“Do you always hit her when you scream at her?” His voice is so soft, almost gentle.
My mom forces a laugh, her arms squeezing herself tighter. “I didn’t—”
“I heard that, too.”
Maverick steps so close to her they’re nearly touching. He lifts his hand, and his fingers curl around her throat as he pulls her up off the fucking floor. Her nails scratch at his skin, panic in her eyes as she tries, and fails, to speak.
“If you ever touch her again,” he croons, “if you ever hit her again, I promise you, I’ll fucking kill you.”
He doesn’t let her down. She’s still digging her yellowed nails into his skin, her feet kicking at the air beneath her. Her face is turning red.
I’m worried he’s going to make good on his promise right now. “Mavy,” I say softly.
His back tenses beneath the tight black sweater he’s wearing, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Mavy, put her down.”
My mom’s eyes are rolling back in her head.
He shoves her on the couch, letting her go. She falls to her ass, her hands going to her throat, her eyes wild.
He turns around and looks at me. “Let’s go.” Then he heads toward the door.
I look at my mom, see questions in her eyes, her face still red. I throw the keys at her. They land in her lap.
“Bye, Mom.”
I follow Maverick to the door. He yanks it open and it hits the wall. He kicks open the screen door, holds it open for me.
I press my fingers to the glass, walking out behind him.
“Ella,” my mom says hoarsely.
I don’t look back at her, but I still in the doorway.
“When are you coming back?”
Maverick stops on the porch, staring straight ahead, away from us.
“I don’t know, Mom.” I let the screen door slam closed.
“Is it always like that?”
I freeze, my hand in the popcorn bowl in my lap. We’re in Maverick’s bonus room, the lights off, the movie’s opening credits starting on the projector in front of us. I’m curled up on one end of the sectional under a blanket and he’s at the opposite end, legs reclined in front of him.
I take a breath. Shove popcorn in my mouth and stare straight ahead. I don’t want to talk about this. So I just…don’t.
He pauses the movie.
There’s just silence in the room now. I glance at the coffee table in front of the couch, a decanter full of amber liquid and stacked glasses. I want to pour myself a drink and dump it all down my throat right now.
But I force myself to chew the popcorn, kernels jabbing into my gums. I swallow, subtly wipe my hand on the blanket. I still don’t look at him.
“Ella.”
I don’t want to talk about this.
“Ella.”
I hear the impatience in his voice, but I don’t care. He doesn’t tell me anything. We don’t need to trade horror stories. I didn’t ask him to come save me from my mother. I’ve experienced far worse than that. Our fights are brutal. The night she hit me last, on New Year’s Eve, that might’ve ended up with both of us dead if I hadn’t gotten out of there, accepted Natalie’s pity invitation. It’s always over the same things: Money, food. Shane.
“Ella, I’m fucking talking to you.” He throws the flat rectangular remote on the coffee table where it skids to a stop by the decanter. The sound makes me flinch, and the tone of his voice has my stomach in knots, but even still…
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I finally find the words.
He snorts. “That’s too bad. I do.”
Anger rushes through me, hot and uncomfortable. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t leave one war zone for another. Did I?
I turn to glare at him. He’s glaring right back, his eyes gleaming in the still frame of the movie he paused.
He sits up straighter, reaching around the side of the couch, putting the recliner back so his feet are flat on the floor. “Talk to me, Ella. Is it always like that?” he asks again.
I look down at the popcorn bowl in my lap. I’m sitting cross-legged, wearing a grey sweater that was pilled when I bought it from the thrift store two moves ago. I wonder if Maverick has ever set foot inside a fucking thrift store.
“I told you,” I try to keep my tone even, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Silence. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. He didn’t speak when we drove back to his house. Didn’t touch me. Just clenched his fingers so hard against the wheel I was surprised it didn’t break in half. I have no idea why he’s in such a bad mood, but I don’t really think he needs a reason. He’s just always angry.
How exhausting.
How…relatable.
Finally, he sighs. I hear him stand to his feet. He walks around the coffee table, comes to sit beside me, the sofa dipping with his weight. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He’s in tight black jeans, a black t-shirt that he had on under his sweater, and I can see all of the ink on his arms.
“Does she hit you often?”
I close my eyes, grip the popcorn bowl a little tighter. “I told you, I don’t want to talk—”
He grabs my chin, cutting off my words, yanking my head toward his. He leans forward, so his face is inches from mine. “And I told you, that’s too fucking bad.”
My breaths are shallow, muscles tight. I squeeze the popcorn bowl as hard as I can, the shiny plastic flexing under the strain of my fingers. “Get your hand off of me,” I snarl.
He smirks at me, his hand splaying over my face, my jaw. He digs his fingers in. “No. Not until you start fucking talking.”
I yank out of his grip, toss the popcorn bowl on the floor. It bounces, spewing the contents all over the wood floors as I stand to my feet, the blanket falling from my lap. I clench my hands into fists, chest heaving.
He leans back to take me in, something like amusement on his handsome face.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice low, tone even, but my heart is hammering in my chest, my temper boiling. This is how it was before. How it still is with my mother. This is what I was looking for an escape from, in Shane. Someone to calm me.
Soothe me.
Fucking save me from myself; from that empty pit of self-loathing.
“Huh?” I demand, narrowing my eyes as he watches me calmly. “You bring me here to hit me, too?”
“I might have,” he says honestly.
I lick my lips, my mouth dry. I try to laugh, but it comes out all wrong, like an angry huff. “You fucking asshole!” I don’t know why I want to hurt him, but I do. I don’t know why I want to push him back against the couch and slap him until his face is red. Until his ears are ringing. Until he puts his hands up to defend himself. Until he apologizes for pushing me. For fucking with my head. “Why didn’t you fucking leave me there?” I ask, throwing my hands up. “Why were you even at my house in the first place?”
He still regards me with an infuriating calm that makes me want to break something. My eyes dart to the decanter and the glasses. A wild idea lodges itself into my head and I want nothing more than to throw those glasses against the floor and listen as they shatter.