Love in Pieces (Love in Pieces Duet #1)

CHAPTER 1 | Abby

The ringing in my ears muffles the sound of Sam’s hand connecting with the soft flesh of my cheek. The familiar sting immediately follows with a vengeance. His strong bellow echoes through the room, reverberating off the blank bedroom walls. My hand covers my cheek out of instinct but the rest of me stills as if staying immobile might make me invisible.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Abby?” His almost six-foot slim build towers over my small five-foot-two frame. “I’m doing this for us ,” he hisses.

An almost silent whine escapes my chest. Shit.

“What?” he spits, brows raised high.

“I ... I’m sorry,” I manage to get out. A hot tear trickles down my cheek and disappears behind my hand.

“You’re sorry? Now you’re sorry?” His voice grows louder with each question. “Maybe start with that next time.”

Our neighbors are either extremely hard of hearing or don’t have a care in the world. Sam and I have fought more in the last year than I can count, and no one has ever checked in on us. Not even a noise complaint. I stopped counting on their help a long time ago.

I shift my weight to face him, hoping my movements don’t aggravate him further. “I told you I would quit my cafeteria job.” That was supposed to sound confident, but it came out as more of a whimper.

“We’re past that, Abby. Need I remind you of your TA position?” He pulls out his wallet and chucks a blue and white card at me. I flinch when it hits my shoulder. “I make enough for both of us.”

He does, but that’s not the point. “I’ll talk to the professor and see what I can do,” I offer, hoping he takes my bid.

“Yeah, you do that.” He storms out of the bedroom and out the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

I suck in a sharp breath, inflating my begging lungs. Tears streak down my cheeks. I clamp a hand over my mouth to prevent the painful moans from becoming too audible. My tender tear-soaked cheeks offer welcoming warmth as I slowly slip into bed under the cool covers. My favorite purple blanket dampens with the tears I could have prevented.

He usually leaves the apartment after our fights to “clear his head” as he puts it, not bothering to come home until two or three in the morning. I’ve stopped asking where he goes. He’s usually still upset and gets mad that I feel the need to ask. It’s that, or he just doesn’t want to tell me. Either way, it usually ends in another argument. I’ve learned it’s best to steer clear of inconvenient topics, which seems to be everything these days.

It’s nearly time for bed once the tears stop flowing and my breathing settles. I kick the covers over. The cool night air is a bit shocking from the open window, but I let it caress my bare legs. Right. Spring has sprung. After long Minnesota winters, the fresh air feels amazing. Sam likes to keep the apartment at a crisp sixty-seven degrees. Anything below that is still fair game. But in the warmer months, the AC runs like it’s a member of the family, always on, and Sam will throw a fit if it’s not.

The black sweatshirt draped over the gray accent chair under the window feels as cold as the night air, but I pull it on anyway, hoping my body will warm it quickly. I should get this place cleaned up. The once beautiful red and white roses he got me after our last fight now lie strewn across the dining room floor, coating the hardwood in sweet-smelling water. Pieces of the curvy clear vase blend in with the water, leaving a captivating reflection on the kitchen wall—too pretty for its cause. I lay a bath towel down on the floor, allowing the water to seep into the fibers and grab the broom to sweep the glass up after the water is gone, careful to get every piece.

A dozen roses lie on the counter, some bent, some broken, all completely meaningless now. I pick up the nearest red rose and start pulling off petals. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. With a final tug on the last petal, I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. He loves me not.

I should be upset about the result of this stupid game. But I’m not. Maybe this is the answer I was hoping for. Maybe I’m not surprised. Do I even love him? I haven’t asked myself that question in a long time. I’ve been in survival mode for over a year. Leaving the relationship at this point seems impossible. He controls everything.

I jump when the apartment door swings open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud thud, and in walks Sam. Without asking, he answers my question. “I forgot my fucking wallet. Got all the way there and had to turn around.” He glances at the floor where the once beautiful rose now lies dismantled. “Pick up those damn petals. You’re making a mess.”

