Page 1 of Love in Pieces

CHAPTER 1

Abby

The ringing in my earsmuffles the sound of Sam’s hand connecting with the soft flesh of my cheek. The familiar sting immediately follows with a vengeance. His strong bellow echoes through the room, reverberating off the blank bedroom walls. My hand covers my cheek out of instinct but the rest of me stills as if staying immobile might make me invisible.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Abby?” His almost six-foot slim build towers over my small five-foot-two frame. “I’m doing this forus,” he hisses.

An almost silent whine escapes my chest.Shit.

“What?” he spits, brows raised high.

“I ... I’m sorry,” I manage to get out. A hot tear trickles down my cheek and disappears behind my hand.

“You’re sorry? Now you’re sorry?” His voice grows louder with each question. “Maybe start with that next time.”

Our neighbors are either extremely hard of hearing or don’t have a care in the world. Sam and I have fought more in the last year than I can count, and no one has ever checked in on us. Not even a noise complaint. I stopped counting on their help a long time ago.

I shift my weight to face him, hoping my movements don’t aggravate him further. “I told you I would quit my cafeteria job.” That was supposed to sound confident, but it came out as more of a whimper.

“We’re past that, Abby. Need I remind you of your TA position?” He pulls out his wallet and chucks a blue and white card at me. I flinch when it hits my shoulder. “I make enough for both of us.”

He does, but that’s not the point. “I’ll talk to the professor and see what I can do,” I offer, hoping he takes my bid.

“Yeah, you do that.” He storms out of the bedroom and out the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

I suck in a sharp breath, inflating my begging lungs. Tears streak down my cheeks. I clamp a hand over my mouth to prevent the painful moans from becoming too audible. My tender tear-soaked cheeks offer welcoming warmth as I slowly slip into bed under the cool covers. My favorite purple blanket dampens with the tears I could have prevented.

He usually leaves the apartment after our fights to “clear his head” as he puts it, not bothering to come home until two or three in the morning. I’ve stopped asking where he goes. He’s usually still upset and gets mad that I feel the need to ask. It’s that, or he just doesn’t want to tell me. Either way, it usually ends in another argument. I’ve learned it’s best to steer clear of inconvenient topics, which seems to be everything these days.

It’s nearly time for bed once the tears stop flowing and my breathing settles. I kick the covers over. The cool night air is a bit shocking from the open window, but I let it caress my bare legs. Right. Spring has sprung. After long Minnesota winters, the fresh air feels amazing. Sam likes to keep the apartment at a crisp sixty-seven degrees. Anything below that is still fair game. But in the warmer months, the AC runs like it’s a member of the family, always on, and Sam will throw a fit if it’s not.

The black sweatshirt draped over the gray accent chair under the window feels as cold as the night air, but I pull it on anyway, hoping my body will warm it quickly. I should get this place cleaned up. The once beautiful red and white roses he got me after our last fight now lie strewn across the dining room floor, coating the hardwood in sweet-smelling water. Pieces of the curvy clear vase blend in with the water, leaving a captivating reflection on the kitchen wall—too pretty for its cause. I lay a bath towel down on the floor, allowing the water to seep into the fibers and grab the broom to sweep the glass up after the water is gone, careful to get every piece.

A dozen roses lie on the counter, some bent, some broken, all completely meaningless now. I pick up the nearest red rose and start pulling off petals.He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.With a final tug on the last petal, I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.He loves me not.

I should be upset about the result of this stupid game. But I’m not. Maybe this is the answer I was hoping for. Maybe I’m not surprised. Do I even love him? I haven’t asked myself that question in a long time. I’ve been in survival mode for over a year. Leaving the relationship at this point seems impossible. He controls everything.

I jump when the apartment door swings open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud thud, and in walks Sam. Without asking, he answers my question. “I forgot my fucking wallet. Got all the way there and had to turn around.” He glances at the floor where the once beautiful rose now lies dismantled. “Pick up those damn petals. You’re making a mess.”

I wince as the door slams shut again, leaving behind nothing but silence. I look around at the jumble of petals at my feet and bend to scoop them up and toss them into the garbage. The rest of the flowers join the petals, and I wipe the counters off as a last-ditch effort to make it look like nothing happened tonight.

Thankfully, the only thing he broke was the vase. Usually, it’s a few things, but he let me off the hook tonight. My eyes roll at the thought. I open my phone and pull up the FindMe app to see if Sam is finally gone. But of course, his location is off. It almost always is. I double-check that mine is still on, knowing he would throw a fit if I ever turned it off. He claims it’s for “safety reasons.” Of course, he doesn’t reciprocate this “safety” feature. The last time I turned mine off, I ended up with a split lip and bruised bicep. I learned my lesson very quickly.

Satisfied that he won’t be back for a while, I jump in the shower. I carefully wash my face, making sure to be gentle on my cheek. The bruises have already started forming around my wrist from where he latched on. Another setback. The previous bruises had finally healed and disappeared a few days ago.

Back to wearing long sleeves, I guess.

Sleep takes me quickly once I climb back into bed. I didn’t notice when Sam came home last night. In the morning, he doesn’t bother getting ready quietly, but rather, he seems to make as much noise as possible. I listen quietly as he opens and closes drawers, wanders around with his electronic toothbrush buzzing, and jingles his keys back and forth before coming in to say goodbye. He places a gentle kiss on my forehead before offering a smile.

“Good morning, babydoll. Have a good day. I’ll see you after work. Love you.” He doesn’t wait for a response before closing the bedroom door and letting the heavy front door click shut.

And just like that, we are back to “normal.” That fight last night? Barely happened. These bruises that are now bright blue and purple? Collateral damage to a demand that could have been avoided by my compliance.

After deciding I won’t be able to fall back asleep by the time my alarm goes off, I pull myself out of bed and into the bathroom. The mirror above the sink reveals how badly I need to redye my sandy brown roots. The black-colored hair has already started fading to a dull dark brown with a stark line between the two. And my cheek after last night, much to my surprise, is barely blueish purple. My full coverage foundation will easily make that disappear. It’s amazing, or sad I suppose, the skills I’ve picked up from being in such a tumultuous relationship.

Patting the last bit of powder onto my face to hide the dewiness from my oily nose, I check my handiwork. Not a hint of the bruise is visible. Perfect. I head out the door, straightening my cafeteria uniform under my sweatshirt. While my motorcycle warms up, I zip up my black jacket and toss my backpack over my shoulder.

The purr of the engine allows me to settle into my happy place. I could ride all day if I didn’t have places to be. The warm morning sun battles the chilly morning air. Perfect riding weather. I bask in the peace of the wind flying by, leaving all my problems scrambling to keep up.

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