8 Everleigh Milestone—Buffalo Traffic Jam
Everleigh
Milestone—Buffalo Traffic Jam
“Seriously, you don’t need to follow me around. I’m perfectly fine shopping alone.”
The burly shadow tailing me around the store deigns to offer a single shrug.
“I don’t mind,” Sterling grunts.
“You’ve already apologised multiple times for what happened. This whole bodyguard act is unnecessary.”
“Eden.” He sighs half heartedly. “I was a drunk idiot. Let me feel better about making a total fool of myself by ensuring you’re alright for a few hours, okay?”
“Because shopping is so dangerous?” I stifle a laugh.
“Maybe. Never know.”
“You know it isn’t normal to be this overbearing?”
He splutters a laugh. “It is in my world.”
Honestly, this man’s primitive overprotectiveness would be endearing if it wasn’t suffocating. He’s gone from interrogating me about a made-up incident in London to offering critique of which half-price jumper I should purchase.
This trip was impromptu, but the offer to escape town for a few hours lured me in. I need to get some supplies before I eventually leave. Borrowing a coat and spare clothing from Cassidy won’t cut it when I’m back on the road.
“You thought having a drink in a bar was safe,” he points out. “Look what happened to you.”
“Are we talking about this again?” Guilt sinks into my pores.
“You were hurt. That matters.”
“I told you to forget about it.”
“Until I know you’re healed and okay, that isn’t likely.”
A cold front soaks over me, chasing the warmth that his small smiles and heated opinions on sweater colours have stoked. I’ve been careful to keep the healing, ugly yellow bruise on my arm covered all morning. I don’t want to remind him of the lie I wove.
“Why do you even care?” I fire at him. “I’m little more than a stranger to you.”
Rolling hills peer back at me, the verdant hue of deep green being eaten alive by his expanding pupils. Sterling’s lips pucker and roll, mulling over a response.
“Why does that matter?” he finally combats.
“Some might find it strange how concerned you are.”
“I don’t have to know you intimately to be concerned.”
“Women spend their entire lives looking over their shoulder for the next threat.” I check the price tag on a cashmere piece, then dismiss it. “Getting hurt is hardly new and never bothered the male species before.”
“Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong men.”
I catch a glimpse of his lopsided smile and can’t help chuckling. Oh, how accurate that statement is.
“Growing up around here was different, I guess.” His voice softens to a gentle caress. “We all look out for each other like family because that’s what Hawkthorpe is. Family.”
“Is that why you attacked Cassidy’s ex?”
“He was trashing her behind her back at their daughter’s birthday party,” Sterling reveals darkly. “Spouting some bullshit about the divorce settlement being unfair. So I snapped.”
His touchpaper temper should be a warning. But the plain old devotion in his voice is so unfamiliar, it warms my bones.
“You care about her a lot.”
“We grew up together.” His tongue darts out to swipe his bottom lip, catching my attention. “Cassidy was close to me and my wife before she passed away.”
Hearing him address the elephant in the room sends a jolt through me.
“I’m sorry,” I offer carefully. “How long ago?”
“Four years. Still feels like yesterday.”
The shadow that disperses over him in a dark miasma bleeds heartache. It’s a visceral presence. Overtaking his entire posture, stiffening each muscle, and causing a hard lake to crystallise over the warmth in his eyes.
“You moved home after she passed?”
Sterling gestures towards another rail. “We were living in the Midlands. She commuted for work. Bright spark, my wife. More brain cells in that girl than half this town.”
“What did she do?”
“Legal secretary. Big city firm, all the glitz and glamour. She worked so hard to get out of town and launch her career. Hell, I was just happy to follow her.”
Sadness carves a canyon inside me at his clear admiration. The real, genuine love. Further proof that it exists, but only for those lucky enough to reach up and touch the heavens. The rest of us mere mortals settle for the cold slice of hell we’re allocated.
“Can I ask what happened?” I dare to look at him.
He absently flips through the rails, his stare unfocused. “She was taken from me.”
“I’m so sorry, Sterling.”
“Yeah. Well.”
The sadness blooms into heartache as he dismisses the rail like it personally offended him and stalks off to examine another section. I linger behind, taking a moment to study his set shoulders.
What would it feel like to be adored like that? To carve a physical hole in your loved one’s chest when you leave? To become an ache, an absence, a precious memory to be eternally treasured?
You’re going to smile and nod, darling wife.
Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.
My fingers quiver on the handful of discounted clothes I’ve scooped up, a hornets’ nest kicked up behind my breastbone. The world shutters as I squeeze my eyes shut to take a deep, cleansing breath.
