Page 20 of Hope and Country

Once, he tugged so hard, strands detached from my scalp, and he discarded them with a wince as if he hadn’t just ripped them off. That time, the tears stilled as the pain became unbearable, knotting my insides so tight that no emotions leaked out down my cheeks. It took almost two weeks for the spot on my scalp to stop hurting.

My fingers skimmed the one-inch diameter scar reminding me of that day, and a chill danced along my back.

Last year, I thought about shaving my mane off.

But I knew it would increase the attacks because Robbie would tell me how ugly it looked—because, in his twisted mind, he believed women should never sport hair shorter than their shoulders—and would shake me some more. So, I refrained.

Anyway, I loved my curls. When I was a little girl, my mother used to say all princesses would be jealous of them. And it filled my heart with pride. In a way, my golden curls reminded me of my time with her.

I held on to them as I still held on to my happily-ever-after dreams.

Without thinking about it, I opened the map app on my laptop and typed the address etched in my mind by now. I zoomed in and studied the house for a long minute. This place looked like a safe haven. With a large backyard and trees that provided shade and intimacy.

Craftsman-style exterior.

A white picket fence.

A double-sized driveway with a cobblestones path.

A couple of months back, I’d driven there a few times.

But never found in me the courage to knock.

I blew out a cleansing breath and erased my browser history.

I’d become so good over the years at hiding everything I did. It had become second nature to me. Protecting myself and the ones I loved. No matter the cost.

An email popped up on my screen.

Another job order.

I pumped my fist, ready to celebrate.

“Girl, get some champagne,” I said to myself. I wished I had people to party with. Friends who’d be proud of what I’d accomplished. All by myself.

I blinked the emotions threatening to put out the fireworks shooting inside me.

I deserved to applaud every single one of my milestones, no matter how small they were.

After all, where was life, if not in the little things that made it wonderful? No matter how hard the rest seemed. Yes, the little things, details that could look insignificant from an outsider’s point of view but deserved as much love as big accomplishments.

Champagne. Yes, I’d celebrate my own success. On my own terms.

Work had never been so steady before. Great things would happen. I could feel it. A shift in the air. Or a good fortune.

I changed into a comfy sweater and a pair of worn-out jeans, added a coat of pink lipstick and some mascara.

Humming a song, I traipsed toward the kitchen counter to fetch my purse and car keys to fulfill my bubbly mission.

A loud pound resonated on the door.

My glee died, buried ten feet deep.

My cheerful heart turned to stone in my chest.

A cold shiver ran from my head to my toes.

My pulse thrummed heavy and strong.