Brittany
I don’t plan to see Elijah again.
That’s the lie I tell myself while I stand in the frozen foods aisle at Hollar Dollar, staring at discount pizzas with curled corners and frostbitten plastic like I’m doing serious math.
Pepperoni or the store-brand supreme with the mystery meat and the sad little green pepper cubes.
Like the decision matters. Like my hands ain’t shaking because I’ve spent the past week pretending the blood-written warning on my car was just a prank and not a message somebody meant.
Not shaking from the cold. From Hell.
From the way you can feel eyes on you even when nobody’s looking.
From the note Oaks wrote that I’ve folded so many times it’s gone soft as cloth, tucked into the back pocket of my jeans like proof I didn’t imagine him.
From the way this town has a memory like a hound dog and once it’s got your scent, it doesn’t let go.
It drags you through mud and gravel and calls it fate.
I tell myself I’m fine. I tell myself I’m just tired. I tell myself I’m only here because the pawn shop felt too quiet today and my house felt even quieter, and I don’t like how it feels to be alone anymore.
Hell doesn’t care what I tell myself.
“Brittany?”
My name snaps through me like a wire pulled too tight. I turn before I can stop it.
Elijah Notes stands at the end of the aisle with a shopping basket hooked over one arm and a Bible tucked under the other like it grew from his ribs.
Clean jeans. Plain boots. Soft brown hair cut neat around his ears.
He looks like the kind of boy mamas point at in church and say, now that one’s a good man, baby, that one won’t break your heart.
For a second, relief hits so hard it makes my vision tilt.
I hate that.
“Hey,” he says, smile easy, voice gentle like we’re normal and this is a normal day. “You okay?”
My shoulders drop without permission, like I’ve been carrying something heavy for weeks and didn’t notice until right now.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because the lie is reflex, polite and Southern.
His eyes sweep me anyway, slow and careful, like he’s checking for cracks. “You don’t look fine.”
I snort, because that’s easier than admitting anything. “You always this blunt?”
“Only when I’m worried.” His tone is soft, but there’s something under it that makes my stomach tighten. Not hunger. Not a grab. Something else. Something like wanting to be the one who gets to worry.
We walk toward the front together, our carts bumping once before he adjusts his without comment.
He doesn’t crowd me. He keeps his hands visible.
He does all those little things that say safe, safe, safe.
He insists on carrying my bag when we step outside, lifting it from my shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Like that’s just what men do. Like nobody’s watching.
Which is stupid, because Hell always is.
The parking lot is busy in that lazy weekday way, sunlight bleaching everything, heat rising off the asphalt. A couple old men lean against their trucks. A woman wrestles toddlers into booster seats. Somebody pretends not to stare.
I clock it without meaning to. Where the exits are. Who’s looking too long. Which engine is still running. My body’s learned the habit even when my brain wants to stay sweet and stupid.
Elijah doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he notices and doesn’t think it matters, which might be worse.
“I heard some things,” he says when we reach my car, voice dropping out of instinct, respectful like he knows some conversations don’t belong in open air. “About the club.”
My chest tightens. “Everybody has.”
He hesitates, thumb pressing along the spine of that Bible like it’s something that steadies him. “You don’t belong in their world, Brit.”
There it is again, that sentence I keep getting handed like a warning and a verdict. I grip my keys harder, metal biting into my palm. “You keep saying that like I asked you.”
“I’m saying it because I’ve seen what happens to girls who get pulled into it,” he replies. “They don’t come out the same.”
His hand brushes my arm as he passes my bag back. Gentle. Familiar. A touch meant to comfort, not claim. Safe.
For the first time in month, I don’t feel like prey. That’s what makes it dangerous.
He looks at me for a beat like he’s deciding whether to push. Then he doesn’t. He just says, “Let me take you to dinner. Nothing fancy. County line diner. I’ll buy you pie.”
Pie.
Like sugar and a booth and a gentle hand can scrub the taste of fear off my tongue. But at least it’s not Slice.
I hear myself say yes before my brain catches up, because part of me is sick of being alone with my thoughts, and part of me is sick of thinking about a married man who wrote me a note like my name mattered and then pretended he didn’t know me in public.
“I’ll meet you there,” I tell him.
Elijah smiles like he won something, but he doesn’t gloat. He just nods and backs away like a good boy with manners.
As he walks off, I feel it anyway. The way heads tilt. The way a woman by the front doors watches us too long. The way the air changes when you’re seen.
