Apart, they are broken, but together, they are whole

Effie and Heath are famous. Not for anything they did, but for what happened to them as teenagers. Abducted and abused by the same man, they turned to each other for comfort until they were finally able to make their escape.

Now adults, their relationship is fraught with guilt and despair. Whether fighting or making love, their passion is strong enough to destroy them both—and Effie’s not about to let that happen. She knows it’s time for her to have a “normal” relationship, and Heath is nothing but a constant reminder of the dark past they share. Heath, on the other hand, knows Effie is the only woman he can ever love. She may want to forget what happened, but he’s convinced that they must face their past together in order to move forward. So while Effie continues to bring new men into her life, Heath becomes obsessed with proving he’s the one she needs.

Then a new crisis arises and Effie begins to lose every scrap of self-control she ever had. As she struggles against her desire to return to the one man who understands her, she discovers that sometimes the only safety you find is with the person who is the most dangerous for you.

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Megan Hart

“Hart excels at creating female leads who know exactly what they want and don’t make excuses for their lifestyle. Following this heroine’s journey is exciting.”

—RT Book Reviews on Vanilla

“Meticulously sensual details and steamy interludes make this an achingly erotic read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Flying

“Hart’s beautiful use of language and discerning eye toward human experience elevate the book to a poignant reflection on the deepest yearnings of the human heart and the seductive temptation of passion in its many forms.”

—Kirkus Book Reviews on Tear You Apart

“[Hart] writes erotica for grown-ups…[The Space Between Us] is a quiet book, but it packed a major punch for me.… She’s a stunning writer, and this is a stunning book.”

—Super Librarian

“Naked is a great story, steeped in emotion. Hart has a wonderful way with her characters.… She conveys their thoughts and actions in a manner that brings them to life. And the erotic scenes provide a sizzling read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Deeper is absolutely, positively, the best book that I have read in ages…the writing is fabulous, the characters’ chemistry is combustible, and the story line brought tears to my eyes more than once…. Beautiful, poignant and bittersweet…Megan Hart never disappoints.”

—Romance Reader at Heart, Top Pick

“Stranger, like Megan Hart’s previous novels, is an action-packed, sexy, emotional romance that tears up the pages with heat while also telling a touching love story…. Stranger has a unique, hot premise that Hart delivers on fully.”

—Bestselling author Rachel Kramer Bussel

“[Broken] is not a traditional romance but the story of a real and complex woman caught in a difficult situation with no easy answers. Well-developed secondary characters and a compelling plot add depth to this absorbing and enticing novel.”

—Library Journal

Hold Me Close

Megan Hart

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is for the wild ones who open their eyes wide

into darkness, the ones who love when they should not;

this is for the ones who count and take comfort in the stars.

This book is for those who would rather be haunted

and driven mad than left behind.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

chapter twenty-four

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

chapter twenty-seven

chapter twenty-eight

chapter twenty-nine

chapter thirty

chapter thirty-one

chapter thirty-two

chapter thirty-three

chapter thirty-four

chapter thirty-five

chapter thirty-six

chapter thirty-seven

chapter thirty-eight

chapter thirty-nine

chapter forty

chapter forty-one

chapter forty-two

chapter forty-three

chapter forty-four

chapter forty-five

author song list

Extract

Copyright

People are complicated, and they hurt each other.

Effie Linton had known this for a long time, just as she knew that sometimes those wounds were inflicted deliberately, over and over, and not with fists or weapons.

Sometimes, they did it with love.

chapter one

Smooth, smooth skin, warm beneath her fingertips. The scent of him surrounded her—cigarettes, fabric softener, the faintest hint of cologne that smelled as though he’d splashed it on days ago. That familiar tang of sweat. He would taste of salt and liquor and something sweet and indescribable. She knew this man inside and out. There had been times over the years when she’d been certain she would never touch him again. She shouldn’t touch him now, but she did it anyway, because not touching Heath would’ve been worse than turning away.

He shivered when she drew a fingertip up the hardness of his belly muscles to circle one dark brown nipple. He always shook when she touched him like this. Trembled and moaned, that mouth open just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his teeth and tongue before he pressed his lips closed. Embarrassed. He was always discomfited at his reactions, just as Effie was always aroused by them.

She murmured his name until he focused on her, his pupils so dilated that his pale green eyes had gone almost black. She pinched his nipple lightly, never looking away from his gaze. She pinched harder as his mouth opened on another moan. When she leaned to kiss him, Heath’s hand went to the back of her neck so his fingers tangled and tugged in her hair. She sucked his tongue gently, then more fiercely until he opened for her. Then she broke the kiss but didn’t withdraw. Their lips brushed as she whispered again, soft, low, filthy words of love.

She breathed his air. They didn’t move, not for some long moments, while beneath her now-flattened palm, Heath’s heart thudded faster and faster. His fingers snarled deeper into the length of her hair, pulling it from the loose bun so it fell over her shoulders and halfway down her back.

“Say it,” Effie breathed.

Heath said nothing, but his grip tightened. It hurt. Effie couldn’t hold back a tiny gasp when he tugged her head back, but that pain, oh, yes, she wanted more. Her fingers curled over his heart, digging into his skin. Harder. Deeper.

