She took her clothes into the living room and, body huddled from the air-conditioning, pulled on her jeans and hooked her bra and slipped her shirt over her head, keeping her head very still as she did, so as not to strain her sore neck. There would be bruises in the morning, bruises she’d dot carefully with concealer to avoid answering the inevitable questions—jokes, more likely—from the guys at the bar.
He hadn’t asked if she was into that sort of thing. He’d clearly just assumed she would be or hadn’t cared if she wasn’t. So much for the sensitive-singer-songwriter bullshit. He was just another straight-up asshole in a long line of assholes who took what they wanted without bothering to ask. She was sick and tired of it. She remembered the music journalist back at the bar saying Jake was just about to land a big tour, that he’d be a national name in a couple of months. No wonder he thought he could get away with this kind of shit.
This time, she decided, it was going to cost him.
She ordered a Lyft from the curb outside his apartment. Nine minutes away: plenty of time. She pulled a notebook and a pen out of her bag and made a few notes. By the time the car arrived, she was halfway to writing the article that would change her life.
Amherst, Texas—278 Miles to Albuquerque
Rebecca had watched the silhouette of the city disappear in the side-view mirror until it was swallowed up by the night sky. Only then did she let herself take a full breath.
It was easier now that they were out of Lubbock. It was the first step, and the biggest.
When the Jeep had pulled up outside the house, she’d sat in the dark of their bedroom, hands folded neatly in her lap, and listened to the faint rumble of the Jeep’s engine. This was what she had wanted—what she had carefully planned—but now that it was here, she was paralyzed. Five minutes passed, then ten. They had told her the driver would wait for twenty minutes—no longer. At the fifteen-minute mark, she grabbed her bag and ran to the door. If she hesitated for even a second, she knew she’d never make it. When she stepped out into the freezing night, there was no bolt of lightning waiting to strike. No corrective zap from an electric fence. Just a girl in a Jeep, waiting for her.
Rebecca couldn’t believe how quiet the neighborhood was at that time of night. The low thrum of the engine and the distant cry of a skulk of foxes. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest as she checked the lock on the door, and the soft pad of her footsteps as she walked across the pavement. It was easy, in the end.
Still, the same worries snagged in her head. What if he comes home early? What if someone found out my plans and told him? They promised total confidentiality over the phone, but I know how people operate. No one can be trusted, especially not if there might be money involved. And with this, there would be.
Rebecca looked over at the girl. She was young: somewhere in her mid-twenties. Just a baby, really. She had expected someone older. It felt strange being driven by someone so much younger, a reversal of the natural order.
She turned her eyes back to the road. Nothing. Nothing. Silo. Nothing. Nothing. Storage unit. She felt tiny out here, like one of those paper dolls she had played with as a girl.
Nearly three years in Texas and the place still felt as strange and alien as it had the first time she’d set foot in it.
She still felt like a stranger in the place she was meant to call home.
Three Years Earlier
Patrick’s eyes blue and burning-earnest when he said it, a smudge of cream sauce in the corner of his beautiful mouth. “It’s time, sweetheart,” he said, leaning across the table and taking her hand.
Rebecca stopped mid-bite, fork hovering in the air. “I didn’t realize there was a clock.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I promise you, you’ll love it there. Wide-open spaces, fresh air, salt-of-the-earth people . . . Come on, Becs. You’ve seen how the place is changing, the same as me. It’s like living in a museum. No one real lives here anymore.”
It was true: San Francisco had changed. She had seen it every day at the high school where she taught English: families forced to move because of the skyrocketing rents, the homeless population exploding, the mental health of her students pushed aside in pursuit of ever higher test scores. Tech had flooded the city with its venture capitalist riches, whitewashing away its grimy charm. Even the restaurant they were eating in had a sign on the door announcing a relocation to Oakland. When they asked the waiter about it, he shrugged and said, “Progress.”
Still, the Bay Area was the only place she’d ever called home. “Our lives are here.”
“Our lives are wherever we are, as long as we’re together.” He shook his head. “I want to go home, Becs. Please. My grandma’s on her own out there, and she’s getting old. I need to step up and take responsibility.”
“My dad’s on his own, too.”
“Your dad is in his early sixties and in better shape than I am. Gram is going to be eighty next year. You saw the state the house was in when we went back last Christmas. She can’t look after the place anymore.”
“We could hire someone to help her,” she suggested. “Or she could move into one of those assisted living facilities. I’ve heard some of them are really nice these days. More like luxury hotels than nursing homes.” She was grasping at straws.
“You know Gram will never leave that house. She’s always said they’d have to carry her out in a pine box, and I have no doubt that she means it.” He took her hand again, the warmth of his skin on hers so familiar. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I really do think you’ll love it in Lubbock. The people are genuine, and there’s so much space . . . so many more opportunities . . .” He took a breath. “Working for the DA—it’s not enough. There’s more I could be doing. If I were a congressman, or a senator—”
“Because congressmen are renowned for their efficacy,” she pointed out, a little too sourly.
He held up his hands. “I know, I know. But I still think I could be more effective in an elected position than I can be here trying to cut deals with low-level drug dealers and prostitutes. It’s just—there’s no way I could get elected here. You know how entrenched politics are in California. Back in Texas, I’d be a local boy, one with a proven record in a blue state. It’d make me a strong candidate. The demographics are shifting. I really think I have a shot.”
She pictured him shaking hands and holding babies, a banner with his name stretched across the stage behind him. Their friends always said he should go into politics. She just hadn’t realized it was what he wanted, too.
She reached for the gold cross around her neck. She tried to see herself standing up on a stage next to him, smiling proudly as the crowd showered him with love. Because they would love him. She knew that as sure as she knew her own name. Everyone loved Patrick. He was one of life’s golden boys. It was what had drawn her to him in the first place. Out of all the women in the world, he had chosen her. She knew that made her lucky.
She should have known that eventually, he would want the world, too.
She stared at him across the table. His eyes were eager, searching, but there was something else there. The quiet confidence of someone who always wins and knows his streak isn’t about to end. He was used to getting what he wanted, and she had always been willing to give it to him.