Chapter 11
Molly
Clem finishes crying at the exact moment Az knocks. I consider opening the door and asking her to stand on the porch indefinitely. We've tried everything else.
"Come in," I call softly. "She's finally settled. Don't make any sudden promises."
Az lifts two grocery bags. "Diapers. Formula for supplementing. Dinner. I've brought the three major food groups."
"Put dinner anywhere I can reach without standing," I tell her. "I may have fused with this chair."
She sets the bags down and holds out her arms for Clem. "When did you last sleep?"
"Are we counting the time I shut my eyes while the kettle boiled?" I ask.
"I'm going to take that as an answer," Az says, making grabby hands. "Give her here."
I pass Clem over, careful of her head. Az settles her against her chest and gestures toward the couch.
"Two hours," she says. "I'll wake you if she needs you."
"You have June," I protest. "You can't keep doing this."
"June has her father tonight," Az says. "She isn't being raised by a houseplant while I'm over here."
"That's not the point," I say. "I just—"
"You can accept help without composing a legal defense," she cuts in. "I'll leave when I need to leave."
I press my palms to my eyes. "I'm afraid if I stop, I won't get up again."
Az's voice gentles. "Then I'll help you get up. But right now I'd like to help you lie down."
When I wake, there's lasagna on a plate beside me. Az sits in the rocker with Clem held securely against her.
"How long?" I ask.
"Two hours," Az says, not looking up from Clem. "You didn't miss a graduation. Eat."
I take a bite before I have fully sat up. "Please tell me you didn't cook this from scratch. I can't bear another area in which you've become a better adult than I am."
"Family recipe," she says.
I squint at the foil tray on the counter. "Your family prints foil-container labels in Italian? Very thorough people."
"We value presentation," Az says, straight-faced.
I take another bite, and for once the food stays welcome. "I cried in the shower today. It wasn't even over anything new. Same reasons, different tiles."
"You don't need a fresh disaster to qualify," she says.
"I thought leaving would feel stronger than this," I admit. "I thought I'd be angry and organized. Instead I can't remember whether I washed my hair or just stood under the water."
"You left two weeks ago, not two years," Az says. "And you've got a newborn. Being tired isn't evidence that you made the wrong decision."
"I still miss him," I say, and stab the lasagna. "That's the part I hate admitting."
Az rocks Clem a little slower. "You don't have to stop loving somebody before you stop living like that."
I look at Clem's small hand against Az's shirt. "I wanted him to see all of this. The faces she makes. That offended little noise when she loses the bottle. I still turn to tell him things."
"Tell me one," she says.
"She sneezed four times in a row this morning," I tell her, "and looked furious afterward. Like I'd arranged it."
Az grins down at her. "Strong management instincts. June's mostly supervising us with her eyebrows."
I laugh, then take another bite before I can turn the moment into another apology.
There's a knock at the door and I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.
"Relax." Az stands, passing Clem back to me. "It's just Eli. He said he'd bring over more formula."
She opens the door and there he is: Eli, actual famous singer, all black hair and pale blue eyes and tattooed forearms, standing on my grandmother's porch in jeans and a flannel shirt like he's just some guy from town.
He's carrying a grocery bag in one hand and their daughter June in a carrier strapped to his chest, and he looks so effortlessly domestic that my brain short-circuits a little.
"Hey," he says, nodding at me. "Az said you were running low."
"I—yeah. Thank you." I'm suddenly very aware that I'm wearing a spit-up stained shirt and haven't washed my hair in three days. "You really didn't have to—"
"It's fine. We were at the store anyway." He sets the bag on the counter, glances around the dim kitchen. "You need anything else? Light bulbs? Batteries?"
"No, I'm—" I stop, take a breath. "I'm okay. Thank you."
He nods like he understands everything I'm not saying, and then he and Az have some kind of silent married conversation with their eyebrows before he heads back outside.
"Oh my God," I hiss as soon as the door closes. "Oh my GOD, Az, you could have warned me. I look like a disaster. I smell like milk and desperation."
"You just gave birth two weeks ago." She's grinning, insufferably amused. "Pretty sure Eli doesn't care."
"HE'S ELI," I whisper-shout. "I have three of his albums. I cried at his concert in 2019."
"You've mentioned. Twice." She takes Clem back from me, settling into the rocking chair. "For what it's worth, he thinks you're handling everything really well."
"He TALKED about me?" I squeak.
"Molly." Az laughs, and it's such a warm sound that some of the tension in my chest loosens. "You're our neighbor. We're going to talk about you. It's not weird."
It's a little weird. But also nice, being part of a neighborhood again, even if it's just two people on the next property over who bring me groceries and don't ask too many questions.
