17. #2
My transcripts.
The letters of recommendation I'd spent weeks quietly arranging without Rodney ever noticing.
Everything was there. Everything was finished.
All that remained was the small blue button at the bottom of the page.
Submit.
My fingers hovered over the trackpad while my mind drifted somewhere else entirely. Rodney's voice threaded through the silence of the room — the insults, the constant corrections, the quiet threats that reminded me, again and again, exactly how small my life was supposed to be.
The way he spoke to me when I disappointed him.
The way he reminded me that everything I had existed because he allowed it.
For a long time I'd convinced myself that surviving him meant adapting to his rules, learning how to move carefully inside the world he built around me.
But sitting there in that empty house, staring at the future I'd almost talked myself out of, something about that logic suddenly felt very thin.
If I ever wanted to leave Rodney, truly leave him, I needed something that belonged to me.
Not his name.
Not his power.
Mine.
The cursor blinked patiently at the bottom of the page.
I let out a slow breath.
Then I clicked it.
The confirmation screen appeared almost instantly.
Application submitted.
The words sat there quietly on the screen, simple and unremarkable, but the feeling that followed them was anything but. Something inside my chest loosened in a way I hadn't realized it needed to, like a door that had been stuck for years had finally opened just enough to let air through.
It didn't fix anything.
Rodney still existed. My life was still tangled up in his.
But for the first time in a long time, I'd done something that moved my future a few inches in a direction he didn't control.
I closed the laptop slowly and rested it beside me on the bed, leaning my head back against the wall.
The quiet returned almost immediately.
And with it, a thought I'd been trying not to dwell on all afternoon.
Grant.
My eyes drifted across the room toward the chair where my bag sat.
My phone was still inside it.
I'd watched his call ring earlier in the parking lot and done nothing about it, letting the screen go dark in my hand because answering would have meant questions I wasn't ready to face yet.
At the time it had felt easier to ignore it.
But sitting there now, the house silent around me and the weight of the day finally settling in, I realized something uncomfortable.
Ignoring him hadn't actually made anything easier.
If anything, it had just made the quiet feel heavier.
I stayed there for another minute, staring at the bag across the room.
Because the truth was simple, even if I didn't want to admit it out loud.
I missed him.
And for the first time since that night, the idea of hearing his voice felt less terrifying than the thought of continuing to avoid it.
Eventually I pushed myself off the bed.
The house creaked faintly as I crossed the room, the quiet stretching around me again as I reached for my bag and pulled my phone from the side pocket.
The screen lit up immediately.
Two messages from Grant.
Both from earlier.
My chest tightened a little when I read them.
I sat back down on the edge of the bed, turning the phone over once in my hands while my mind started its familiar argument.
If I called him, he would ask what happened.
Where I'd been.
Why I disappeared.
And I still didn't know what I was supposed to say to that.
The truth would change everything.
But lying to him felt just as impossible.
I stared at the screen again.
Then before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed his name.
The phone barely rang once.
"Hey."
Grant answered almost immediately.
Relief slipped into his voice before he even finished the word.
For a moment I didn't say anything.
Just hearing him there on the other end of the line did something strange to the tight knot that had been sitting in my chest all day.
"Naomi?" he said after a second.
"I'm here." My voice sounded softer than I expected. "I hope I didn't catch you while you were busy."
"No," he said quickly. "I'm just at home."
There was a small pause.
Then, quieter—
"How are you?"
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees while I looked down at the floor.
"Not great," I admitted. "But I'll be okay."
On the other end of the line, I heard him exhale slowly.
"I'm glad you called," he said.
Something about the way he said it made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
"I'm sorry I disappeared."
"Don't apologize." His answer came quickly. "If you needed time to yourself, I get it."
I swallowed and nodded even though he couldn't see me.
"Where are you right now?" he asked after a moment.
"I'm at the old house."
Another pause.
Then—
"Do you want me to come by?"
My stomach tightened slightly.
Rodney.
The possibility of surveillance.