I wince as the door slams shut again, leaving behind nothing but silence. I look around at the jumble of petals at my feet and bend to scoop them up and toss them into the garbage. The rest of the flowers join the petals, and I wipe the counters off as a last-ditch effort to make it look like nothing happened tonight.

Thankfully, the only thing he broke was the vase. Usually, it’s a few things, but he let me off the hook tonight. My eyes roll at the thought. I open my phone and pull up the FindMe app to see if Sam is finally gone. But of course, his location is off. It almost always is. I double-check that mine is still on, knowing he would throw a fit if I ever turned it off. He claims it’s for “safety reasons.” Of course, he doesn’t reciprocate this “safety” feature. The last time I turned mine off, I ended up with a split lip and bruised bicep. I learned my lesson very quickly.

Satisfied that he won’t be back for a while, I jump in the shower. I carefully wash my face, making sure to be gentle on my cheek. The bruises have already started forming around my wrist from where he latched on. Another setback. The previous bruises had finally healed and disappeared a few days ago.

Back to wearing long sleeves, I guess.

Sleep takes me quickly once I climb back into bed. I didn’t notice when Sam came home last night. In the morning, he doesn’t bother getting ready quietly, but rather, he seems to make as much noise as possible. I listen quietly as he opens and closes drawers, wanders around with his electronic toothbrush buzzing, and jingles his keys back and forth before coming in to say goodbye. He places a gentle kiss on my forehead before offering a smile.

“Good morning, babydoll. Have a good day. I’ll see you after work. Love you.” He doesn’t wait for a response before closing the bedroom door and letting the heavy front door click shut.

And just like that, we are back to “normal.” That fight last night? Barely happened. These bruises that are now bright blue and purple? Collateral damage to a demand that could have been avoided by my compliance.

After deciding I won’t be able to fall back asleep by the time my alarm goes off, I pull myself out of bed and into the bathroom. The mirror above the sink reveals how badly I need to redye my sandy brown roots. The black-colored hair has already started fading to a dull dark brown with a stark line between the two. And my cheek after last night, much to my surprise, is barely blueish purple. My full coverage foundation will easily make that disappear. It’s amazing, or sad I suppose, the skills I’ve picked up from being in such a tumultuous relationship.

Patting the last bit of powder onto my face to hide the dewiness from my oily nose, I check my handiwork. Not a hint of the bruise is visible. Perfect. I head out the door, straightening my cafeteria uniform under my sweatshirt. While my motorcycle warms up, I zip up my black jacket and toss my backpack over my shoulder.

The purr of the engine allows me to settle into my happy place. I could ride all day if I didn’t have places to be. The warm morning sun battles the chilly morning air. Perfect riding weather. I bask in the peace of the wind flying by, leaving all my problems scrambling to keep up.

Unfortunately, my happy place only lasts so long. As quickly as I take a few breaths of fresh air, the reality of quitting my job today replaces those tranquil thoughts. How on Earth am I supposed to quit? I’ve worked at this cafeteria since my freshman year of college, and now I’m finishing my junior year in just a few short weeks. It’s become like a second home because I’m here so much. I picked up a lot of shifts, and I met my best friend Meredith here. We still work together, at least, for now.

As I park my bike in the designated motorcycle parking, the once-vibratory sensation from the engine has meshed with my nerves. I hear a familiar voice when I pull my helmet off.

“Look at that beauty!” Meredith calls, walking up the sidewalk. Her slight Spanish accent clings to each word beautifully. Long curly ringlets of brown hair whip around in the wind.

I can't help but smirk. “It takes work to look this good.”

“Oh, I was talking about the bike, but you look good, too.” She winks and attempts to tame her mane from the wild, spiraling wind.