I don’t think about Oaks until later, driving home with my windows down, trying to let the wind scrub the day off my skin. It’s been months. Months of me looking over my shoulder and not seeing Oaks.
And then the betrayal hits.
Because the note is still in my pocket, warm from my body, soft from being handled too many times, and even while I’m saying yes to Elijah’s pie, I’m thinking about the way Oaks said my name in that diner like it tasted good and dangerous both.
That night, the county line diner smells like hot grease and coffee that’s been sitting too long and small-town gossip simmering under every conversation.
Elijah meets me at the door, holds it open like he’s been taught how to be a man.
He eases into the booth across from me, pauses and lets me speak first like my voice matters before he orders for himself.
It’s sweet.
It’s almost enough.
We talk about school and work and the way the world feels smaller when the clouds hang low. He makes me laugh once, real and surprised, and for a second I forget the note, forget the glove, forget the blood on that paper like it was written with somebody’s pulse.
Then the bell over the door jingles and the room shifts.
Not because Oaks walks in. He doesn’t.
Because Bethany does.
She steps into the diner with her lipstick perfect. Hair smooth. Smile sharp enough to skin something. She’s dressed too clean for this place, like she’s making a point. Like she wants everyone to see her be the kind of woman who belongs and decide I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t.
Her eyes find me immediately, because of course they do.
Elijah notices my posture go rigid. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I lie.
Bethany doesn’t come to the booth. Not yet. She takes her time, talks to the waitress, laughs too loud at something a man says like she’s a movie star blessing the locals. Her gaze flicks my way again and again, casual as a knife being palmed.
I try to breathe through it. I try to be normal.
Elijah reaches across the table and covers my hand with his, thumb brushing my knuckle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he ain’t afraid of being seen with me. Like I’m not a liability.
My throat tightens, because the touch is gentle and the intent is kind, and my body still flinches like I’m waiting on somebody to yank me by the hair.
Bethany finally slides into the booth behind me. Not across from me. Behind. Close enough that her perfume crawls into my lungs.
“You enjoying your little attention?” she asks sweetly.
I keep my face forward. I don’t give her the satisfaction of watching me flinch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She laughs, soft and mean. “Stupidity. You always think that saves you.”
Elijah stiffens. “Ma’am,” he starts, polite and cautious.
I fight a laugh as it lands like he’s calling her old. She is, as old as Oaks.
Bethany ignores him like he’s furniture. Her gaze rakes over me, like I said it. She’s taking inventory. My clothes. My age. My cheap earrings. My life. She does it like she’s deciding what I’m worth.
“He fucks plenty of girls,” she says casually, like she’s discussing the weather. “Did you think you were special?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I never.”
She leans in closer, voice dropping to something intimate in the ugliest way. “You embarrassed me.”
I turn enough to meet her eyes. “I didn’t touch your husband.”
Bethany’s smile sharpens. “I saw your hand in his pants.”
The words hit like a slap.
In his pants? I swallow as the scene I can’t remember gets worse every time.
Elijah’s hand tightens on mine. “You need to leave her alone,” he says, voice still polite, but the edge is there.
Bethany finally looks at him, and her eyes are cold. “Who are you?”
“Elijah Notes,” he answers. “And you’re not going to talk to her like that.”
Something like amusement flickers across Bethany’s mouth. “Well, ain’t that precious.”
She stands up slow, all grace and poison. She laughs loud enough for the waitress to hear and for half the diner to pretend they didn’t. “Girls like you always think attention from a married man means something,” she tells me like she’s giving advice. “You’ll learn.”
Then she walks out like she won.
I don’t rise to it. I don’t cry. I don’t give her what she wants.
But when the bell jingles behind her and the air settles again, my chest feels hollowed out, like her words scraped something out of me and took it with her.
Elijah watches me for a long beat. “That’s… her,” he says quietly.
I nod once, barely.
His thumb strokes my knuckle again, grounding. “Come home with me,” he says softly. “Not for that. Not like that. We’ll watch a movie.”
“Netflix and chill?” I bristle.
“No. No funny business,” he says. “Just… don’t be alone tonight.”
I should say no.
I should get in my car, drive home, lock my doors twice, and sleep with my phone on my chest like I’ve been doing.
Instead, I believe him. I swallow and whisper, “Okay.”
And for the first time, when Oaks’ name tries to rise in my mind like a bruise pressed too hard, I shove it down.
I push it away.
Because Elijah is clean and present and not pretending I don’t exist, and I’m so tired of feeling like a ghost in my own life.