Page 67 of Beautiful Savage
The black t-shirt from Miami. Gunner's shirt I'd carefully folded and brought home like a talisman. I hold it to my face first. Breathe him in so deep my lungs burn. Cedar and gun oil and that scent that's purely him, male and dangerous and home. For a moment I let myself remember: wearing this shirt in his kitchen while he made coffee, the way it fell to my thighs, the way he looked at me like I was wearing diamonds.
Then I fold it smaller, put it in a box, slide it under my bed. Not thrown away. I'm not strong enough for that. Just hidden where it can't destroy me every time I open a drawer. Where it can wait like a secret, like evidence of a crime.
The portrait above the couch becomes invisible by degrees. The first day after the hospital I stop before it once, seeing what Gunner must have seen. Me at nineteen in the garden. The girl he saw and decided to take. By the third day I've stopped stopping. By the fifth day my eyes slide past like Nicolas's have for years.
Jarrod visits every day like clockwork, and each visit feels like another nail in the coffin of who I was in Miami. Thursday with groceries, even before Papa was home from hospital, and his cologne made me nauseous. Too sweet, too much, nothing like cedar and danger. Friday with his mother's lasagna in aglass dish, the cheese bubbled golden on top, the kind of meal that speaks of family dinners and small-town futures. Saturday mowing the lawn while I watch from the window, his methodical back-and-forth nothing like the controlled violence in every movement Gunner made. Sunday with overly sweetened coffee before my first class, the gesture thoughtful and wrong, wrong, wrong.
He has brief conversations with Nicolas about hardware inventory and high school football, safe topics that don't touch the edges of what happened. When he kisses my cheek before leaving, my whole body recoils. His lips are soft where Gunner's were demanding, careful where Gunner's claimed, tepid where Gunner's burned. Every touch is a reminder of what I'm settling for, what I'm choosing because the alternative broke my father's bones.
His mother mentioned last visit that she's been saving her mother's ring, hinting with zero subtlety that Jarrod should "make things official" now that I'm back home "for good." The town's been building toward this moment for months, their collective wisdom deciding what I need.
Sunday evening arrives with inevitability weighing the air. Fireflies starting in the rosemary Maman planted, their small lights like wishes I'm not allowed to make. We've finished dinner. Nicolas, Jarrod, and me at the kitchen table pretending this is normal, the country radio playing low enough to be ignored. Papa retired early, pain medication making him foggy and tired by eight.
Jarrod and I wash dishes in the careful rhythm we've developed. Him washing, me drying, neither of us speaking because what is there to say? The not-talking the town has prepared us for years to do. My hands move automatically, placing plates in the cabinet, hanging dish towels, while everything under my skin reaches for different hands, differentsilence, the weight of Gunner's presence that made even quiet feel full.
When the last dish is dried, Jarrod asks if I want to sit on the porch for a few minutes before he heads home. His voice carries something extra, a weight that makes my stomach drop because I know what's coming. Have sensed it building since his mother's not-subtle hints, since the town started whispering about "poor Daphne needing stability after that terrible break-in."
The swing creaks softly under our weight, the sound Maman loved because it meant evening, meant rest, meant Papa would soon join her to watch the stars come out. When Jarrod pulls out the dark green velvet box, worn soft at the corners, my chest goes tight.
"This was my grandmother's," he says quietly. Sixty years old, the box itself an heirloom. He opens it on his knee rather than kneeling, and I'm grateful for that small mercy. The ring is exactly what I expected: small solitaire diamond in yellow gold, simple setting, the kind of ring meant for a simple life. The kind of ring that would never survive what Gunner's hands could do to me, would never withstand the force of what we were together.
He turns toward me on the swing, and I see his nervousness, his hope, his patience finally reaching its conclusion.
"Will you marry me, Daphne?" Simple, gentle, exactly scripted. Words that should be beautiful and instead just sit there, heavy and cold. Everything Gunner would never say, would never need to say because he'd already claimed me without asking, marked me inside and out, made me his in ways no ring could ratify.
