Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
SAVANNAH
I’m sitting in the office at work, going over invoices.
I love this job. I’m actually good at it.
The paperwork sits in neat stacks on the desk, my coffee’s still hot, and through the window behind me I can see the crew framing the new addition.
Hammers banging, saws screaming, and the guys roasting each other over the radio. Everything feels normal. Safe.
Then the bell over the front door jingles. I don’t look up right away. It’s probably just one of the crew guys needing a signature or grabbing a Coke from the fridge. My fingers keep moving over the keys.
A shadow falls across the invoice I’m looking over, so I glance up, and everything inside me freezes.
Brian, my ex-husband, stands in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of a new flannel, his hair cropped shorter but still carrying that dark curl I used to twist around my finger. He’s smirking, just a small lift at the corner of his mouth, like he caught me doing something cute.
My stomach drops through the floor. He shouldn’t be here. No one told me he was back in town.
“Hey, Sav.” His voice is lazy and familiar, like we never stopped being anything. “You look good. Better than good, actually. New haircut?”
I don’t answer. My hand freezes on the mouse. The cursor blinks on the screen while my pulse slams in my ears. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He steps inside without asking, boots scuffing the floor. “I was in the area. Figured I’d swing by. See how you’re holding up.” He shrugs, like this is no big deal. “It’s been a while. Thought maybe you’d want to catch up.”
“Catch up?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “We don’t catch up, Brian. We don’t do anything. You need to leave. Right now.”
He doesn’t budge. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe and lets his eyes slide over me slowly. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m not here to start shit. I just wanted to see you. Make sure you’re still breathing without me.”
The words land like a slap. I flash to his forearm crushing my throat, my wrist twisted purple, him snarling that I was nothing without him. The night he used a knife on me. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say anything to me. Get the fuck out!” My voice trembles.
He tilts his head, smirk widening a fraction. “Still got that fire, huh? I always liked that about you. Kept things interesting.”
“Interesting?” I laugh, but it sounds brittle. “You think breaking my wrist was interesting? Choking me until I blacked out was interesting? Fuck you. I told you if you ever came near me again I’d press charges. Did you think I was bluffing?”
He raises both hands, palms out, but the smirk doesn’t drop. “Whoa, easy. I’m not that guy anymore. I’ve done the work. Therapy, anger management, the whole deal. I’m trying to make it right.”
“Make it right?” I scoot the chair back an inch. The desk is the only thing between us. “You don’t get to make it right. You don’t get to show up here like we’re old friends. Leave now.”
He takes one step closer. “You really gonna act like none of it meant anything? We had good times, Sav. You can’t pretend we didn’t.”
“Good times?” My voice cracks on the words. “You mean the nights I slept with one eye open because I didn’t know if you’d wake up and attack? Those good times?”
He exhales through his nose, almost amused. “You always did love to rewrite history. I fucked up, I get it. But I’m owning it now. I came here to say that. Face to face. Most guys wouldn’t even bother.”
“Then most guys are smarter than you.” My fingers slip under the desk and brush the drawer where Dad keeps the old .38 he thinks I don’t know about. “I don’t want your apology. I don’t want your therapy story. I want you gone and I never want to see you again.”
He studies me for a second, eyes narrowing just enough to make my skin crawl.
Then the smirk twists into something uglier.
“Heard you’re fucking that dirty biker now.
Didn’t realize you’d fall that far. Better watch out before he gives you something you can’t wash off.
God, the last thing you’d want is to get pregnant by some lowlife like that. Make sure you’re being careful, Sav.”
My blood turns to ice. “You don’t know anything about my life.”
“Oh, I did a little research.” He leans in a fraction, voice dropping like he’s sharing a secret. “Did you know he murdered someone? Went to jail and everything. Real stand-up guy. Is that the kind of person your mom and dad wanted you to end up with? You think he’s better than me?”
“Shut up.” The words come out low and shaking. My grip tightens on the drawer pull.
He chuckles, soft and mean. “Fuck, baby, I’ve turned my life around. I’m clean. I’m ready for you to come back to me. For us to start again. I’m ready to start a family. The real kind. Not whatever trash you’re playing house with now.”
“Get out.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Get the fuck out before I scream for the crew.”
He turns halfway, pauses in the doorway, and glances back over his shoulder. “You say that now. But we both know how this goes. You get lonely because no one but me is ever going to love you like you deserve to be loved. I’ll be there when you’re ready.”
My heart pounds so loud it drowns out everything else, thumping in my ears like it’s trying to break free. Sweat prickles across my forehead, my upper lip, the back of my neck. Goosebumps race down my arms even though the office isn’t cold. My whole body trembles, small shaky jerks I can’t stop.
Tears burn behind my eyes, hot and sudden. I blink hard but they spill anyway, sliding down my cheeks while I sit there frozen, staring at the empty doorway like he might come back any second.
I don’t think I breathe the whole time. Lungs locked tight. Chest burning. Only when I hear a truck engine turn over outside, growl to life, and then fade down the road do I finally suck in a ragged breath. It sounds like a sob.
My hands are still shaking so bad when I grab the phone. The screen blurs through the tears. I swipe twice before it unlocks.
Me: I need you.
I stare at the sent message like if I glare hard enough he’ll read it. Nothing. The little delivered checkmark mocks me. No dots. No typing bubble. Just silence.
I don’t want to text anyone else. Not Mom or Dad, not even Lena. They’d freak out, start asking questions, want to come over or call the cops or wrap me in bubble wrap. I can’t handle that right now. I just need one person who gets it without turning it into a whole thing.