“Say it,” Effie repeated. “Tell me you want to fuck my mouth, Heath. Tell me to get on my knees and take your cock down the back of my throat. I know you want it. Say it!”

His lips pressed closed, thinning. She pushed away from him, but he didn’t let go of his fist in her hair, and she gasped again. Louder this time. Her nipples had gone tight and aching; her cunt clenched at the stinging throb in her scalp.

She slapped his face. Once, hard. When she tried again, Heath caught her wrist. His strong fingers ground her small bones against one another. With one hand on her wrist and the other still locked in her hair, Heath held her in place as she struggled.

Effie snapped her teeth at him. “Say. It.”

“You want my cock.” Heath submitted, finally, in that low and rasping voice that had more than once been enough to send her hurtling over the edge into orgasm. “You want to get on your fucking knees for me and suck me dry? Is that what you want?”

Now she wouldn’t say it, would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that yes, yes, oh God yes, it was what she’d been thinking about all day. All this week and all the endless ones before it, too. Months. Every night and every morning without him, until she’d been unable to stop herself from calling him to come over.

He would have to take it from her, that admission. Slap it out of her. Fuck it out of her. That’s how it was with them, and she loved that as much as she hated it. Probably because she hated it so much.

Effie fought him, but Heath held her so tight she couldn’t even twist in his grip. Slowly, he drew her closer until his mouth grazed hers. She bit his lower lip, catching it between her teeth and pulling until he jerked her head back. She tasted blood, but she’d barely left a mark on him.

Breathing hard, Effie slowed her struggles at the sight of Heath’s face. His tongue crept out to swipe along the wound she’d left—maybe she couldn’t see the evidence of her teeth, but she was sure Heath could feel it. The thought that she’d hurt him sent a wave of gut-punching heat through her. Her hips rocked a little before she made herself go immobile again. Silent and challenging.

Without letting go of her wrist or her hair, Heath pushed her down, down, onto her knees, and Effie closed her eyes as she resisted. He was stronger than she was. Always had been. She went to her knees in front of him with her head tipped back and the pain arcing through her as hot and electric as pleasure, so little difference between the sensations that she could not have said which she was actually feeling. Everything was tangled up, knotted and twisted, one feeling useless without the other.

Heath kept his grip on her wrist but let go of her hair so he could tug open the button and zipper on his jeans. His fingers fumbled and faltered as he managed to get his cock out. Thick and long, glistening at the head with clear, sweet pre-come... Oh, God, how Effie loved his cock.

She closed her eyes and whispered the words once more. “Say it.”

“I want to fuck your mouth, Effie.”

She cried out, low and aching. Her head fell back again, and she opened her eyes to look up at him. Heath, her Heath. He stroked his length up and down, then held himself at the base and dragged his cock along her lips until she opened for him. She took him deep, all the way, letting her throat muscles go lax.

Nothing mattered but this. The taste of him. The feeling of his flesh against hers, her lips stretched wide to take him in, the clutch of both his hands on the sides of her head, forcing her to let him do exactly what she’d ordered him to say. To fuck her mouth, slow and deep, then faster until her teeth grazed him and he wrenched her head back again to stare down at her with that open mouth.

His open. Fucking. Mouth.

Heath’s mouth made her crazy with longing. She wanted him to kiss her. To eat her alive and spit her out. To say her name the way he said it now, full of warning and that softness more dangerous than any threat. The sound of his love for her.

It hurt worse than anything ever could, that sound. It made it impossible for her to pretend he was just another man. It made it unimaginable for her to remember that there had ever been anyone for her but Heath.

Effie opened her mouth, unvoiced, offering herself to him. She’d begged him in the past, more than once. She might do it again now, if demanding didn’t work.

Once more, Heath drew his cock along her mouth. Her lower lip. The upper. He eased the hot, thick flesh inside, then out before she could take more than the smallest taste, and at this denial, Effie moaned.

“You want it.” His voice, deep. Hard. And somehow, always, always with the tiniest hint of wonder, as though he couldn’t believe she was doing this.

That doubt made her hate him.

He must’ve seen it in her face, because his expression hardened. So did his grasp in her hair again. When she didn’t wince or cry out, Heath pulled harder.

“You want it,” he repeated.

“Yes. Fuck my mouth. Let me taste you. I want...” She lost her words. There was only that pleasure-pain. Only oblivion.

Heath pushed himself inside her mouth, then withdrew. He did it again. Effie lost herself in the leisurely rhythm of it. When he pulled her off his cock, she murmured a protest.

“I want you,” Heath said.

You have me, Effie thought but didn’t say aloud. You will always have me.

She got to her feet and turned as he pushed her dress up over her hips. Heath hooked her panties down over her ass and thighs, then off. He kicked her feet wide as he pushed her forward over the back of the couch, one strong hand at the nape of her neck. The other guided his cock inside her. She cried out again at the forbidden stroke of his bare heat inside her.

Heath was always risk and danger.

He was always her safe harbor.

“Tell me how much you love fucking me,” he said.

