Page 2 of Beneath the Midnight Sky
I took a deep breath and slowly released it through my nose.
I told myself years ago that I was going to leave this city. I was going to move somewhere far away where no one knew my father or my mother. I was going to go to art school and become a full-time painter. But I met Sam right before graduation, then my father passed, and the world just felt rather hopeless for a while.
Sam had seemed like the sweetest man to ever walk the planet, and most of the time, he was. But he struggled to hold down a job for more than a few months at a time. He was more of a free spirit who got bored easily if he wasn’t challenged enough.
He’d talked me into saving more money and going to school at home first. But school hadn’t happened at all yet. Whenever it came time to enroll, something would come up. He’d be out of work, the car would need something expensive, and so on.
So here we were. Me working extra shifts because he wasn’t feelingchallenged.
I shook my head at the thought. I needed to stop blaming him. It was my own fault, too. I just let it slide and covered his portion of the bills every single time he was short. If anything, I was more to blame than he was. If I were that pressed, I’d stand up to him about it.
Getting up, I went to check on my two tables again. I took the second table’s order and then walked it back to the kitchen. After putting it up for the cooks in the back to start making it, I heard a familiar voice yelling my name.
Walking out of the kitchen, I looked toward the front of the diner where the voice came from, and realized it was Sam. But he didn’t seem okay—he seemed somewhat unsteady. His sandy brown hair was disheveled, as if he ran his hands through it onetoo many times on the way over here. He’s wearing black joggers and an old, gray t-shirt, which was also wrinkled and worn in.
“Hey, baby, are you okay?” I asked him gently.Please don’t let him be drunk right now. Please.
He looked down at me, his normal dark chocolate-colored eyes were now bloodshot and glassy. “We need to talk, babe. Now,” he said, his words slightly slurred. I hated it when he called me that. It made my skin itch. But what was actually driving my nerves was the fact that he was very clearly drunk at my place of employment. Of all the places to pick, why did he have to do this here?
I sighed and took his hand in mine. “Okay. We can talk. Let’s go outside, though.” If I could keep him calm, it would be fine. If I could keep his voice at a reasonable level, it would be okay.
He yanked his hand out of mine and stumbled backwards a few steps. We must’ve been louder than I thought because my manager, Chris, came walking out of the back, and his eyes narrowed at Sam almost immediately.
“Is there a problem out here, Aspen?” Chris asked, giving me a pointed look that clearly said he knew who this was and didn’t want the drama in his diner—not that I could blame him.
“Of course not, Chris. Sam was just leaving.” All I could think was that I really couldn’t lose this job right now. Especially with Sam not working.
“No, the fuck I’m not, Aspen! I’m not fucking going anywhere.” His voice was raised now, and he’d caught the attention of almost every table in the diner, stomping his foot as if he were a toddler being told no for the first time in his life.
“Sam, let me call you a ride. My shift is almost over, and we can talk about everything and anything you want to talk about when I get there. I promise.” I tried to remain quiet while also attempting to hold his hand again in a poor effort to calm him.Guiding him toward the door, I pulled out my phone to call him a car.
“Fuck you, Aspen. I don’t want a car.” He yanked his hand away again. “And who the fuck are you calling? Do you have someone else now? Whose dick are you sucking? Is it Ethan’s? Are you fucking my best friend?”
Shocked, I looked up at him. What was he talking about? Someone else? Ethan? I’d met him all of one time. All I ever did was work and come home. Where he was supposed to be and sometimes didn’t even bother showing up to. I didn’t even have friends. He didn’t like it when we missed out on time together, even if that time ended up being me home alone more often than not.
I took another deep breath in a poor attempt to decrease the rising anxiety in my chest. “Sam, there has only ever been you. You know that. I’m just getting you a car, so I know you get home safely, and I won’t worry.”
Before I could back away, he reached over, grabbed my phone from my hand, and threw it across the diner, thankfully toward the empty seating area, and then swung his hand back, smacking me across the face.
It happened so quickly, the next thing I knew, I was on the ground holding the side of my face. Shocked. He’d hit me. In public. At my work. The side of my face was tingling, pain running into my eye sockets and nose.
Before I could even form a thought, Chris was there helping me up. I must’ve tuned everything out because Sam was walking out of the diner. “I called the cops, Aspen. I’m sorry. I should’ve gotten over here quicker,” Chris said, his tone as gentle as his touch was as he helped me up off the floor. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led me back to the employee restroom, his tone never wavering. I couldn’t stand to look at any of the customers; the pitying looks would ruin the calm facade I’d donned.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I looked into the mirror. Was I okay? The whole right side of my face was red and already starting to bruise and swell. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded my head in silence.
“I’m going to get you some ice. The police should be here soon to take your statement. Okay?” He glanced at me quickly, his voice still gentle. As if he was afraid that if he used his normal voice, I’d bolt, or worse, start crying on him. Men always hated it when a woman cried.
Suddenly, what he said clicked in my brain. The police. I hadn’t spoken to them since I was sixteen, and I’d been moved to my last foster home. Before I knew better how to hide my father’s blatant neglect. I closed my eyes and leaned against the bathroom wall, trying to calm my mind.
How did this happen? How did we get here?
Whenever Sam had an episode and got drunk, he’d hit things. The walls, his truck. He’d slam doors and throw beer bottles, but he never laid a hand on me before now.
Did I leave? No. I ended that line of thinking quickly. I loved him, obviously. I just had to get him tostopdrinking so much.
