3. Cathy
3
CATHY
T he bridge is where he always goes after we have an argument. Same routine every single time. He drives there. I have to walk. I get in. He berates me until I give in and apologize. Then he drives us home.
Not this time.
I climb into the passenger seat, arms crossed, my whole body tense as Jimmy tosses his cigarette then shifts to face me.
The bridge is deserted, surrounded by dark water and quiet streets. I can barely breathe in the confined space. How have I never noticed before how much he smells of smoke?
He watches me for a moment, as if he’s trying to read my thoughts, then sighs, his voice softening to something meant to be comforting. “I know you’re upset, but you lied, Cathy.”
“I lied?”
“You got home an hour before you were meant to. Sometimes in life, we see things we’re not supposed to.”
“Are you quoting Dirty Dancing at me? I worked twelve hours and then Susie was well enough to come in so I got to come home. How is that lying?”
He does what he always does during an argument. Changes subject.
“Storming off like that, running out without thinking…that’s not like you. You’re better than that.”
“Running off?” I say, gripping the seat to keep my voice steady. “You cheated on me, Jimmy. You stole my money. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel.”
He shakes his head, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, as if I’m a child throwing a tantrum. “I didn’t steal anything, Cathy. I moved it to teach you a lesson. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.
“Ever since you started on that damned book of yours, you’ve forgotten what matters. You spend all your spare time working on that bullshit instead of spending time with me.” His smile broadens. I know that smile.
“What did you do?”
“I wiped your whiteboard.”
“You did what?” My fingers curl into fists. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“It’s time to grow up, Cathy. I’m about to become your husband. I’m not having that shit on the walls when we’re married.”
“I had two years of notes on that whiteboard. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if I’m exhausting him. “I know you think you’re angry, but this doesn’t have to be a big deal. Relationships are hard, Cathy. You have to learn to focus on what matters.” He points at his chest. “A wife’s job is to take care of her husband.”
He pauses, waiting for me to back down, to give in to this twisted logic. But I don’t flinch this time. I stare at him, letting my anger simmer beneath the surface. Two years of notes gone.
He frowns, his patience wearing thin. His voice sharpens, laced with something cold and dangerous. “I mean, look at the way you constantly complain about money, how you’re always focused on this writing dream that’s never going to go anywhere. I’m doing you a favor. You have no idea how exhausting it is to be with someone who doesn’t appreciate what I provide.”
I clench my fists, feeling his words hit like blows, but I keep my voice steady. “You don’t ‘provide’ anything, Jimmy. I worked twelve hours today. How long did you spend on your ‘music’?”
He snorts, a harsh sound that fills the car. “My music is going to change the world.”
My anger flares, but I force myself to stay calm. “Maybe if you actually cared about me, you’d support my goals instead of tearing them down.”
His face darkens, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he glares at me. “Support your goals? You wouldn’t survive a month without me. You had nothing before we met. Hell, you told me that yourself. Dead mom, about to be evicted. You begged to move in with me. Begged. I let you stay out of the goodness of my heart and this is how you repay me?”
The words twist deep, each one a needle slipping under my skin.
He leans closer, his voice lowering to a harsh whisper. “You better start showing a little gratitude instead of acting like I’m some villain just because I fucked someone a few times. You know I’ll be faithful once the rings are on our fingers. Come on, it’s late. Let’s go home.”
He starts the engine and turns away from the bridge, slowly picking up speed.
Is he right? Should I go home with him, forget this happened? Get the ring on my finger that I always thought was so important. Get some stability in my life at last.
My heart pounds, fear threading through my anger, but something deeper stirs—a defiance I didn’t know I had. I won’t let him define me.
I take a steadying breath, meeting his gaze head-on. “I deserve better.”
His expression shifts, a flicker of something unhinged flashing in his eyes. His hands grip the wheel, his jaw tight as he stares ahead, the smooth calm he wears like a mask slipping into something darker, more menacing. “You deserve what you earn in this life. You deserve me.”
We drive down the quiet, winding road away from the bridge, the headlights casting eerie shadows on the trees that line the street, flickering like ghosts.