Effie stretched out her arms and pressed her cheek to the backs of the cushions. She gripped the couch. She tilted her ass to urge him to fuck deeper inside her, deep enough to hurt.

“I love you fucking me.”

Heath’s fingers dug into the scant flesh above her hips. He would leave marks she’d have to explain away. Or maybe not. Maybe Effie wouldn’t say a word; she’d simply let the bruises speak for themselves.

“Touch yourself.” Heath spoke on a grunt.

Her hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her clit and rubbing, rubbing as he moved inside her. She would come from this, or from his thrusts, or from nothing but the thought of fucking him. That had happened, too. The pressure and slickness of her fingertips pushed her closer to orgasm. Faster, too, matching Heath’s pace. The sound of his breathing and the quickness of his pace told her he was close. Effie stopped her circling touch.

Heath wasn’t having any of that. He slapped her ass, a sharp, stinging crack. “You’re going to come for me, Effie.”

She wanted to come. She might not, in fact, be able to stop herself from it. They both knew it, though she sometimes wondered if Heath doubted the inevitability of her orgasms the way he doubted her love. She kind of hated him for that, too, for being unsure that he was getting her off even as he got closer and closer to coming himself.

He slapped her ass again, harder this time. More bruises. The thought of dark purple and blue fading to green and yellow on her pale skin, that was what bucked her hips forward. Pushed her clit into her touch. That’s what, in the end, made her come with a harsh and rasping cry. She shook with the ecstasy, was made blind with it.

Heath pulled out. Wet heat slapped her buttocks and lower back. It would stain her dress. She didn’t care.

“Effie, Effie, Effie,” Heath cried. “I love you.”

That was the thing about love, though, wasn’t it? When you loved somebody, you wanted to give them everything you could. You wanted what was best for them, no matter what. You wanted them to move beyond what was awful and terrible, beyond anything that had ever hurt them. She would never be able to do that for him, nor he for her. They would forever and always be a reminder to each other of all the things Effie wanted them both to be able to forget.

So, although she knew he was waiting for her to say it back to him, Effie only listened.

chapter two

“Where’s Polly?” Heath, hair wet from the shower, tucked the towel tighter around his lean hips and slid onto the stool at Effie’s breakfast bar.

“School, hello.” She glanced at the clock as she flipped the grilled cheese she was making. Just past noon. She had work to do, several paintings to finish and some paperwork to deal with. Updating her Craftsy store with photos of her new pieces was going to take some time, too.

“What’ve you been working on?”

He always asked her that. Effie shrugged. “Same old. I got a few new orders for some licensed products from a new company. They do mugs and mouse pads and stuff, not just T-shirts. And you know Naveen?”

“He has those two galleries, right?”

Effie nodded. “Yes. He hangs my pieces there in between regular shows, the stuff I feature online, and ships it for me when I make a sale. Well, I have a few things I need to get sent off to him, and I got some custom orders recently, too.”

“Sounds like you’re busy,” Heath said.

“It’s work,” Effie said. “Keeps the lights on. Pays the bills. Lets me afford grilled cheeses.”

The first painting Effie had ever sold went for just over ten thousand dollars. Now her pieces went for under a grand. She priced them that way on purpose. More work, more sales, a steadier income. She was too aware of the precariousness of her popularity—people who collected bones from sideshow freaks and signed poems from incarcerated serial killers could be fickle, and she’d done her level best to stay as far out of the victim spotlight as she could. She could’ve sold more, earned more, if she’d been willing to keep talking about her ordeal. There were websites and forums devoted to that sort of masturbatory, voyeuristic exploitation. She settled for living within her means and being grateful she could make a living at all with her art.

That first painting had gone for so much because she’d actually painted it in Stan Andrews’s basement. She heard it was hanging in a billionaire’s entertainment room, which made her think she ought to have held out for more money, but at the time ten grand had seemed like a fortune.

Effie made a career out of skewed landscapes and still lifes, of things seen from the corner of the eye. Her paintings looked normal until you slightly turned your head. Then you saw the maniacal dancing figures, the squirming maggots. The destruction. And if you looked very, very closely, you could always find a clock woven into the design. Those details were what made the collectors go crazy. They were her bread and butter. But to Effie, they were not what made her paintings art. They had kept her from losing her mind, and that, she’d always thought, was the difference between a paint-by-numbers kit of an Elvis on velvet and a piece that someone paid thousands of dollars to hang in their entertainment room.

She hadn’t been genuinely inspired to paint anything in a long time. At least a year, maybe longer. It hadn’t bothered her, losing her muse. Painting on commission or regurgitating old themes for a few hundred bucks had kept her busy. Licensing her images for postcards and T-shirts had paid her bills. She and Polly didn’t need much, and so long as Effie was careful about putting money away for college, she didn’t feel bad about not taking her kid on expensive vacations or buying her all the latest trendy fashions.

“You can afford better than grilled cheese, Effie.”

She laughed and pushed a plate with a sandwich and some potato chips in front of him. His clothes were still in the washer. She’d told him to put on something from her dresser. God knew there was more than one of his shirts and probably a pair of boxers in there somewhere. He’d chosen the towel on purpose to get under her skin.

