Throwing his hands out, Roger swipes all the papers onto the floor, his face turning red.
“You went through my stuff?” he says accusingly, as thoughI’mthe problem. I don’t respond, I just watch him. Reaching out, he grabs me roughly by the arm and hauls me to my feet.
Bringing his face close to mine, he calmly whispers, “Don’t touch my fucking shit.” The level of malice in his eyes terrifies me and my heart races in my chest. Pushing me to the floor, he stalks out of the room. Pulling myself up, I grab my keys and cell phone, sliding them in my pockets before I rush upstairs to grab my bag.
Loud stomping follows me as he all but chases me up the stairs.”
“Get back here, Callie!” he calls to me.
“I’m done, Roger, enough is enough. I’m pregnant. You’re never going to change.” I rush into our bedroom, closing the door, and clicking the lock.
Roger pounds on it relentlessly while screaming aboutkicking the door down. I clutch my stomach and cry. Our little family.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I tried. I really did.”
I ignore him and look around, throwing anything I see remaining into the bag before opening the door to an enraged Roger.
“You’re not going anywhere!” he screams in my face, spittle flying from between his lips, his whole body shaking with barely restrained rage. He snatches the bag from me and throws it to the end of the hall.
I push past him and exit the room. I don’t need my things; I can get new stuff.
“Iamleaving. I can’t keep living like this.” I try to keep my voice level; I try not to antagonize him. This needs to be the last time. When I reach the stairs, he wraps his fingers around my arm again, this time so tightly I can already feel the bruises blooming under the skin and the bones grating together.
“Get the fuck back here, Callie. You’re not going anywhere.” He spins me to face him. “You’re my wife, and as my wife, you will stay here. And I will do what I want, when I want, with whomever I want. YOU’RE MY WIFE AND THAT’S MY BABY!”
I yank my arm free and turn back toward the stairs. As my foot lands on the first step, both of his hands slam into the space between my shoulder blades, and I go flying. My feet leave the ground, and I watch in slow motion as the tile of the first-floor entry way hurtles toward my face. I throw my arms out to try and catch myself and scream as I freefall.
Slamming into the ground, my wrist crunches beneath my weight and the front of my body collides with the floor. Lying flat on my front, the bump of my baby pressing into me, pain ricochets from my injured wrist to my cheek, where it presses into the floor, to my abdomen and pelvis.Tears well in my eyes.
Roger’s thundering footsteps approach as he half-runs half-tumbles down the stairs calling my name.
“Callie? Callie, baby, I’m sorry.” He kneels next to my head, eyes wide.
“Roger, please call 911.”
Chapter 1
Heads Carolina, Tails California
Callie
One year later
April 26th 11:46 PM
“Fuck!” I scream, slamming my hand into the steering wheel. “Ow,” I whisper into the quiet; quiet being created by the blanket of snow covering my car, which sits in a ditch, in the middle of nowhere Montana.
Tap. Tap.
A light tapping distracts me from my self-pity.
Lowering the window, I see my very first, honest-to-God, Montana cowboy. He’s tall, lean, and wearing a worn-in flannel under a heavy canvas jacket, snow filling the brim of his black cowboy hat. Tears fill my eyes before spilling over. I try to explain but I can’t.
“Hey, you okay? I saw you go down into the ditch,” he tells me, his dark eyes narrowed as he studies me.
“I–I–I’m not sure.” I try to talk around the lump in my throat. “What—” My voice catches in my throat, and I make avery unappealing gasping sound. “Happened.” More tears run down my cheeks as I stare up at him.
“You spun out. You can’t park here. Your tires suck, your car isn’t made for this weather, and you don’t seem to know how to drive in it.”