Why are you crying?
You should be grateful. You’re nothing without me.
Chaining that animal in a mental lockbox never gets any easier. No matter how many times I startle awake to his cruel taunts whispering over me or the memory of his fingers strangling my arm.
If anything, the memories grow stronger the longer I refuse to acknowledge them. After years of drawing short breaths within his cage to avoid detection, my lungs can’t tolerate all this oxygen.
“He isn’t here,” I whisper under my breath. “I am safe. I am safe. I am—”
“Hey, Eden? There’s a bunch of winter stuff over here.”
A shudder coils my spine into tense knots. I know Sterling isn’t the demon I’ve fled. He’s gruff, overprotective, and rough around the edges, but I can’t let the two blur. Not if I want to keep my sanity intact.
“Eden?” he calls.
“Y-Yes. I’m coming.”
“Just over here.”
Finding him in the sale section of the thrift store, I focus on combing through the meagre selection until my hands stop quivering. My budget is sparse. I don’t want to crack into my work money, but hand scrubbing the same pair of jeans and old hoodie isn’t feasible.
“Want to leave me here for a bit?” I study him. “You must be bored.”
To my surprise, he gestures to the fitting rooms. “I’m fine to wait.”
“Sure?”
“Of course. Have at it.”
With a small handful to try on, I deposit him in the waiting area, then duck inside. He looks totally out of place with legs splayed, spread across two seats. The muddy jeans, fleece-lined bomber jacket, and flannel shirt really complete the fish-out-of-water look.
I bite back a smile when he glares daggers at anyone who dares to trail too close. Maybe I don’t mind the protectiveness after all. There’s something quietly comforting about the intimidation he wields like a battle-axe. Something tells me he’d soon raze anyone he deems to be a threat.
No one’s ever done that for me before.
Inside the fitting room, the fragile mask falls aside. I’m left to stare at my own reflection. Each protruding rib bone. Sickly yellow fingerprints. Deep, dark crescents beneath my haunted stare. Short hair that represents more than a mere haircut for the first time in five years.
A shadow. A ghost.
I’m a fleeting memory.
Everleigh Banks doesn’t exist. She never did. In fact, she was barely a flicker of a person before getting sucked into Christopher’s orbit. He simply destroyed the embers of who I was to sculpt his own creation.
Why am I still letting him?
Anger is a swift dagger between my ribs. Heat pierces my organs and allows indignation to follow in a fatal blow. All my life, I’ve allowed others to dictate my every last move. Just a pawn on someone else’s chessboard. Never living. Never choosing for myself.
Glancing over the clothing, I hesitantly pick up the one jumper that made me anxious. It’s a vibrant burgundy colour, rich like mulled wine. Certainly not on the list of approved shades for my wardrobe of old. I’d never choose it for myself even now.
But when I pull the soft material over my head and let it settle against my porcelain skin, the smile that tugs at my mouth feels euphoric. It’s decadently dark and beautiful. Just a pile of knitted yarn . . . and yet.
And yet.
Feeling braver than a basic sweater should allow, I draw back the curtain to step outside. Sterling hasn’t moved an inch, now contemplating the golden band on his left hand. But his head immediately snaps up at the sound of my approach.
“This one’s nice,” I say shyly.
“Ahem.” His throat-clear is raw, raspy. “I’d say so. That’s your colour.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
My skin prickles and heats, stretching to reform. “I’m usually more of a neutral person.”
“By choice?” Sterling challenges.
“What makes you think it wasn’t?”
Temple pulsing, he pauses. “Just a hunch.”
Without confirming or denying, I finger the edge of the sweater. “I think I’d like to wear some colour now.”
“Then you should,” he encourages. “It looks beautiful on you, Eden. But then again, anything would.”
If there were any oxygen swirling in my lungs, it would surely combust.
Lowering his stare, Sterling’s hands crunch into balls when he appears to realise what he’s voiced out loud. The tension proves too much as I duck back behind the curtain, my cheeks extraordinarily aflame.
None of the other clothes quite hit the mark after that.
Re-dressed, with the red sweater in hand and a couple other items, I pull back the curtain without looking at Sterling again. He lets the silence hold while we join the queue to pay up. All while toying with his obsolete wedding ring.
Behind the counter, the haggard shop owner combs through piles of thrifted items, an old radio playing the usual dull pop tunes behind her. I’m hardly conscious of it until the music fades to make way for the latest news bulletin.