“Maybe I can,” she said, “but grilled cheese is what you get.”

He studied the sandwich, then smiled as if he had a secret. “You put pickles on it.”

“Of course I did.” Effie crossed her arm over her stomach and put her first two fingers of her other hand to her lips. She’d given up smoking when she was pregnant with Polly and had never taken it back up, but that posture had never gone away.

After the sex they’d just had, she wanted a cigarette. Badly. He would give her one if she asked, but of course like cookies or orgasms, one was never enough.

“You’re not eating?” Heath hadn’t taken a bite. He watched her, heavy dark brows furrowed. That mouth, his fucking mouth, pursed in concern.

She had to look away or else she’d kiss him, and where would they end up after that? His kisses were worse than cigarettes. “I have to get to work. Anyway, I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat,” Heath said flatly.

She looked at him then. Silent. He was one to talk. His hip bones were jutting. Every rib clearly defined. Heath was fit and strong, but she’d known him to be heavier than this. She, on the other hand, had been noticing softness and curves where she’d once been sharply angled.

He broke the sandwich in half and held up one piece to her. She frowned and shook her head. He set it back on the plate and sat up straighter on the bar stool.

“I can swear to you, there’s no ground glass in it. No hairs. No floor sweepings. No pills.” Effie’s throat worked at the thought of it, but she forced herself not to gag. She hadn’t been hungry before, and now she was a little nauseous.

“I know that.” Heath turned the plate around and around, then lifted a chip. Keeping his gaze on hers, he put it in his mouth and crunched loudly.

“You can open up the sandwich and look inside,” Effie said, too loud. Too harsh. Her voice cracked and broke. “Go ahead! Make sure!”

Heath was off the stool and had her in his arms in seconds. She fought him for a second, but it was a useless protest. When he pulled her against him, she relented. Her cheek pressed his chest. She’d left marks of her own there, half-moon slices that would scab before they healed.

At least those wounds would heal, she thought. Some never did.

“I thought you’d be hungry,” she whispered. “That’s all. And it’s from me, Heath. You should know that something from me would never... I would never...”

“I know. Shh.” His hand stroked over her hair. “I was just being an asshole, Effie. I’m sorry.”

Countless times Heath had said those words to her, but Effie couldn’t remember if she’d ever apologized to him even once in all the time they’d known each other. She clung to him, though, for a few seconds longer before she forced herself to let go. She pushed away from him as the towel loosened and fell.

“You need to put some clothes on,” she told him.

Heath grinned. “You sure?”

“Your stuff will be done in an hour or so. Aren’t you cold?” Effie went to the fridge to pull out two cans of clear cola that she poured into glasses and held both up to the light without a second thought. She turned to hand him one but paused at Heath’s chagrined head shake. “What?”

“You do it, too,” he told her.

She frowned and set the glass on the counter with a thump hard enough to splash the contents out. “Yes. Well. Not from something you made for me.”

Heath wrapped the towel around his waist again and took up the sandwich to bite into it, chewing slowly. It eased her a little to watch him do it. They weren’t going to keep fighting, then. At least not about that.

He ate slowly, deliberately, pulling the bread and cheese apart into bite-size pieces, but she didn’t call him on it. There were some things that would never go away, no matter how long ago they’d become a habit or how you tried to get rid of them. Like the way she stood even though she had no cigarette.

“I have some cookies if you’re still hungry,” she told him, but Heath rubbed his belly and shook his head.

When he held out his hand to her, she took it and let him pull her closer. Even sitting on the bar stool he was a little too tall to rest his head on her chest, but he managed anyway. He nestled against her, his hands on her butt and the heat of his breath seeping through the thin material of her T-shirt. Her dress had gone into the washer with his clothes.

They stayed that way for a minute or so before she tried to retreat, but Heath held her close. She sighed and shut her eyes, stroking the silky thickness of his dark hair. It had been too long since they’d been alone together like this.

And why? Stupid reasons. A disagreement that had turned into an argument, and both of them too stubborn to give in until enough time had passed that they could pretend it hadn’t happened.

Heath nuzzled against her. “Can I stay until Polly gets home from school?”

“I’m taking her to my mother’s.”

He looked up at her face, his expression so deliberately blank she knew he suspected something was coming that he didn’t want to hear. She didn’t have to say it, Effie thought suddenly. She didn’t even have to do it. She could stop herself. If she wanted to.

She traced his eyebrows with her fingertips, then cupped his face. “I’m going out later. Polly’s going to stay overnight with my mom.”

Heath didn’t flinch. He turned his face to press his mouth into her palm but didn’t kiss her. Not quite.

“Okay,” he said.

“Heath.” Effie tried to let go of him, but his hands came up, quick as spit, to grab her wrists and hold her in place. He didn’t open his eyes or turn his head. His breath was hot and wet on her skin. “Stop it.”

“With who?” he asked.

“You don’t know him.”

“Oh, I know him. He wears polo shirts and khaki pants,” Heath said with a sneer. “He works in an office and drives a sedan.”

Effie twisted in his grip, but Heath held her tight.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Has he met Polly?”

