Prologue
“I'm a tough guy. I'd like to see someone try to take me down.” ~Max Constantine, age 22.
Worrying about my boyfriend was the last thing I wanted to do after a grueling twelve-hour nursing shift in the emergency room.
At the hospital, I got cussed out by a patient after I refused him more painkillers on top of the pills he’d taken an hour before, had a patient throw up on my scrubs, and almost peed my pants from a lack of bathroom breaks.
Driving home, I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth, my teeth snagging against a scab. With the acrid taste of blood against my tongue, I grabbed my phone off the charger to toss it in my purse. The screen lit up with a picture of my boyfriend, Max and I—taken a few months before. We’re standing on top of the bunkers in nearby Fort Townsend. He looked handsome, all dark stubble and bright blue eyes. His skin was tan and healthy, while I was slightly sunburnt, my nose pink between the brown spots of my freckles. My red hair was in a constructed bun that took me thirty minutes to perfect. Light is shining through my copper strands as they lie against the darkness of his hair. Fire and Night. My upper lip was a too thin to balance out my bottom lip. My eyelashes were their natural reddish-blonde because I’d forgotten mascara that day. In the picture our cheeks were smashed together, my smile was big, with my gums showing in a way that always made me self-conscious.
Max had a way of making me forget myself. Whether it was the way his calloused hand fit in mine or his breath in my ear as he teased me about sneaking into the dark and dirty bunkers to do equally dirty things.
In the eight years we’d been together, he had an indelible charm over me. When he told me I looked beautiful, I believed him. Even as teenagers, when he chose me, I was awed. Max Constantine was the handsome baseball player in high school. He was a charismatic joker. He was voted homecoming king. And he wanted me.
Ever since I met him, I was smitten. I was new to town, moving to my mother’s hometown of Ridgewood a month before. A shy, red-headed eleven-year-old, whose father was hired as the new doctor at Ridgewood Community Hospital.
I was riding my bike wearing a floral print dress and frilly ankle socks my mother insisted were ‘adorable.’ I came upon two boys my age being chased by a large man. A fury such I’d never experienced before came over my body in a rush. Without a thought, I picked up a rock and chucked it at the man. As the two boys escaped into the woods, the man ran toward me, screaming, the scent of liquor and sweat clinging to his clothes. He quickly realized that he couldn’t lay a hand on a girl without repercussions. He left me on the street with a few choice words, and shaky knees. I later learned the man was Max’s stepfather.
A few minutes later, the boys returned from the woods. Without thinking, I threw my arms around the shorter of the two and he held me tight. That was the first day I met Max Constantine and Alexander Eberhardt. It was the beginning of our friendship that spanned more than a decade. From that day forward, I trusted Max implicitly and he vowed to protect me. The three of us were inseparable.
It was our sophomore year of high school when Max and I started dating. We were seniors the first time we broke up. I caught him kissing another girl at a party. By then, he’d dropped out, with nothing to keep him in town. He moved away for almost a year to live with his uncle in Boise, leaving me and Xander behind.
He returned the day after prom. Max vowed he made a mistake leaving me. That it was a mistake to kiss another girl. That he would do whatever it took to get me back.
All I had known was Max, and I wanted to believe in him. I allowed myself to give in to his charm and his sweet words. Again, I let myself fall.
Now here we were, almost twenty-five. After I graduated from nursing school, when I got a job at Ridgewood Community Hospital, Xander asked us if we wanted to move into the duplex he’d been renting. The three of us all under one roof worked out well. It was nice to have a break on rent costs, and Xander was the most dependable roommate a person could ask for. We had many nights, the three of us, eating dinner and drinking beer on the patio overlooking Freedom Bay. Max would grill and Xander would prep the food. I would be in charge of cleanup. Those were good days.
Pulling into our driveway, I threw my phone into my purse and leaned back against the headrest. Those good days were fading. The same warning signs were there as before.
