Page 61 of Miss Behaved
This time, the table buckles, but it’s still standing. I watch as he takes swing after swing. I imagine the soreness in his arms and hands must be painful, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He beats at the table, and I wonder if maybe I’m not the only one here for catharsis.
The heat in Carson’s eyes as he pounds away at the table floods me with feelings. Every conversation, every hug. Every unspoken word to ever sit between us. Memories of that boy and girl knock on the other side of the door in my mind, begging to get out.
It reminds me of the porch swing in the middle of summer.
It reminds me of finding that bruise above Carson’s eyebrow.
It reminds me of the second before we kissed in my bed at eighteen.
It reminds me of him leaving.
It reminds me we’re human.
One look molds every moment I’ve spent with him into one. From him stepping onto my front porch at eleven until right now. Knowing I belonged to the boy with the hurt in his eyes back then, and that I still do.
With a final blow, the table gives and splits down the center. He lets go of the sledgehammer and falls to his knees, out of breath. When I walk up to him, he doesn’t look up at me, just wraps his arms at my hips and pulls his head against my stomach. I slip my fingers into his hair, and the room is silent around us.
We cling to each other.
Quiet.
Broken.
I fear what’s on the inside has finally made its way out.
25
Carson
Eachswingofthesledgehammer seemed to connect inside me as it came crashing down against the wood. And every swing throbbed the same three words in my head.
Leave.
Her.
Be.
My dad’s advice all those years ago was a beacon I lived by for so long. A way to protect Monica from the ruin inside of me.
And I’d done well. I’d let her go even if I broke both our hearts in the process. She was happy and writing, building a life in Seattle. She didn’t need me running through her heart with a sledgehammer and using her like my own personal rage room.
Yet here I was.
Swinging for dear life and losing grip on the promises I made to keep her safe. To keep her from having to live with a man who has rotten blood in his veins.
“The wheels in your head are starting to smoke,” Monica says, placing her hand on my leg. Her touch draws me back to my body.
“Lost in thought,” I say.
“Wasn’t that the point of the exercise? To stop thinking?” She grins at me.
I force a smile and let go of the breath I’ve been holding. “Yes, you’re right. Stopping.”
She rakes her fingernails along the inside of my thigh and trails upward. “Don’t make me hityourreset button, Mr. Calloway.”
Fuck, I love it when she gets confident and dirty. It’s this whole other side of her that flips me upside down.
“Maybe you should.” I grab her wrist and pull her hand up the rest of the way, running it along the hard length fighting against my zipper.