She’d met her date on LuvFinder. He’d messaged her first. They always did. Since signing up about six months ago, Effie had gone on a bunch of first dates, and this one would make it a baker’s dozen. “Of course he hasn’t.”

Heath released her. “Are you going to fuck him? Oh, wait. That’s why you invited me over. So you wouldn’t have to.”

She slapped his cheek. Lightly, not enough to turn his head. He didn’t flinch. She cupped his face in her hands and stared into his eyes.

“Fucking you now won’t make any difference in what I do tonight.”

Heath put his hands up to circle her wrists without pulling her hands from his face. “You’ll do what you want to do, Effie. You always have. All I can do is wait for you. Right?”

“I wish you wouldn’t!” Effie cried and pulled herself free of him. When he grabbed for her again, she was ready for him and danced out of his grasp. Backing up, she hit another of the bar stools with her foot and stumbled.

Heath caught her by the upper arms, holding her tight until she stopped trying to get away. “But I do. You know I do, Effie. I always do and always will. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“You have to stop,” Effie said.

This time he was the one who went to his knees. He yanked down her cotton pajama bottoms and her panties, and when she tried to slap him again, to shove him away, Heath held her wrists at her sides. He pushed himself between her legs. The swipe of his tongue opened her to him.

She struggled for a moment, her wrists aching in the cuffs of his fingers. The right had been broken and left too long without proper setting. It hurt more than the other one, and his grip was looser. Because he knew. Heath knew everything about her. But he didn’t let her go, even when she pulled. He pressed his mouth against her, his tongue finding her clit without hesitation.

She didn’t climax so much as she unravelled. Sharp and fierce, the pleasure overtook her until she gasped and sagged, her knees weak. Heath let go of her wrists to support her as he looked up at her. He licked his lips.

“I will never stop loving you,” he told her. “If we live a thousand lifetimes, I will never stop.”

Effie disengaged herself from him, pulling up her panties and pj bottoms and stepping back. She wanted him to get off his knees, but he stayed there. She turned away so she didn’t have to look at him.

“We don’t have a thousand lifetimes. We only have one, Heath. Only this one.”

He stood then. She continued refusing to look at him. She thought he might touch her, and she braced for it, but he didn’t.

“Then this one has to be enough, doesn’t it?”

She’d told him to leave a dozen times or more in the past. She’d screamed it at him. Begged him. She’d been polite and cold. None of it worked, not in the long-term. He came back to her, or she came back to him, one the waves and one the shore. So this time she said nothing, letting the silence grow between them until he had no choice but to sigh.

“Tell Polly I love her. I’ll call her later. Maybe take her to the movies. If that’s okay with you,” Heath said finally from the doorway, and when she wouldn’t answer him, “Effie.”

Still she said nothing, not trusting herself to find a voice that didn’t shake and break under the weight of her emotions. She waited until he left, not slamming the door behind him but letting it shut with a slow, solid and undeniable click.

Heath’s love for her had been as solid and undeniable as the closing of that front door for almost twenty years. The problem was not that Effie didn’t believe him when he told her that he would never stop. The problem was that she did.

chapter three

“Don’t eat that.” The boy standing in the doorway is too thin for his height. Shaggy dark hair falls over his eyes and almost to his shoulders. He wears a pair of raggedy jeans, holes in the knees, and a dirty flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows to expose bony wrists. A black T-shirt beneath. “He puts stuff in it.”

“Like what? Spit?”

“Sometimes. Or worse.”

Effie can’t imagine something worse than spit in the small bowl of thin, cold oatmeal she’d found on the wobble-legged table next to the bed. The oatmeal had been waiting for her when she woke up, a scribbled note next to it saying EAT. No spoon. Later, she will understand just how awful the man can be, but for now, the idea of spit is enough for her to set the bowl aside. After all, she’s not starving.

Yet.

She should’ve been startled when the boy spoke, but everything right now still feels hazy, as if even if she blinks hard over and over, she is unable to entirely clear her vision. It’s the weird orange light from the wall sconces, but also the lingering pain in her head. She stares at the bowl in her hands. Then at him.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a basement.”

She looks around, then sets the bowl back on the table and rubs at her eyes. The hazy feeling is fading. On her right thigh is a bruise that hurts when she presses it. Vaguely, she remembers a needle, and she closes her eyes for a moment. “He gave me a shot.”

“Yeah. He likes those. Sometimes it’s pills, ground up. But he likes the shots, too. They last longer.”

The boy comes through the doorway. The ceiling in this room is so low he has to hunch to stand, but although there’s a chair in front of her, he doesn’t sit in it. He looks around the tiny, dank space, then crosses his arms. When he looks at her, his face is a puppet’s. Blank, yet somehow menacing.

“How’d he get you?” the boy asks.

Effie doesn’t want to say. She feels so stupid now. She knew better than to believe the man when he asked if she wanted to see the cute puppy in his van. She knew never to trust a stranger. It hadn’t mattered, though, when she tried to run, because he’d caught her within half a minute. Her stupid shoes, the new ones her mom had insisted she wear, had given her blisters. She’d been limping. She could’ve run fast and gotten away, except for those stupid shoes.