I shook my head automatically.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
Grant didn't push.
"Okay," he said calmly.
A second passed. "Do you want to come here?"
The question settled quietly between us.
I glanced down at my hands.
At the faint bruising that still lingered along my wrist where the zip tie had been.
If he saw me like this...
I didn't know what that conversation would turn into.
But the idea of sitting alone in this empty house suddenly felt worse.
I let out a slow breath.
"Okay."
Another small pause.
"Okay," he repeated.
By the time I turned onto Grant's street, the sky had darkened into that soft gray-blue that comes right before night.
His house sat quietly at the end of the block, warm light glowing through the windows.
It looked the same as the last time I'd been here, but sitting in the car now, something about it felt different.
More significant somehow. Like crossing the distance between my house and his meant crossing something else too.
I sat there for a moment after turning the engine off, my hands still resting on the steering wheel.
Part of me wondered if coming here had been a mistake.
If seeing him like this would force a conversation I wasn't ready to have.
But the thought of going back to the empty house felt worse.
So eventually I pushed the door open and stepped out into the evening air and walked towards the door.
The temperature had dropped since earlier, the breeze cool enough that I pulled the oversized hoodie tighter around myself as I walked up the short path to the front door.
My reflection flickered faintly in the glass beside it—hair down, concealer doing its best to soften the bruise around my eye.
From a distance it probably looked fine.
Up close... maybe not.
Before I could think too hard about that, the door opened.
Grant must have been watching for me.
He stood there for a second, taking me in. Dark t-shirt, gray sweatpants, his hair sat perfectly probably from work earlier. His expression shifted almost immediately when he saw my face, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly like he'd been holding his breath waiting for me to show up.
Neither of us said anything at first.
Then he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Just his arms wrapping around me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The warmth of him hit me all at once—his chest against mine, the steady weight of his arms across my back, the familiar scent of him. For a second I tried to hold it together the way I had all day.
But the moment my body relaxed against his, the control I'd been clinging to slipped.
A broken sound left my throat before I could stop it.
My arms wrapped around his neck as the first tears came, sudden and unstoppable.
Grant didn't pull away. If anything, his hold tightened slightly, one hand moving slowly up and down my back in a steady rhythm.
"It's okay," he murmured quietly. "You're okay."
I shook my head against his shoulder, the words barely registering as the crying came harder now, days of holding everything in finally spilling out at once. My fingers curled into the fabric at the back of his shirt like I needed something solid to anchor myself to.
Grant shifted his arms beneath me and lifted me effortlessly.
I barely noticed the movement as he carried me inside and kicked the door closed behind him, the house warm and quiet around us. He walked straight to the couch and sat down, settling me carefully in his lap like he didn't trust my legs to hold me up on their own.
For a while he didn't ask anything.
Just held me there while the storm passed.
Eventually my breathing started to slow, the sharp edges of the panic dulling into something softer. I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and leaned back slightly, though my arms were still loosely looped around his neck.
Grant studied me for a moment.
Concern sat plainly in his expression now, but he didn't crowd me with questions the way most people would have.
"Talk to me," he said gently after a minute. "What's going on?"
I hesitated.
The words sat heavy in my chest for a moment before finally finding their way out.
"It's Rodney."
Something changed in Grant immediately.
He didn't move away, but the energy in his body shifted—shoulders tightening slightly, the calm expression on his face sharpening in a way that made the air in the room feel different.
"What did he do?" he asked.
His voice stayed level.
But there was something under it now.
Something controlled.
I looked down at my hands, twisting the sleeve of my hoodie between my fingers.
"Sometimes I make him mad," I said quietly.
Grant didn't interrupt. He just waited.
"I'm not very good at the wife thing," I continued, my voice softer now. "Or the First Lady thing apparently. I try not to embarrass him, but sometimes I mess up."
My throat tightened.
"But I really do try."
Grant's hand shifted slightly where it rested against my back, a silent encouragement for me to keep going.
"When he gets frustrated," I said slowly, "he hits me sometimes."