I roll my eyes at her usual sarcasm and lock my helmet to my bike before shoving the keys into the side pocket of my backpack. If I'm not mistaken, she's wearing the same pair of paint-stained overalls as she did the day we met. She had already been working at the cafeteria for almost a year by the time I started my first day. She trained me. I was quiet most of the day, but I heard her mumble something under her breath, a sarcastic comment about a few of the students who passed through our line. I laughed to myself but then we both cracked up laughing and I knew we would get along from that moment on. Now, sarcasm and coffee are the only things that get us through the workday.

“I thought you started at eight this morning?” I run to catch up with her just before she reaches the glass entry doors.

The denim of her overalls crinkles from dried pottery clay splatters when she reaches to hold a door open and gestures for me to go first. I rarely see her wear anything but overalls. They’ve been every color under the sun, but she doesn’t like to stray far from the comfort of that denim. “I did. I overslept. Randy was not thrilled when I called a half an hour late to apologize.”

Randy is the cafeteria manager. He’s always grumpy and never likes anyone. Why he works so closely with rowdy college kids, I will never understand. “Damn. Well, you’re here now, and by the looks of it, he needs both of us desperately.”

Lines weave from the checkout counters around the main course window almost to the far back wall.

We take empty registers next to each other and log in quickly, barely stripping down to our uniforms before students flood toward us.

“It’s about time,” Randy snaps as he passes behind us, continuing to the other side of the room and disappearing through a staff door.

“Someone forgot their morning coffee,” I insist. Meredith laughs as people slowly make their way through our lines. “Good morning. Cash, card, or Oxly points today?” This phrase rings in my ears on repeat for an hour before the lines die down and I can take a breather. I say the boring phrase so much that it makes it into my dreams at night.

The redeeming part about this job is that I can work on homework if it doesn’t disrupt the flow of students. Five happy people stare back at me from the screen of my laptop. There we stood, me, my mom, my dad, my sister, Cameron, and her husband, Will. Happy, calm, and content on the beach, the ocean crashing behind us in gorgeous light blue waves. The sun shone brightly above us, not a cloud in the sky. We squinted at whichever stranger behind the camera my dad convinced to take the picture. He looked as normal as ever here, but we didn’t know the reality of his health.

I can’t bring myself to change it. I set that picture almost three years ago. Our last family vacation was the summer before my freshman year of college. It’s the last family picture I had with my dad before he died.

A loud group of guys approaches my counter, pulling me from my screen. The guy in front just about slams the blue tray in front of me but continues talking with his friends, his drink almost tipping over.

I sigh before forcing my face to cooperate.

“Good morning,” I beam, trying hard to ignore the rudeness of the situation. I wish his drink had tipped over. “Cash, card, or Oxly points today?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn around. His conversation is far more important than the simple, one-word answer I need.

“No, dude. You have to! It’s the last game of the season. Don’t dip out on us now!” he practically yells to the black-haired guy in the back.

Rather than repeating myself and raising my voice, I choose to instead lean back, fold my arms over my chest, and wait for the conversation to end, or for him to realize he’s holding up the line.

“Dante, my baseball career ends after that game,” the other guy says.

“You never know. The scouts may decide you’re the next best thing to hit baseball.” At that point, he whips his head around and makes eye contact with me. “Can you ring me up please?” Attitude drips from his words.

Folding my hands together on the desk, I match my tone to his. “Sir, I already asked you how you were paying, and you proceeded to ignore me. I would love nothing more than to get you all through this line so I can continue my homework, and you can replenish the calories you’ve burned standing here for so long. So, what will it be?”

Someone in the back of the group snorts. Another guy lets out an astonished whistle. The guy in front of me raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hands me his student ID and continues his conversation. I paste a friendly smile on my face. I don’t normally pay attention to the names on the screen, but I make sure to pay attention to this one. “Dante Leroy Jelani” pops up on my screen with a photo. Another one of the best parts of working this job is getting to see everyone’s freshman-year pictures. Oxly University doesn’t change student pictures each year, so you are stuck with whatever you look like on orientation day, and they don’t warn you beforehand that it’s picture day. Everyone always looks like such a baby. We don’t have access to their year or major but based on how he looks now and his comments about scouts earlier, my guess is he’s a senior.