I was older now and had a good job as a nurse at the hospital. I didn’t deserve to be mistreated. I wanted to think he didn’t realize how much his erratic behavior was affecting me, but sometimes, late at night, my mind would go into the dark space of suspicion.
The Max of these days was a different man than the one I fell in love with so many years ago. As worrying as his recent behavior was, the idea of being without him was terrifying. My best friend, Scarlett, had been telling me to stand up for myself and set better boundaries. But how do I do that with someone I’ve trusted since I was eleven?
I rubbed my lips together, finding a stray piece of skin. Tugging on it, there was the familiar sting. Holding my hand away from my lip, I looked at the little dot of blood. I needed to stop picking at my skin.
When I left the night before, Max was sitting on the couch watching TV, a bottle of beer between his knees. I kissed him goodbye, and he swatted my butt, eliciting a yelp. It was a familiar gesture, and one that I hoped was a good sign. I wondered if he’d be home when I got there.
Normally I wouldn’t question it, but in the past few months he had been taking off at odd times, not coming home for hours. He was cagey with his phone. They were all signs something was going on.
I hoped he’d hold my hand the way he used to, squeezing each fingertip in his fist before grasping my palm. Maybe today would be the day he looked deep into my green eyes the way he used to. Maybe today would be better.
Making my way to the door, my arms were full of groceries. I tried the door of our duplex and found it locked. I swore under my breath. Even after years of living on my own, I wasn’t used to locking the door. My parents never locked theirs. Of course, they lived across town in the gated community of Avonwood Pond. The duplex we lived in was closer to the projects of Queenie Hill, where Max and Xander grew up.
I couldn’t count how many times I’d get a frantic message from Xander, berating me for not locking the door.
Our stuff could get stolen. If someone broke in and took all our shit, and we had to tell the cops you didn’t lock the door? It would be our fault.
Alexander Eberhardt, the king of the fretful.
As I fumbled with my purse, fishing to the bottom to find my keys, the sour cream rolled out of the plastic bag, bouncing off my black Danskos and down the porch, stopping a few inches from the stairs. I narrowed my eyes at the vagrant dairy as I untangled my keys from my headphone cord. Shoving the door with my shoulder, I pushed into the house. Balancing the shopping bags in each arm, I hefted them into the kitchen and onto the counter. I hung my keys and the keys Max had left on the counter, on the ugly wine-bottle-shaped key hook that Xander’s ex-girlfriend left behind. The clock on the stove let me know it was nearly nine a.m.
Grabbing a step stool from the corner, I put my groceries away. Because of the small size of our kitchen, we had to get creative in our storage. Cereal was relegated to above the fridge, far above my short stature. Standing on the stool, I took the time to line up myLifecereal next to Xander’sHoney Bunches of Oats,so they were straight, and the nutrition labels were facing out. I separated the banana’s so they wouldn’t ripen too quickly and arranged them in a circle around the apples in the bamboo bowl.
Once I had everything put away where I liked it, I brought out the ingredients for pancakes. Putting on music as I mixed the flour and milk together, the whisk beat against the side of the bowl in rhythm to the music. When I mixed the blueberries, I realized I hadn’t heard Max moving around. He was a light sleeper and typically would get up when I walked in the door.
He mentioned the day before that he had to stop in and check on his younger sister, Eloise. Eloise was his half-sister, but it never mattered to them. They shared everything, including how their biological fathers left them with little more than different last names. He was a Constantine, and she was a Dunning.
Eloise meant the world to Max; she was the one person he would do anything for. I considered if he would’ve gone over to his mother, Dana’s, place, but I shook that idea off quickly. Max didn’t get along well with his mother’s boyfriend, Greg. As far as I could tell, Greg was a lot better than her previous boyfriends. At least Greg had a job, liked Eloise, and even took her to school in the mornings. Greg drank a lot, but he was a happy drunk, telling the same off-color stories about his time in the Army and cracking misogynist jokes. He was the best boyfriend Dana had had in a long while.