“He told me my mom was in an accident,” the boy says. Too casual. As if he’s setting Effie up for a joke, but there doesn’t seem to be a punch line. “He said she’d been taken to the hospital and my dad sent him to get me.”

“That was stupid of you to believe him.”

The boy looks at her with bright green eyes through the fringe of shaggy dark hair, and incredibly, he laughs. Really laughs, as if she said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. As if Effie is the one telling jokes.

“No shit, right? I mean, my dad wouldn’t give a flying fuck if my mom was chopped into little pieces, and she sure as shit wouldn’t bother to tell him if she was in an accident. Even if he found out, he wouldn’t have sent someone to get me. I haven’t seen my dad in eight years. He wouldn’t even know what I look like now.”

Effie blinks. She has a few friends whose parents are divorced, but most are amicable with each other, at least enough. She doesn’t hang around with the sorts of kids whose parents don’t see them.

Her own parents must be frantic by now. She’s not sure exactly how long it’s been since the guy with the van grabbed her and put her in this room, but her mom goes into panic mode if Effie is even fifteen minutes late from art lessons. It has to be so much longer than that by now.

She rubs her hands on her pleated skirt, but they’re still sticky and gross. “So...why’d you go with him, then?”

“Because you always hope, don’t you? That it’s true?”

“That your dad sent someone for you?” Effie is confused.

“No,” the boy says. “That your mom’s been in an accident.”

Is he joking? Effie doesn’t know what to say to this. Somehow, being grabbed and shoved into a van and waking up in a smelly basement is not quite as creepy as the idea that she could ever be happy her mom was hurt.

“That’s pretty messed up,” she says.

The boy nods, one side of his mouth twisting. “Yeah. I’m kind of a mess.”

“He grabbed me,” she says suddenly. “He told me he had a cute puppy in his van, and when I tried to run, he...he was just so fast. He grabbed my backpack and yanked me back and I lost my balance, and then he hit me on the head. He pulled me into the van, and he stabbed me in the leg with a needle. Then I woke up here.”

“Shit, he hit you on the head? You feel sick or anything? You’re not supposed to sleep if you have a concussion.”

Effie frowns sourly. “Well, it’s too late now if I do, because I’ve already slept. My stomach hurts, but it’s because I’m hungry.”

“Don’t eat that,” the boy warns again. He sits at last. His legs are so long that his knees seem to reach his chin. His hands are really big, too, when he rests them on the worn denim. His fingers play with the torn threads around the holes where his knees poke through.

“I heard you the first time.” Effie eyes the bowl again. “Everything? He does something to everything he feeds you?”

“Sometimes it’s just too much salt or pepper or hot sauce, stuff like that. But sometimes it’s pills or...other stuff. So you never really know. You just get so hungry you’ll eat anything, eventually,” the boy says. “But I try to at least pick through it, make sure there’s nothing really bad in it.”

“Worse than spit?” She can hardly imagine it.

The boy gives her a solemn look. “Oh. Yeah. Way worse than spit.”

And then, just then, Effie knows there’s no getting out of this. The man took her and he’s going to keep her and probably he’s going to do awful things to her that are worse than spitting in her oatmeal. Her stomach clenches and twists, but she forces herself not to choke or gag. She has to keep her head on straight. That’s what her dad would say. If she’s going to get away from here, she has to keep her head on straight.

“How long have you been here?” Effie asks.

The boy shrugs and looks away, again as if he’s telling her a lie but not with words; this time it’s with the things he doesn’t say. “I don’t know. A while.”

Effie pushes herself up off the bed with a wince at the pain in the back of her head. A tentative exploration reveals a few tender spots but no blood that she can feel. Her blistered feet hurt at the scratch of the rough concrete. Her shoes were missing when she woke up. The man must’ve taken them off her along with her white cotton socks. She shudders at the thought of him touching her anywhere while she was unconscious. If he took away her shoes and socks, did he also touch her in other places?

Repulsed, she wants to run her hands over her body to check for any signs of being violated. She settles for forcing herself to stand up straight. Unlike the boy in front of her, she’s not even close to touching the ceiling.

“I’m Effie.”

“That’s a weird name.”

She shrugs. “It’s really Felicity, but I hate it. I shortened it to F when I was ten. Now I’m Effie.”

“I’m Heath.”

“You’re named after a candy bar,” she says, “and you think my name is weird?”

Heath makes a small noise, not quite a laugh, and looks up at her again from under his bangs. He’s older than she is, by at least a few years. Probably old enough to have his driver’s license. If they’d met at the swimming pool or in school, she still wouldn’t think he was cute. Effie likes soccer players. This guy looks like a stoner, the kind who’d hang around the metal shop making raunchy comments as the girls walk past. Effie knows how to deal with boys like that. You ignore them even when they say nasty things.

“Haven’t you ever tried to get away?” she asks.

The boy shrugs again. His voice dips low. It’s really deep, his voice. And rough. It’s almost a man’s voice, but not quite. Not yet, but it’s easy to imagine how it will sound in a few years when he is a man. “Yeah. I’ve tried.”

Obviously he didn’t make it, but she asks anyway. “What happened?”