I swallow hard, finally breaking the silence. “Pull over, Jimmy.”
“What? Why?”
“This isn’t going to work. I’m done with you.”
He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, his knuckles whitening as he grips the wheel tighter. “You don’t get to decide that, Cathy. You think you’re so independent, so strong? Without me, you’re nothing. Just a stubborn little girl playing in pretend worlds.”
I feel the anger surge again, pushing aside the fear. “And you’re a selfish asshole. Pull over. Now.”
He glances at me, a glint of fury in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice low and seething. “You think you can just walk away from me?”
I start to get really afraid. “Stop the car. Let me out.”
“You’re nothing without me,” he hisses, his eyes dark, furious as he flicks the unlock button. “You’ll come crawling back, begging for my help. Because that’s all you’re good for. Begging.” He spits the words at me. “You’re weak, Cathy. Pathetic.”
His face twists with rage, and before I can react, he shoves me hard, forcing me toward the door handle. I gasp, losing my balance as he shoves again, harder this time, the world spinning as the door flies open and I tumble out of the moving car.
I hit the pavement hard, a bolt of pain ripping through me as I crash against the asphalt. My head strikes the ground, and everything blurs—lights, shadows, the sting of cold air biting into my skin.
My body feels leaden, bruised, every inch of me radiating pain that pulses in time with my racing heartbeat.
I lie still, barely able to breathe, my vision darkening at the edges. I taste blood, sharp and metallic. The road stretches out before me, empty and silent. Jimmy’s car has stopped a few yards in front. He swings the door open just as another car slows, pulling over beside me.
Jimmy glances at me and then the other car. “Jimmy,” I call out, my voice failing. “Help me.”
He looks suddenly afraid, glancing at the other car. “Please,” I manage to say as he gets in. “Don’t leave me.” My eyesight cuts out an instant later. All I can see is darkness.
I hear the other car’s engine die, then the sound of a door opening, and then footsteps—calm, measured, growing closer.
I blink, things coming slowly into focus. A dark figure leans over me, and I can just make out the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his face shadowed by the night.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, his voice deep with a Russian accent, phone already going up to his ear. “Keep still.”
I try to respond, to nod or say something, but all that escapes is a weak, shallow breath. My body feels heavy, my voice trapped somewhere inside the pain.
I hear him speak into the phone, his voice clipped, efficient. “Yes, 911? I’m on County Road 16, a mile past the bridge. I’ve got a female, early twenties.
“Concussion, possible fracture of the clavicle, and lacerations to the forehead and left arm. She’s responsive but disoriented. Thrown from a moving car. I was behind them… No, the driver’s gone. No, I didn’t get a good look at him.”
That part was a lie, I can tell. Why is he lying? Does he know Jimmy?
A shiver runs through me. Words slip into my foggy mind—concussion, fracture, lacerations—strangely clinical, like something I’d hear in a hospital. Who is he? A doctor? Must be. Who else would talk like that?
He listens to the dispatcher, nodding slightly. “She’s in shock; respiration is rapid but shallow. Advise the response team to bring a cervical collar.”
He leans over me again, his hand resting carefully against my shoulder, keeping me steady. “Try not to move,” he says. “You’ll probably end up with a limp for a while but it looks like your spine’s all right.”
“How can you tell?” I think I say but all that comes out is a grunt.
My vision blurs, and I feel a cold sweat breaking out along my skin. His hand remains steady, and his voice, though calm, carries a warmth that cuts through the pain.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to talk,” he says gently, but his eyes narrow as he assesses me, his gaze sharp and focused, scanning me with a precision that makes my head spin. “Try to keep your eyes open.”
There’s something almost unsettling about how methodical he is, how he knows exactly what to check, what to say.
“Help’s on its way, Cathy. You’ll be all right.”
I cling to that voice, letting the warmth of his words wrap around me, a strange comfort in the cold emptiness of the night.
My body begins to relax, surrendering to the pull of darkness, but a question enters my mind just as the world slips away.
How does he know my name?