My chest aches but I take a deep breath, unwilling to find out what Julian might do if we don’t.
I cross the room to Logan’s closet and start pulling every shirt and dress I can see, shoving it deep into my bag. I’m about to head into the bathroom when I realize the last piece of clothing I’d grabbed was a dark maroon sweater. The subtle scent of menthol wafts from the top of my bag as I lift the sweater, staring at it in my hand. I slide my fingers across the maroon fabric and remember how I ended up with this sweater. Abby’s favorite cardigan.
It was mid-January and we were standing outside our favorite café in Providence. It wasn’t snowing but I remember the way the cold air seeped its way into my bones. Abby inhaled one last deep drag of her cigarette then turned to me as I wrapped my arms around myself, attempting to rub the chill from my arms.
“I thought the cold didn’t bother you, Boston girl.”
She was teasing me as she always did. Abby was originally from the west coast, so she always picked on me for being a stuck-up New Englander. I always teased her for being a clueless valley girl from southern California. I was surprised the cold hadn’t bothered her, but that could be due to the fact she was always prepared, covered head to toe in winter gear.
“It doesn’t bother me,” I told her, rolling my eyes. “I just forgot how cold it was supposed to be today.”
Abby sighed, smashing her toe on the concrete, crushing what was left of her cigarette. “Here, take my sweater.” She quickly shrugged her sweater off.
“Seriously, Abby. I’m fine.” I held my hand out, telling her not to worry.
“Take it,” she urged, widening her violet eyes. “I want you to have it.”
I paused, considering whether I should take it or not. It was her favorite sweater but the frigid air biting my skin won out. “Fine,” I groaned, thankful to have a best friend who was as persistent as she was. Even if it was only a simple sweater.
Now, as I smell the last remnants of Abby’s cigarette embedded in the sweater, I realize I probably won’t ever see her again, knowing it’s the only way to make sure she’s safe.
Anger starts to overtake the worry. Julian has managed to destroy every piece of my life. He not only nearly ended Logan’s life; he’s also causing me to leave behind the only other person I still care about. Abby.
“Len.” Logan’s hand grips my arm, pulling me toward the front door of the apartment. I look down and see he’s already gathered my things from the bathroom. “We have to go. Now.”
I follow Logan out of the apartment not knowing where we’re headed or how far we’ll need to go to feel safe. By the time we’ve reached the elevator, I begin to realize I may never feel safe again.
Two
Lena
One Year Later
I’m looking outside my window for the hundredth time this morning. In the corner of our modest sized yard sits an old wooden shed. Nearly every single plank of wood is cracked, weathered, and worn. Planks of wood are nailed to the frame, their ends frayed and splintered. My husband swore many times over he would tear it down and build me a new one, promising he would create a space I could call all my own. Honestly, I don’t mind that Logan hasn’t followed through on his word to fix the shed. The more I look at the old aged wood, the more I realize it looks how I feel on the inside. The feeling only makes me want to go out there and destroy it. Maybe then I could build a completely new one where this one now sits.
“So, I suggested to Max that maybe we should try switching to an Alaskan Black Cod instead of the Chilean Sea Bass.” Logan places a coffee mug directly in front of me on the cool marble of our kitchen countertop. The corners of his eyes crease as he stares at me, waiting for me to respond. I feel his eyes on me, analyzing every breath I take, every blink of my eyes, anxiously waiting for my response. Logan and I have been married for only a year but I’ve become an expert at reading his thoughts. He’s more transparent than he realizes.
“I’m sorry.” I blink several times, not entirely sure I caught what he said. “What?” I turn away from the window and the poor sad wood, bringing my full attention to my husband.
Logan’s shoulders fall and his brown eyes soften. Sadness radiates from behind his usually happy exterior. He hides it like a shadow. He knows it’s there but pretends as if it doesn’t exist. I’m not naïve to the notion that our marriage isn’t exactly where we thought it’d be one year in. At first our new marriage was exciting. We were moving on and heading in a new direction today. But the one-year anniversary of Julian’s attack on Logan passed a few days ago and I haven’t been able to stop my mind from wandering. Every detail has risen to the surface, like an ocean wave washing debris onto the shore.
“I was telling you about a menu suggestion I made to Max. He finally accepted it.”
“That’s great.” I lift the hot coffee to my lips, hoping my poor attempt at a genuine smile hides behind the dark red porcelain mug. I turn back to the window and the old worn-down shed. Maybe it wouldn’t look so sad if I painted it.
“It is.” His weak smile