I've rehearsed responses all week, turned phrases over in my mind while teaching, while nursing Papa, while lying awake. Yeswould be the easiest. No would be the cruelest. But what comes out is neither.
"Next time." My voice sounds like someone else's, someone who never knew what it was like to be claimed so thoroughly her bones remember it. "Ask me next time. I'll have an answer for you then."
I watch Jarrod process my answer. I haven't refused, have asked him to ask again, have given him hope. He nods once, closes the velvet box that feels like a shackle even unopened, returns it to his pocket where it will wait like a patient trap.
He speaks briefly about taking the time I need, about being honored I'm considering, about my family being his family. When he kisses my cheek goodbye, bile rises in my throat. His truck pulls away and I stay on the swing, knowing I'll say yes next time, probably within two weeks. The answer already settles like stones in my stomach, heavy and final and wrong.
In my childhood bedroom, I pick up the silver-framed photograph from the bedside table. Maman at twenty-five, a year younger than I am now, standing before the heritage roses on the arbor. The photo Papa took the year before he started painting her seriously, when she was still just his wife and not yet his muse. She's smiling in soft cotton, hair loose, looking at something beyond the camera that made her happy.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, prop the photograph against the bed frame so her eyes meet mine. My throat closes around the words before I force them out, speaking aloud to my dead mother for the first time since I was eleven and promised to be good.
"I won't try again." The words come out dry as chalk, like surrender, like the end of everything. "I'll be good. I'll be small." Each promise tears something inside me, something that might be irreparable. "I'll marry Jarrod and I'll teach the children and I'll let it go."
Each line clicks doors shut with finality. The conservatory solo, the body paint, dancing for Gunner with my skin on fire. All filed under "trying" and done. The protocols of palatable femininity permanently reinstated while my body screams in protest, remembering what it felt like to be wanted, to be seen, to be fucked like I mattered. The small life recommitted: wrap skirts, eight-year-olds, pretending I never knew what it felt like to be pressed against a wall by a man who saw exactly who I was and wanted me anyway.
The apology complete, I sit in silence as eleven o'clock brings its unwanted recognition: Sunday dinner at La Sirena. My chest hollows out when I realize they're gathering at their table right now. Sera with her lechón that fills the kitchen with garlic and citrus. Adrian's laughter warming the room. Marisol's chaos, Isa's sharp observations, the Siren humming between courses. The warm chaos of their ritual.
The family that briefly included me, that called mepalomaandhermosaand made space at their table. That watched me claim Gunner on their dance floor and didn't flinch. That sent security to protect me even now.
I don't know where Gunner is tonight. Maybe at the table with his friends. Maybe in his apartment, sitting at that desk. Maybe somewhere I can't imagine, already forgetting the woman who couldn't be what he needed. I've been trying to stop imagining, but my body won't let me. Even now, sitting before my mother's photo having just promised to be small, my pussy aches for him, wet and empty and betraying every word I just swore.
I return the photograph to its place and crawl into bed, the cottage quiet around me. Nicolas sleeps, healing slowly. I curl in my childhood bed, and for one moment I let myself imagine: Gunner's truck pulling up outside. His footsteps on the porch. The door opening. His weight on this too-small bed, his handsrough and perfect, his voice saying my name like a prayer and a curse combined.
The fantasy is so vivid I actually turn toward the door, actually listen for him, actually let my hand drift to the phone on the nightstand. My fingers hover over the screen, over that missed call still waiting like an open wound.
But I let them drop to the mattress. He spent so long pushing me away, and now I'm pushing back.
25 - Daphne
The security car at the corner is too still.
I notice it through the kitchen window while folding my grocery list. The driver's angle all wrong, his body slumped in a way that makes my hand freeze on the paper. The afternoon light catches on something that might be his wedding ring, the same gold band I noticed when he handed me coffee on Friday morning, but he's not moving. Not adjusting his position. Not checking his phone like he usually does during the long afternoon shifts.
