Page 1 of Love Rewritten

Chapter 1

Abby

Thesecurityguardstandingoutside my room is another reminder of the worst day of my life. Everything has started to heal, but the crack in my skull, the bruises, and the busted lip are all unwanted mementos of what happened only days ago. I’m grateful someone is willing to stand guard when Dallas can’t be here, but my alone time has been considerably short since the day Sam lured me out of the apartment. Dallas has refused to leave my side for two days straight. Unless he needs to go home to shower and change, he’s here. He’s called into work, not wanting to leave me for more than an hour at a time. It’s the same with baseball practice. He won’t budge.

Bandages get changed regularly. Vitals are taken around the clock. Questions—so many questions—are asked. I’m certain I’ve answered the same ones repeatedly, but they’re all blending into the same question: what happened? One look at me and any stranger could guess I either got hit by a car or took a beating.

When the nurse comes in with discharge paperwork at the end of day three, it takes all my willpower to keep from sprinting down these halls to escape as quickly as possible despite any pain it would cause.

Dallas drives us home, probably the safest he’s ever driven in his life—avoiding potholes like the plague, moving over speed bumps so slowly they're almost unnoticeable, and I keep checking the speedometer to see if he’ll finally reach the speed limit at some point. Once inside, I settle on the couch and carefully pull my favorite purple blanket to my chin, thankful to be home.

“What can I get you?” Dallas asks, heading to the refrigerator.

“You know what I could really go for right now?” I ask with a mischievous grin. He raises an eyebrow and leans against the counter with both hands. “A super unhealthy greasy burger and fries. Oh, and maybe a chocolate milkshake.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “A burger.”

“Yes. A burger. After all that hospital food, I desperately need something to rot my gut.”

He smiles back at me saying, “Gut rot, coming right up,” and then pulls out his phone to order our food.

It shows up slower than I hoped, but at this rate, beggars can’t be choosers. Silence greets us while we shovel the deliciously greasy food into our mouths. As we finish up and rest against the back of the couch, I watch the ceiling fan spin slowly, the sound of the TV a distant noise keeping the fighting voices in my head from surfacing.

I haven’t allowed myself much time to process the last few days’ events. It’s been easier to bury and ignore it unless the cops ask. And somehow, I’ve been able to separate myself from the whole thing almost like it’s someone else doing the talking. At least mentally I’ve separated. Physically, I still wince with the smallest of movements. And Dallas is somehow tuned into my every move.

The pain meds I was sent home with aren’t crazy strong, not that they need to be, but I’m just not great at remembering to take them. Dallas and his incessant alarms are the only reason I take them on time.

The next day, I finally have to say something as he’s reaching for them on the kitchen island minutes before his alarm goes off. “Dallas,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose, “I need to you chill a bit.” When I realize that sounds harsh, I follow it with, “I just feel a little smothered. And I’m not upset with you about it. I think I just need to feel like my own person again. I can do most of this myself. And if I don’t take my meds right away, I’ll live.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for a swath of yelling, hitting, and fighting I’m so used to from Sam.

But when he takes a deep breath and smiles, I remind myself that he isn’t Sam. I remind myself that this likely won't end in more bruises, or me cleaning up something broken and scattered across the floor.

He purses his lips. “Okay, how about this?” He picks up his phone and shows me as he clicks into his alarms. “I’ll turn off my alarms. The meds will still be on the counter for you. If you need or want me to do anything, just ask. I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” I smile.

He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and then opens it again. “Since I’m here, do you want these now or should I leave them until you’re ready?” He holds up the orange pill bottle.

“I’ll take them now.” He hands me the meds like he’s done so many times before, but his hand lingers on mine when I take hold of them. My brows twist together. “What’s wrong?”

He drops his hand, letting me take the bottle before sitting beside me on the couch. “I just … I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Mess what up?” What is he talking about? We’ve been home for all of twenty-four hours.

“This,” he says, gesturing between us. “I don’t even know what this is yet, but I don’t want to ruin it.”

I laugh, shaking my head slowly. “You can’t. I’m the problem in this relationship. The one with all the issues.”

He raises both brows. “Okay, first of all, you are not a problem. You will neverbea problem, Abby. Yourissues,” he says with finger quotes, “are not issues. They’re beautiful quirks that make you,you.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me, one finger held in the air, so I press my lips together.

“I’m not done. Second of all, relationship?” He smirks but relaxes against the couch with an arm draped across the back, finally waiting for me to respond.

I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s certainly more than a friendship, don’t you think?” I watch for his reaction, but his features don’t change. “What’s with the smirk?”

He lifts one shoulder. “I guess I never really imagined myself in another relationship. At least not for a long while.” He locks his fingers behind his head, his arms tense with the motion.

“Why?” I pull my legs up into a crisscross position on the couch. I feel like I’m in for a story.

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