Monstrous.
It applies to her husband as well.
Love isn’t this. Whatever it is.
In the mirror, Jenny gives herself a grin that’s braver than she feels. Then she slings the bag across her trembling body and heads for the door. She’s only taken a few steps when she stops and staggers.
Suddenly, Jenny gasps as she’s hit by a wave of vertigo. She’s still unsteady on her feet after all these months. Black spots pulse at the corner of her vision, threatening to take her down. “No,” she moans, gripping dresser’s edge, her knuckles tense and whitening.
The fainting spells don’t happen as often as they used to, but when one hits, it puts her out.
No way. Not here, not now.
If Roy comes home and finds me—
Tears prick her eyes, but she grits her jaw and rallies.
With a shake of her head, she clears the cobwebs from her mind and collects herself, taking small breaths to stave off the pain. She resists the urge to reach into the bag for her migraine meds. They make her sluggish and tired, and she needs her wits about her. Especially today.
Besides, she’s better. She’s felt better for a hell of a long time.
Jenny grimaces at the lie that’s so easily rolled across the caverns of her mind.
She is better.
Jenny puts her hand on the doorknob and twists.
Free, she thinks as she steps out of the house. But she can’t help but hear the nagging words in the back of her mind. No, you aren’t.
Three hours later, Jenny’s in Pensacola. She’s gone to the water. She read about Opal Beach in a travel magazine Roy had brought home. One of the most beautiful beaches in the world, the article proclaimed. Well, Jenny wants to see it for herself.
As she exits the bus, she stops and stares at the turquoise ocean. She inhales the smell of sea and salt. Tilts her face up toward the sun, loving the pulse of warmth on her skin.
She’s fascinated by water, though she’s mystified why. Only the deep tug in her soul tells her it means something. Freedom. The way water goes on forever without end. Maybe she is part water, she is part sea. Restless and wanting. Somewhere, deep in her mind, she remembers walking on water, a bridge of sorts, but she chalks it up to a daydream.
Jenny shivers. The thin cotton slip dress she wears is damp with ocean air. Suddenly self-conscious, she cocoons her cardigan around her body, hoping it covers the bruises on her throat. Then, she crosses the street to a small box diner perched on the cliff overlooking the ocean. Its bright beacon of a neon sign blinks EAT EAT EAT.
Jenny smiles. She’ll do just that.
As she climbs the stairs, she gives a longing look at the water. Just to touch a toe in would be heaven, but hunger wins out. She can feel her stomach grumbling a warning to eat or else. She hasn’t had a decent meal in ages. So, she’ll hit the diner, decide next steps. She’s resisted making too many plans for fear of something going wrong. But now that she’s out of Tallahassee, freedom’s so close. A heartbeat away.
The diner’s door chimes announce her arrival.
Inside, the diner’s near-empty except for a couple of men in a Naugahyde booth. Jenny’s mouth salivates as she passes a rotating stand of pies. Coconut cream, apple, pecan.
Holy shit, how long has it been since she’s had a home-cooked meal?
A sudden, vicious hunger fills her. A hunger for actual food. Not TV dinners or boxed meals or cold cereal. Delicious, greasy diner food.
“Afternoon, hon,” an elderly waitress bleats over the sizzle of the grill. She slaps a handful of menus against her meaty thigh. “Go ahead and seat yourself.”
Jenny smiles. “Thanks.”
A sigh of grateful content fills her throat. How wonderful to interact with people in the wild. Never once worrying about what Roy would want her to say or do. Never once shivering at the feel of Roy’s hand lingering on the curve of her shoulder, his fat fingers ready to dig in deep if she so much as slipped up.
Scooting into a booth behind the men, Jenny allows herself a moment to relax. From her vantage point, she can see the ocean through the window. A smile quirks her face, and she reaches for her bag, ready to take inventory of her freedom. Digging around, she tenderly cups each item she’s brought with her. When she gets to her wallet, a silver zippered pouch, she pauses. The weight in her palm—light.
Too light.