When he looks at her this time, it’s not the cold room that sends a shiver all through her. “He caught me.”

Effie is silent at this. She looks around the room, which is set up like a bedroom, though it’s nowhere near as big as hers at home. One wall sconce casts that horrible, dull orangey light, and the one on the opposite wall isn’t any brighter. The double bed she’s sitting on sags, a stained patchwork quilt covering the otherwise bare mattress. Flat pillows in decorative shams rather than regular pillowcases. A battered white laminate dresser that doesn’t match the rest of the furniture is in one corner. The chair in front of her. The table. Yellow wallpaper patterned with old-fashioned clocks peels off the walls, exposing dirty plaster. The doorway has no door, and she tries to see beyond but can’t. Too dark.

“What’s out there?” She points. “A bathroom? I really have to pee.”

The boy looks startled and then embarrassed. “Yeah, but he has the water turned off. So you can’t flush, really.”

Effie’s not sure if she ought to be afraid to push past him, but her bladder isn’t going to let her wait much longer. The room outside this one, though, is dark, and she looks at the boy. “Is there a light out there?”

“Umm...” He shakes his head. “The bulb broke.”

“Can you show me, then?” Effie only learned over the summer about the power of a smile when it comes to boys. It’s not easy to find one, but she forces it.

It must work, because the boy stands up so suddenly he cracks his head on the ceiling and lets out a low, muttered curse. It shouldn’t be funny. None of this is. But she laughs anyway before clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles that are going to become sobs if she’s not careful. And she can’t do that. Has to keep her head on straight.

“Please,” Effie says. “I really have to go.”

The boy nods and leads the way into a space not much bigger than the bedroom. She can make out the outline of a couch and what looks like an armchair along one wall. A small glint of metal that might be a doorknob. Same concrete floor, and Effie hesitates in the small square of dirty light spilling from the doorway.

“Be careful. There’s stuff set into the concrete.”

Her blistered feet already hurt. She doesn’t want to cut them any more. “What kind of stuff?”

“Broken pottery and some glass. He put it there on purpose, I think. To make it hard to walk around out there, so you can’t rush him when he comes in. I’ll take you to the bathroom. You’ll be okay.”

“Thanks.” After a hesitation, he moves and she follows. Three steps, then four, beyond the light as he guides her carefully, telling her where to avoid the sharp places in the floor. It’s not pitch-black, but even so, the shadows here are thick and deep. When he stops, Effie bumps into his back. “Sorry.”

“It’s through here.” He takes her hand, startling her, and puts it out in front of them.

She feels a wooden door frame, also without a door, and empty space behind it. There’s no light at all in there. By now she has to pee so bad she’s afraid she won’t make it, but how can she go into that room without seeing what’s there? What if it’s all a trick? What if he’s working with the guy and has been all along?

“Feel along the wall to the right,” the boy tells her. “The toilet’s there. There’s no seat, and you can’t flush unless we fill the tank with water. I usually, um...well, I try to only do it when it’s full.”

Effie cringes. “Oh. Gross.”

“Sorry.” He sounds truly apologetic.

She can’t wait any longer, or she’ll wet her pants. With mincing, timid steps, she feels her way in the dark along the wall until she bangs her knee against the porcelain. She bites her tongue to keep from crying out, but it hurts bad. She fumbles with her skirt, then her panties, and manages to get them down while crouching over what she hopes is the toilet. Her mom taught her to hover-squat over public toilets, but in the dark Effie’s not sure she won’t pee all over herself.

She risks it, letting go. Her bladder empties, urine spanging loudly against the porcelain. She lets out a long, low sigh of relief. Her thighs are almost cramping by the time she’s done, and she did splash herself a little, but it’s not as bad as she’d feared.

“Hey! Is there any paper?” She looks toward the sound of shuffling and sees a shadow moving.

“No.”

“A paper towel? Scrap paper? A washcloth, anything?” She wriggles, trying to drip dry and balance while keeping her skirt up and out of the way.

From the open doorway, a shadow shifts. “Nothing. I used the last of it yesterday. Sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Effie snaps as she pulls up her panties and stands to let her skirt fall around her thighs. “I guess you can’t really help it, can you?”

He doesn’t answer her. Effie holds out her hand, waving into the darkness to find him. She’s afraid to move without him guiding her, although her eyes have started to adjust to the dark.

“Where are you?” she says.

“I’m right here.”

Effie gives her hand another slow wave. “Help me?”

In a second, she feels the heat of his fingers curling in hers. Heath’s hand is big and rough. He doesn’t squeeze too tightly. Just enough to give her the confidence to take a step toward him. Then another.

As he guides her through the doorway into the other room, she can see the square of light from the bedroom. She lets out a small noise. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been yearning to see it.

From above them comes the creaking of footsteps. Then...music? Effie stops short and loses Heath’s grip.

She knows this song. Something about sailing away. Her mom sometimes listens to the soft rock station in the car, and this song is always on. Effie makes fun of her mom for singing along to the high-pitched lyrics, yet right now she thinks she’d give anything to be in the front seat of her mom’s Volvo rolling her eyes and trying to convince her to change the station. Bright lights from above blaze so fiercely Effie has to cover her eyes, wincing at the pain.