The office feels too quiet now. The crew’s noise is still out there, but it’s distant, like it’s happening in another life. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to squeeze the trembling out.
Then the questions start creeping in, slow at first, then faster. How the hell did Brian know I was here? Who told him I’m working for Dad?
I barely post anything online anymore. After I left him, I locked everything down. Private accounts, no location tags, no check-ins. So how did he walk right into this office like he had directions?
Did he get my new number somehow? I changed it two years ago. Only family and a handful of friends have it. Does he know where I live now? The route I drive to work? Has he been watching? Waiting?
The sweat on my neck turns cold. I glance at the open door again, half expecting him to stroll back in with that same smirk. My fingers twitch toward the .38 drawer, but I don’t open it. Not yet.
I pick up the phone one more time, but there’s still nothing from Lucky. Fuck this. I type again, thumb hovering, then delete it. No point double-texting like some desperate ex. Instead I just stare at his name in the chat, heart thudding harder with every unanswered second.
He’s probably working. He doesn’t always have his phone on him when he’s on a job site.
I know that. I repeat it in my head like it’ll make the wait hurt less.
But the quiet stretches. Seconds turn into a full minute.
Then two. Then thirty. I pace the office like a caged animal, back and forth behind the desk, arms wrapped tight around my middle.
Every creak of the building makes me freeze.
Every distant hammer sound makes me flinch.
I can’t stay here. Not with the door unlocked and him knowing exactly where to find me.
I grab my keys, shove my phone in my pocket, and head out front.
The crew’s still banging away on the addition.
I spot Dad’s truck pulling back in from the supply run.
He climbs out, already scanning the lot like he’s looking for something off.
Before he can call my name, I duck back inside for a second, pull out my phone, and fire off a quick text.
Me: Hey Dad, not feeling great. My stomach's messed up. Heading home early to lie down. I’ll text when I get there.
I hit send, pocket the phone, and slip out to my car without looking back. I can feel his eyes on me as I cross the lot, but I don’t stop. Don’t wave. Don’t give him a chance to walk over and ask questions.
The drive home is a blur. I check my mirrors every five seconds, half expecting Brian’s truck to pop up behind me. When I pull into my driveway, I sit there for a full minute with the engine running, scanning the windows, the porch, the side yard. Nothing moves.
Inside, I lock the front door. Deadbolt.
Chain. Then the back door. Kitchen window.
Bedroom window. Every single one. Psycho and Menace are already waiting, tails flicking, meowing like they know something’s fucked up.
I scoop them both up and carry them to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us and twisting the lock.
I drop onto the bed. The cats curl against my sides, purring hard, but it doesn’t touch the shaking. My teeth chatter. My hands won’t stop trembling. Sweat soaks the back of my shirt even though I’m freezing.
Then my phone buzzes.
Dad: You okay? You looked rough when you left. Call me if it gets worse.
I stare at the message. Thumb hovers over the call button. I can’t. Not yet. He’ll hear the shake in my voice and drive straight over. I type back instead.
Me: Just got home. Locked up. Gonna try to sleep it off. I’ll call if I need anything. Love you.
I hit send and turn the phone face-down on the nightstand. It buzzes again almost immediately. Probably him saying be careful or offering soup or something dad-like. I ignore it.
I’m shaking so bad I can barely stand. My chest feels tight, like someone’s sitting on it. Breathing comes in short, useless gasps. This is a panic attack. I know the signs. I’ve been here before.
I stumble into the bathroom, yank open the medicine cabinet. The Valium bottle is right where I left it, dusty from over a year of not needing it. I shake out one pill, then another just to be sure, dry-swallow them, and chase with tap water that tastes like metal.
Back in the bedroom, I grab the thickest blanket off the chair and crawl into the closet. Door shut. Light off. Dark. Close. Safe-ish.
I pull my knees to my chest, blanket wrapped tight around me like armor. Psycho and Menace squeeze in too, wedging against my legs, warm little weights that keep me from floating away completely.
I should call someone. Anyone. Lena. My mom.The crisis line.
But my phone’s on the bed and moving feels impossible.
My brain keeps looping the same shit on repeat.
He knows where I work. He could know where I live.
He said I’d come looking for him, but what if he can’t wait and comes looking for me? What if he’s already on his way here?
I press my forehead to my knees and whisper into the dark, “He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”
It doesn’t help. The Valium starts to creep in slow, fuzzing the edges, but the fear stays sharp underneath it all.
My thoughts keep looping, his smirk in the doorway, the way he said my name like it still belonged to him, the truck engine fading but maybe circling back.
Every car that passes on the street outside makes my body jerk.
Psycho shifts against my thigh, purring louder like he’s trying to drown it out.
Menace kneads my blanket, tiny claws pricking through to my skin. It hurts a little. I don’t move him.
Minutes drag. Or maybe hours. Time feels slippery in here.
My eyelids get heavy first. Then my arms. The shaking eases into these weird, random twitches, like my body’s finally giving up the fight.
My breathing slows and my chest doesn’t hurt as much.
The closet smells like laundry detergent and cat fur and that faint cedar from the hangers. Familiar. Safe enough.
I think about checking my phone one more time. See if he texted back. See if Dad followed up. But my arms won’t cooperate. Too heavy. Too far away.
Another car rolls by outside and I tense, waiting for brakes, for a door slam, for footsteps on the porch. Nothing. Just the hum of the heat kicking on somewhere in the house.
My head lolls against the wall. The blanket slips a little. I don’t fix it.
The last thing I register is Psycho’s tail flicking across my wrist, soft and warm.
Then nothing.