventh grade, but I’ve managed to hide my pain. The girls chatter in my ear, and the boys gawk at me just like the ones in Oklahoma. They don’t care about me. They’re not my friends, and it’s just as well.
I’m set on leaving this city, not making a home here. If I have to stay until I graduate, I’ll cope. I’ll graduate with honors, pre-college credits, and scholarships to the university back home.
The next four blocks lead me to a taxi-congested intersection. As I turn right and separate from the flow of foot traffic, a group of high school guys veer onto my path.
They crowd the sidewalk, surrounding me on all sides. My pulse speeds up.
“Hey, country girl.” One of them steps in front of me, walking backward and leering at my legs above the boots.
“Excuse me,” I say politely and slide around him.
He grips my wrist, halting me, holding too tight. Fingers constrict like rope against my skin. Greedy eyes press against me. Voices rasp with masculine need. It’s crippling. Obliterating.
The sidewalk melts into dirt. Glass buildings blur and warp until all I see is the ravine with its shadows and its brutal men with sick desires. Memories unfurl from the cavernous gallows inside me. Hot breath. Bruising hands. Slithering across my skin, prying between my thighs, and stabbing into me.
“Let go.” My voice has no sound, but the shackle on my wrist releases.
The ravine bleeds away, and the noise of the city crashes in.
“You okay?” Blue eyes blink beneath furrowed brows. “You’re the new girl. It’s Conor, right?”
I stumble back on wobbly legs, bumping into pedestrians. For the first time since I’ve been in this city, I’m grateful for the overcrowded sidewalk. People dart to and fro in a hellfire hurry to move around one another, but someone would stop if I screamed.
The blue-eyed boy peruses my plaid t-shirt dress, slowing on the buttons between my breasts, lingering on the gathered cinch at my waist, and stopping at the hem above my knees. I burn to run, but I fight the impulse, because dammit, I’m not scared. I’m not.
“I’ve always wanted to take a ride in the country.” He bites down on the lower half of his smile. “Or maybe, take the country for a ride.”
His friends laugh.
My spine tingles. “I’m not interested.”
“I haven’t offered anything.” He returns to my eyes and winks. “Yet.”
He’s just a dumb boy. Cocky, flirty, but harmless.
Are you sure?
“I need to go.” I spin on my heel and stride away as my heart slams against the wall of my chest.
I expect them to chase, but they hang back, following at a distance only because we’re headed to the same place.
Maybe I overreacted. Or maybe they’ll think I’m a bitch and leave me alone. That works since I don’t have the right pieces inside me to make friends.
I’m not myself, and I don’t know how to find that girl again.
I’m not where I used to be or where I want to be.
I’m lost.
Hollow.
Alone.
I just need my home. My family. Jake.
928 miles.
Two years.
It’s not so far, even though it seems like it.
Will Lorne forgive me for not visiting? Will Jarret still love me? Will Jake wait for me?
Pulling out my phone, I cue up a Rascal Flatts song. Ear buds in, I shut out the world and let the chords of What Hurts The Most carry me forward.
It hurts to go to a school so far away from home, but I’m going.
It hurts to endure my dad’s drunken temper, but I’m enduring.
It hurts to miss Jake with every breath I take, but I’m doing it.
I’m missing him and still breathing, and that hurts the most.