A few days later, the diaper stash is dwindling. Clem has been conducting experiments on its limits, and I'd like to replace it before her next discovery.
I could call her. I know I could. But I've been inside this farmhouse for two weeks and the walls are starting to close in, and the idea of a fifteen-minute drive to the store sounds almost like freedom.
Clem is sleeping in her car seat, thank God for the car seat, and I've got my grandmother's old sunglasses on, the big ones that cover half my face.
Anonymity. I just need to get in and out without anyone recognizing me, without anyone asking questions about why Molly Edward is buying diapers in Ojai instead of LA.
The parking lot of the drugstore is half-empty. I pull into a spot near the door, check on Clem, still sleeping, angel baby, and grab my wallet so I can lift her out, car seat and all.
That's when I see him.
Boone.
He's leaning against a truck three spots down, and he's looking right at me. He doesn't look surprised to see me. He looks like he's been waiting.
My ex-boyfriend. The guy I dated for two years before I met Taz, who cheated on me and hit me.
He looks worse than I remember. Meaner. And definitely drunk, even though it's two in the afternoon.
"Molly." He pushes off the truck, starts walking toward me. "Heard you were back in town."
"Boone." I keep my voice calm, plant my feet. "I'm just here for diapers. I don't want trouble."
"Trouble?" He laughs, but it's not friendly. "That's funny, coming from you. You think you can just show up here after everything? After what you did?"
"I didn't do anything to you," I say.
"You left." He's closer now, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on him. "You left and you married that rich asshole and now you think you're better than everyone. Better than me."
"I never thought that." I'm backing toward my truck, keeping him in my line of sight. Clem is still in the car seat on the rear passenger side. I need to get between her and him. "Boone, you're drunk. Go home."
"Don't tell me what to do." His voice goes sharp, ugly. "You don't get to tell me anything anymore, Molly. Not after what you—"
He moves fast. Faster than I expected.
His hands are on my shoulders and then I'm slammed against the side of my truck, my head cracking against the metal, and for one horrible second all I can think is Clem, Clem is in the car seat, I have to—
I drive my elbow into his ribs.
He grunts, loosens his grip, and I bring my knee up hard between his legs. He doubles over and I'm already moving, pivoting, and when he lunges for me again I catch him with the heel of my palm right in the nose.
The crack is satisfying in a way I'll feel guilty about later.
Blood sprays from his face and he staggers back, howling, hands clutched to his nose.
I'm shaking all over, adrenaline screaming through my veins, and I position myself between him and the truck where my daughter is sleeping through all of this because she's two weeks old and doesn't know her mother just broke someone's nose.
"Stay down," I snarl. "Stay the hell down, Boone."
"You crazy bitch—" He's on his knees, blood dripping through his fingers, and then—
"BOONE!" a woman shrieks across the lot.
She comes running between the parked cars. Blonde hair, tight jeans, fake nails clicking on her phone as she shoves it in her pocket. Jolene. Boone's girlfriend, the one he cheated on me with back in the day. The reason I finally had an excuse to leave.
"What did you DO?" Jolene screams, but she's not looking at me. She's looking at Boone, and her face is furious. "You IDIOT, you weren't supposed to actually hurt her—"
"Shut UP, Jo—" Boone spits through the blood.
"You weren't supposed to—" She whirls on me, eyes wild. "He wasn't supposed to touch you, okay? He was just supposed to scare you. That's what she paid for."
The parking lot goes very still.
"What?" I can barely hear myself over my own pulse. "Who paid for what?"
"Some woman." Jolene's talking fast now, desperate, like she's realized she's said too much but can't stop. "She came to our place last week. Paid him five hundred bucks to put a scare in you if he saw you in town. Said you needed to learn a lesson."
My stomach drops.
"Who?" I step toward her, fists still clenched. "Who was she? What did she look like?"
"I don't know! Blonde, fancy, drove some expensive car. A Los Angeles dealer frame." Jolene is backing away, pulling at Boone's arm. "She'd just had a baby, I think. She was still wearing the hospital bracelet."
Kendall.
The name goes through me cold. Could Kendall have hired my ex-boyfriend to attack me? Kendall, who walked past my hospital room and took him away again. Kendall, who has been trying to destroy my marriage for months.
And now she's trying to destroy me.
"I'm calling the cops," I say, pulling out my phone. "Both of you. Stay right there."
"Like hell." Jolene hauls Boone to his feet, and he's still bleeding, still cursing, but she's stronger than she looks. "We're leaving."
"I have your license plate," I call after her. "I know where you live."
"Then you know where to find us." She shoves Boone toward his truck, and just before she climbs in the driver's side, she looks back at me with what's almost pity.
"Watch yourself, Molly," she says. "You're making a whole lot of enemies."