53 Jamie
We didn’t just pass out in an unmade bed. Control-freak Christian would’ve had a stroke.
So we got up, ordered dinner and then actually made the damn thing. Fought with the fitted sheet, argued over corners, tossed ridiculous throw pillows around.
And then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, we all climbed in.
Together.
At first, it felt a little strange. We’d shared a bed the night before, but that had been more of a collapse. This was different. Intentional.
Ryan took one side, with Frankie tucked in next to him. I settled on her other side, and Christian slid in behind me, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other stretched past me to rest against her.
It should’ve been impossible to sleep like that- with all the shifting, the quiet breaths, the awareness of everyone else there.
But I did.
And I slept like the dead.
But now I’m awake with sunlight pouring in through the windows- because we forgot to order curtains-and the injury on her back is staring me in the face, making my blood boil.
He made her bleed. After all these fucking years, that man is still hurting her.
It makes me feel like a failure. A useless, failed protector. What good am I if I can’t protect her from that piece of shit? I was in the fucking house when it happened.
Frankie shifts, just slightly, her hair sliding aside and exposing more of it.
My jaw tightens. I grind my teeth and force myself to breathe through my nose, slow and controlled, even as something violent twists in my chest.
I need to do something.
Anything. Preferably end Gary, but any movement right now will do.
So I carefully untangle myself and climb out of bed. Christian shifts closer to her in his sleep, filling the void I left. I get dressed, moving as quietly as possible and head downstairs.
I haven’t even plugged in the coffee maker before I hear footsteps behind me.
“You okay?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. Then, because it’s the only thing stuck in my head, “I just really want to fucking kill Gary.”
Ryan exhales beside me. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get it. I don’t even know what I’d do if I saw him again.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m just- fuck, I’m so glad you were there. I mean, what if- ”
“Yeah,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “I know.” I drag a hand through my hair, pacing a step before stopping again. “It’s fucked, Ryan. All this time and nothing’s changed. He still fucking hurt her. I want it done, Ryan. I want it over. In the past.”
“Me too,” he says, softer. “I think the move will help. He shouldn’t be able to just show up anymore. And besides my parents- and yours, I guess- there’s nothing left there for us. It is in the past.”
Something about that jogs a memory of something that is still there. Something I haven’t thought about in years but absolutely don’t want to leave there.
“Can I borrow your truck?” I ask, already heading for the door. “I need to grab something from my parents’ place.”
“I’ll drive you,” Ryan says immediately. “I can swing by mine too.”
I nod, and we head out without another word.
The drive is quiet. It’s only about twelve minutes, but it somehow feels longer.
“This is a good thing, Jamie,” Ryan says finally, his voice steady in that way it always is. “A fresh start.”
I hum, staring out the window, not nearly as optimistic as him.
Ryan’s fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, like he’s working something out. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, almost too casually, “maybe we could open a garage.”
I glance over at him, thrown. “A garage?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you want.” He shrugs, still looking at the road. “You’re a genius with cars. People would line up. Just… something to think about.”
“Yeah,” I say. The idea seems impossible. Ridiculous. But I just reply, “Maybe.”
“Okay,” I say as he pulls up in front of our parents’ duplex, already reaching for the handle. “I’ll see you in a few.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Come by when you’re done. Mom’ll be happy to see you.”
I nod and step out of the truck.
The difference hits me right away. Ryan’s front door opens and sound spills out- voices, laughter, the low hum of a house that feels full. Warm. Alive.
My side is the opposite.
Dark. The TV blaring from inside.
“Hi, Mom,” I call out, already moving down the hall, not slowing, not stopping, heading straight for my old room.
They didn’t let me take anything when I left. But they also didn’t do a damn thing with the room. It looks exactly the same as it did the day I moved out.
I open the closet and feel a small wave of relief when I spot the old Amazon box on the shelf. I pull it down, sit on the bed, and open it.
Birthday cards, notes, movie ticket stubs and receipts, a photo strip from one of those machines at the mall. All these little pieces of my life I wanted to hold onto. There’s been a lot of shitty parts, but this… this is the proof it wasn’t all bad.
I pick up one of Ryan’s old baseball hats, turning it over in my hands. After one game, girls from school had been practically swooning over him, so I joked and asked for his autograph. He took it way too seriously, signed it like he was famous, and handed it back with a grin. I kept it.
There’s a Polaroid of me and Frankie at one of Ryan’s little sister’s birthday parties.
I’m wearing a tiara for some reason, and Frankie’s looking at me like I hung the moon.
I can’t help the small huff of a laugh that slips out before I set it aside and reach for the ornament she made the year she decided she was going to get into crochet.
I think it’s supposed to be a star, but it’s really just a tangled mess of yarn.
At the bottom of the box, my fingers close around a key.
Christian’s.
I turn it over slowly, my thumb tracing the worn edge. He gave it to me like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was just practical, like he was tired of getting up to unlock the door.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the key to the first place I really felt at home. With him.
I don’t even remember when it stopped working, when the locks changed and it became useless. I just know I never got rid of it.
I don’t deserve these people.
But I have them.
I close the box and stand, giving the room one last look. There’s nothing else here for me.
“Bye, Mom,” I say as I pass through the living room.
She doesn’t answer.
Outside, I cross the porch and step into Ryan’s place- and immediately get nailed in the chest with a Nerf dart.
His little brother is a menace. The best kind.
“Hey, Jamie- Ryan wanted to check something across the street,” his mom calls from the kitchen.
“Thanks, Mrs. Lett,” I call back, already turning toward the door.
I’m on the porch when the first shot cracks through the air.
Then another.
It’s close. Real close. Like it’s coming from across the street- from our old duplex.
From where Ryan is.
My heart instantly is in my throat. I drop the box in the yard and sprint across the street, barreling through one of the front doors.
If someone is here fucking shooting, I shouldn’t just run in, unarmed, like an idiot.
But I don’t stop. I scan the living room, kitchen, hallway.
But no one is here- the place is empty, just like we left it when we moved.
I’m about to go to the other side and check when I see movement through the window into the back yard.
Ryan is standing in the alley behind the yard like he’s been unplugged, face gone white, eyes wide, completely frozen.
My stomach drops.
I’m out the door, vaulting over the chain link fence before I even think about it.
“Ryan,” I say, breathless. “Are you okay?” I grab him, patting his body, searching to see if he’s hurt. Relief crashes into me when I see that he’s fine- not shot, not bleeding.
But then I look past him.
Gary is lying on the ground, eyes open, gurgling as blood pools around him. A gun rests on the pavement near Ryan’s feet.
“I- I don’t know,” Ryan stammers. “I just- he was- ”
Sirens scream closer, louder, swallowing the air. The fucking cops are never here to stop anything from going sideways, but they’re sure as shit close by to arrest us all fast enough.
Ryan’s blinking, mumbling as he just stares at Gary. Neither of us make a move to help the man who is clearly dying at our feet. Red and blue lights flood the alley.
I grab Ryan by the collar. “Go,” I hiss. “Get out of here. Now.”
He stumbles back as I shove him away from the body, away from the gun, away from me.
The next few moments almost go in slow motion as time seems to slow down.
The cops spill out of their cars and neighbors flood their backyards. I drop to my knees, fold my hands behind my head, and stare at the ground.