Page 27 of The Perfect Heart

The night had started well enough, with Jack miraculously in a good mood thanks to the enormous contract he and his business partners were celebrating. But then he’d started to drink, glass after glass, growing angry as I tried unobtrusively to get him to slow down because I knew what would happen. Then I had let him go, hoping he would drink himself into a stupor. It would be hard to drag him home, but the alternative was worse.

Except in a way only Jack could pull off, he managed to toe the line between being drunk and entirely out of it. He had started haranguing me before the night had even ended, making digs about my dress, my hair, and my shoes before he had started joking about my aspirations in fashion and design—the aspirations that had stayed aspirations because of him.

But the worst hadn’t started until we’d gotten home, until I had almost lulled myself into a sense of relief that night hadn’t ended the way I had feared. But Jack had slammed the front door after us, making me jump, and the rage in his eyes had told me I was in for it.

The young driver the car service had sent out, the one whose face I couldn’t even remember, apparently his attention had lingered for just a second too long on me as I’d exited the car. All I could do was stand there as his rage hit me like a tsunami. Stand there as he yelled that I was cheating, screaming obscenities at me, shouting about how horrible I was, that he had saved me and I owed him, that I would find myself out on the streets if I weren’t careful, that I was a terrible wife and a waste of a human being. Each word hit like a slap, each word carving out yet another piece of me, of my heart and my soul and my sense of self-worth, each word sharp and pointed and aimed to inflict the most damage possible.

Just like every time before.

I had been grateful when he had grabbed a bottle of beer and chugged the entire thing before passing out on the couch, still muttering his angry tirade.

Fresh tears blurred the city lights, and it took all the self-control I could muster to shove my sobs back down again.

I turned and padded back inside the house, closing the door silently lest Jack wake up and blame me for waking him up. Picking up discarded shoes and the glass of water I had taken to the table, I passed under the archway that separated the front of the house from the bedrooms, wishing for the dark nothingness of sleep.

But I never made it past that threshold. Instead, my feet stopped, almost of their own volition. I stared at the room, the bedroom Jack and I shared, at the minimalist room with the enormous bed and custom sheets I could just see through the slightly open door, and something in me rebelled at the thought of setting foot inside.

That room was supposed to be our sanctuary, where we celebrated our love and connection. But returning to it every night, sleeping next to that man, brought on a sense of horror instead of happiness, one that made my stomach and throat constrict until I felt sick.

I turned to head for one of the guest rooms and stopped again. From my position, I could see our bedroom, Jack passed out on the couch...

...And the front door.

Every inch of me froze, my heart beating rapidly, my fingers itching where they curled around the glass and my shoes.

What would happen if I just... left? If I ran and never looked back?

My gaze darted between Jack and the front door, my heart in my throat.

What if I opened that door, ran out, and never returned?

What would happen?

“Halle?”

I jumped, my heartbeat racing, and jerked around to find Joseph watching me, eyebrows drawn down as he peered at me.

“You okay?” he asked slowly, drawing the words out in confusion to match his expression.

“Sorry, what?” I blinked rapidly, still trying to separate reality from daydream. From memory.

“I asked if you could take out the trash. It’s full.”

“Oh.” I glanced at the white trash bag he held in one hand, taking it in with the quiet bar, and forced myself entirely back into reality. “Right, sorry. I’ll take it out, no problem.”

The bartender didn’t give me the bag immediately, though, even as I reached for it. He continued to watch me, eyebrows beetled, before shaking his head and handing it over. I was glad he hadn’t asked more questions, such as where my head had been that he’d startled me halfway to heaven.

I wasn’t even sure why my mind had wandered, especially in that direction. I had been sweeping the floor, collecting the detritus from the day left by closing, and then suddenly, I was back in LA.

The dreams were finally starting to taper off, but my mind wasn’t done with the memories yet. All I wanted to do was leave them behind, forget any of it had ever happened, but they wouldn’t let go, as pernicious and possessive as Jack had been.

Hefting the trash, I looked back at Joseph, busy cleaning out the sink drain behind the bar that had backed up halfway through the dinner rush. His head was bent, sleeves pulled back so he could root around in the muck, and I was suddenly glad just to be taking out the trash.

I had come to love working at the bar, even during the busiest hours when we were all running around like chickens with our heads cut off.

Organized chickens because Nash, for all his laid-back attitude, ran a tight ship. Which was good because it kept the place neat, orderly, and running. From what I remembered, the bar’s last owner hadn’t, and it had shown in the shoddy service, the run-down building, and the unpleasant food. Even the sodas had tasted off, although we hadn't really cared as teenagers looking for a greasy meal with our parents.

But there were some aspects I didn’t like, that I was sure no one liked, like mucking out grease traps and whatever went into the dump bucket at one end of the bar. One of my first nights, Joseph had dared me to drink it one night as a friendly initiation, but I’d flatly refused.