The sounds of her cries swamp my lungs with red-hot agony. I release the pain with a roar, bucking and kicking at the girth that weighs me down. Beside me, Jarret falls to the dirt beneath two men, wrestling and screaming for Conor.
Arms shove her into Dalton’s pickup truck, and her screams reach a fevered pitch. “I love him! You can’t do this! I love—”
The doors shut, deadening her cries.
“Oh, God, No! Wait! Conorrrrr!” I claw at the ground as urgency seizes my lungs. There’s too much weight. I’m overpowered. Can’t breathe. Can’t get to her. “Get off me! Let me go!”
Her fists pound the window as the truck lurches into motion, taking her away.
Why is he doing this? She’ll be alone, more lost than ever. Her mental state’s already in shambles. How will she heal without the support and comfort of home?
She won’t.
Agony lances like a thousand blades, gutting me from all sides. Men shift against my back, pressing me down. Jarret twists beneath two others, shouting incoherently.
Tires spin, and the truck speeds away, leaving me face down in the dirt. Flayed apart, spilling devastation in thick streams of tears. Trapped, frantic, shattered to the bone. And livid.
The stink of sweat and fury scorches the air and clouds my vision. I curl my fingers, grabbing fistfuls of violent rage.
When the truck vanishes over the hill, the field falls still. No shouting. No engines. No light. Only my broken whisper, hacking through the thunder in my head.
“I failed her again.”
My heart drowns in the carnage.
She’s gone.
Starting over started with the back of my dad’s hand across my face. The gush of blood from my nose did exactly what it was meant to do. I stopped trying to jump out of the truck. Stopped begging him to turn around. Stopped asking questions.
It was the first time he ever struck me out of anger.
But it wasn’t the last.
That was three months ago.
“This is for me only, so I can reach you when I need to.” Dad tosses a cheap cell phone on the kitchen counter in our high-rise apartment. “No out-of-town calls.”
His subtext rings loud and clear. No calls to Jake and Jarret.
He made sure my phone and laptop didn’t make the trip to Chicago. But he doesn’t know about the cash I stole from his wallet the week we moved here. Doesn’t know about the phone I bought with it. Doesn’t know that every number I have for Jake, Jarret, and John Holsten has been disconnected since I left.
Or maybe he does know, and he’s just taunting me.
Cruelty has become his coping mechanism. And whiskey. When they both take the reins, I don’t recognize my father.
“I need a car.” I pocket the phone and cross my arms. “I won’t be able to walk in the snow.”
School started this week, but that’s not why I want transportation.
I’m stranded on a concrete island. The air stinks of exhaust and asphalt. Glass and steel blot out the sky. And the noise… I don’t know how city dwellers walk down the street without flinching at the blare of traffic and shouting and sirens.
Maybe Chicago is a nice place, but I’ve never lived in a big city. The air doesn’t smell clean. The food comes in paper boxes. The rhythm of life is too fast and impatient, and the constant din pounds inside my chest, making me feel unhinged and off-kilter.
I ache to go home.
I miss Ketchup.
I need Jake.
It’s been three months, and I haven’t spoken to anyone in Oklahoma. The unbearable isolation is making a meal of my guts, hollowing me out piece by piece.
With the advancement of technology, 928 miles should’ve been insignificant. But Jake and Jarret changed their numbers, and they’re not on social media. The emails I send go unanswered. Same with my handwritten letters.
I went so far as calling local businesses in Sandbank—the diner, post office, bank, and hardware store—and left my new number with the owners, asking that they pass it along when the Holstens stop in.
And still nothing.
Since my dad is alienating me, the same must be true with John Holsten. He’s somehow prevented Jake and Jarret from contacting me. But why?
It still doesn’t make sense why Dad left home. He wants to start over? He’s too ashamed to show his face in Sandbank? There must be another reason. And what’s John’s motivation in this? Severing contact with the only family I’ve ever known is driving me into a black hole with only my self-destructive thoughts to keep me company.
“It’ll be months before it snows here.” Dad hooks a finger around the bottle of whiskey on the counter. “When it does, you can take public transportation.”
He carries the bottle into the sitting room and unscrews the cap. It’s not even eight in the morning.
While the cabinets overflow with alcohol, there’s little else filling the apartment. Minimalistic furnishings shove against barren walls. A couch, TV, coffee maker, and breakfast bar for two. No dining room. No family dinners. No family.