Page 9 of Broken Saint

And things are very, very different.

I have no idea when things started changing. I’m pretty sure it was a while ago, but I was too lost in my own head to realize.

The day he asked me to marry him, I remember staring at him and actually thinking about my answer. I knew that it was a bad sign. I should have been singing from the rooftops.

I said yes because I felt I had to. He brought me back to life after my accident and I owed him.

I shake my head, hating the person standing here with her hands in the cookie jar, or panty box, as may be more appropriate.

Finding the roll of cash at the bottom, I curl my fingers around it and lift it to my chest.

Unease ripples through me at the thought of stealing it, but I quickly shove it aside and stuff the cash into my pocket.

With the box back where it belongs, I grab a few more things and fight to close both of the suitcases I pulled from under the bed.

I look around the room before I drag them out. There was a time when I’d have been sad about leaving this place. But that day isn’t today.

With a renewed sense of determination, I drag my belongings out of the house, throw them in the trunk of my car, and take off.

I should go to Mom’s. She’ll probably be glad I’ve come to my senses. Benny certainly will be. But as I come to the intersection that will take me toward them, I find my hand knocking the indicator in the opposite direction and my little brother’s voice filling my ears.

“Go to Seattle, El. You won’t regret it.”

My heart races and my palms begin to sweat, but I can’t release the tight grip I have on the wheel.

I glance in the rearview mirror, watching as the familiarity of my hometown disappears behind me, and for some reason, the band that wound itself around my chest the second I stepped into his office loosens.

The thought of getting on a plane and leaving this place behind, even for just a little bit, helps me breathe a little easier.

“They’re your friends, Ella. Your family.”

With a whole new perspective and clarity on my life and what I want, or don’t want, I press my foot harder on the gas. My speed is way above the limit, and I probably should be concerned, but the only thing that pours out of me is laughter.

It’s manic and irrational. If anyone were to look inside my car, they’d probably think I’d just escaped from some kind of institution.

But I don’t care.

For the first time in a long time, I just don’t give a fuck.

A weight lifts off my shoulders as the laughter continues. And by the time I’m pulling into the airport parking lot, tossing up my choice of long or short stay, the tears that stain my cheeks once more are no longer because of anger but relief.

They’re tears of freedom.

It’s long past midnight, and with my adrenaline finally starting to wear off, the exhaustion is setting in.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, taking the turn for the long stay at the last minute.

I sure as hell won’t be rushing back here.

I can take my job with me; no one even has to know I’m in a different time zone or halfway across the country.

I could travel. I could see all the places I’ve only ever seen on TV. I could actually live my life instead of being holed up in a small condo with very few possessions and a man who insists on controlling every decision I make.

Even my job—my dull-as-fuck job—is because of him. He knew I was scared to return to reality after everything, and he found me a job that ensured I wouldn’t have to leave the house, feeding my fear of returning to life. Allowing me to be a recluse while the time he was away seemed to get longer and longer.

Finding a space, I kill the engine and finally dig my cell from the bottom of my purse.

I can’t say I’m surprised to find no messages or missed calls from him.