The baseball team here at Oxly has always been good. From what I’ve gathered, they’ve made it into the D1 championship every year for quite a few years now. Baseball memorabilia is plastered everywhere around campus, mostly in the form of posters. They’ve managed to slip some form of it into every building.

I scan his card and attempt to hand it back to him, but he still doesn’t seem to have a care in the world about eating this damn food any time soon.

“Shit, dude! Give the poor girl a break. Take your card and move on. The rest of us want to actually eat our food,” a brown-haired guy pipes up.

I offer a thankful smile as Dante takes his tray to a table in the back of the room. The brown-haired guy approaches and hands me his student ID in one fell swoop. “Thank you ... uh ... Dallas,” I say, checking for his name.

“No problem. Hope your day gets better.” A soft, very captivating smile leaves me forgetting the previous interaction with Dante. And with that, he walks off, joining the rest of his group at the back of the large window-covered room.

***

M y nerves run high once I clock out. This is the moment I have been dreading. Putting in my two weeks’ notice was never a part of my plan for the summer. I was hoping to rack up as many hours, and thus paychecks, as possible to help pay for my last year of college. But Sam has other ideas. He’s been trying to reassure me that I don’t need to work anymore and that he would pay for the rest of my schooling if I truly felt I wanted to finish it. That should seem sweet like he cares for me and wants to provide for me. But it’s just another way to govern this relationship he’s so carefully curated. At this point, as much as I put up a fight about it, he won’t budge on the job piece, but I’ve managed to convince him that school is good for me. I won’t let him take that from me. It feels like one of the only pieces of myself I have left.

As I fidget with the zipper of my backpack, I gaze toward Randy’s office. Here goes nothing.

“I’ll meet you outside, Mer. I need to talk to Randy about something.” I say as calm as possible, but I’m sure my voice shakes a little.

She gives me a weird look but doesn’t press. “Okay. Don’t take too long.”

I offer a thumbs-up before forcing my feet forward. I knock lightly, hoping he either won’t hear me or won’t be in there. But much to my dismay, he calls out, “Come in!”

“Hey, Randy. Got a sec?”

He looks up from a large black binder. “Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Um ... So, I ...”

“Please don’t tell me you’re putting in your two weeks’ too? I was hoping to count on you this summer. You’re one of my best and most reliable employees,” he says, leaning forward in his squeaky chair. He rubs a hand over the graying scruff on his chin.

“I know. I’m sorry. I ...” What’s my excuse? I never got this far in my planning. Hey, sorry. Gotta quit my job because my boyfriend might beat me up again if I don’t. Yeah, that would go over well. “I just need to take some personal time. I might come back at the beginning of next school year, though.” That’s a lie, but I hate disappointing people.

He sighs. “All right. Well thanks for being honest with me. And thanks for giving me two weeks’ notice. Not everyone does that. They seem to assume that once the school year is over, they just get to leave.”

“Oof. I’m not that bad. Thanks for understanding, Randy. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He waves as I close his office door, the weight of it feeling a little lighter this time. Now, to tell Meredith. I just need to be upfront with her about it, but not with the full truth. I’ll tell her what I told Randy. Yeah. That should work.

Meredith sits waiting on the bench outside the doors when I exit the building. “Hey, Mer. Ready to go to the library?” I unclip my helmet from my bike, working it over my long black braids.

“Yeah. What did you need to talk to Mr. Grumpy about?” she asks, as I flip the visor up.

I avert my gaze to the suddenly interesting concrete beneath me, but the words form quickly, and I blurt out, “I put in my two weeks’ notice.”

She almost chokes on her iced coffee. “You did what?”

This is not how I anticipated starting my summer.