“Hurry,” Heath says in an urgent yet somehow flatly blank voice. “That means he’s coming.”

chapter four

Polly was settled at the breakfast bar working on her homework while Effie’s mom pulled a pan of cookies from the oven. Oatmeal raisin, Polly’s favorite. Effie hated raisins in anything, especially cooked. Their soft and gooey texture made her gag. But then, she wouldn’t eat chocolate chips, either, even though she liked the taste. She simply couldn’t bring herself to trust them, because they looked too much like rat turds or broken bits of cockroaches.

“Nana, I’m going to be in the school play.” Polly’s blond ponytail swung as she rocked a little on the stool.

“Polly,” Effie warned. “Sit still, or you’re going to tip the chair.”

In perfect tween style, Polly sighed and rolled her eyes, so much Effie’s mini-me that she couldn’t even be annoyed. God help her when Polly hit teenagerhood in a few years. Her mother’s wish that Effie would be blessed with a child just like her had never been meant as a compliment.

Effie wanted to squeeze and kiss her daughter but held herself back. Polly would suffer the embrace, of course, but Effie had decided when she was pregnant that she wouldn’t be that smothering kind of mother. The kind who licked her thumb to clean a smudge off her kid’s soft, fat cheeks, or who hovered. Anxious. The kind who baked cookies, she thought as Mom slid the edge of a metal spatula beneath each perfectly shaped cookie to lift them onto the cooling rack.

“What part are you going to play?” Mom turned with a smile.

Polly shrugged. “I’m in the chorus. I get to be in all the scenes where they need people in the background.”

“That sounds like fun.” Mom tugged open the fridge to pull out the jug of milk. She poured a glass and set it in front of Polly.

“It’s not a real part,” Polly said.

“It will still be fun.” Effie went around her mother to open the fridge herself. She pulled out a can of cola and popped the top, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard. She poured the clear fizzy liquid into it and held it up to the light before turning.

Mom had been staring with that look on her face. The one that meant she was trying hard not to comment. Effie sipped slowly without looking away, daring her mother to confront her about the habit and knowing she wouldn’t. Not in front of Polly, anyway.

“I’ll wash the glass, Mom, don’t worry,” Effie said.

It wasn’t that, of course. Mom was in her element when she was scrubbing and sewing and baking and cleaning. A single dirty glass was nothing to her. It was Effie’s reason for using the glass instead of drinking straight from the can that bothered her, but what was Effie supposed to do about it? Some things never left you, no matter how much you wanted them to.

Polly closed her math book. “I have to be an office worker and a hot dog seller, with a cart. Meredith Ross gets to be the ice cream seller, which I think is better, but they wouldn’t let us trade parts. Meredith thinks she’s so great, though. Can I have a cookie?”

Mom nodded. “Sure. But only one. You don’t want to spoil your dinner.”

“Sure she does,” Effie said. “Who wouldn’t want cookies instead of meat loaf?”

“You used to love meat loaf.” Mom’s voice was sharper than usual.

Effie looked up. “I used to love cookies more.”

“I like your meat loaf, Nana. And scalloped potatoes. And red beets,” Polly said. “But no green beans!”

“No green beans,” Mom said with another long look at Effie. She took a cookie from the cooling rack and gave it to Polly. “If you’re finished with your homework, why don’t you take Jakie out into the backyard and play for a bit until it’s time for dinner?”

“Mama, when are you leaving?”

“Soon.” Effie watched as Polly hopped off the stool. “Jacket.”

When the girl had gone out the back door with Mom’s aging Jack Russell terrier at her heels, Effie braced herself for the lecture. It was better to take it than avoid it. Otherwise, it would be twice as bad the next time. Kind of like letting a teakettle heat without the lid down on the spout—you could avoid the screaming, but you could also forget it was on the stove until it caught the burner on fire when the water all boiled away.

“You’re too thin,” Mom said flatly. “You have to eat, Effie. You’re going to get sick, and then what will happen to Polly? You don’t have health insurance!”

Effie had not actually been sick in years, not longer than a day or so anyway, and nothing more serious than a few sniffles or a cough. “I do, actually, Mom. There’s a little thing called Obamacare, remember?”

“And if you get sick and can’t work, how will you pay for it?”

“I just got a very nice royalty check from SweetTees, and one should be coming in from The Poster Place.” The two biggest companies to which Effie licensed her images. “That’s the great thing about doing what I do. The money comes in so long as stuff is selling, even if I’m not making something new. I have my Craftsy shop for new commissions that come in regularly, too. And I don’t live above my means.”

“A regular job with benefits, steady hours...”

Effie shuddered at the thought of going back to corporate work. “I spent the first few years of Polly’s life working to afford day care for her, Mother. It’s not like I don’t know what it’s like to work in a cubicle. This is so much better. I’m home to get her off to school. I’m there when she gets home. If I want to work until two in the morning and nap from ten to noon, I can do that.”

“It’s just...your work...it’s so unstable,” her mother said. “That’s all. I worry.”

“I’ll eat an apple a day and keep the doctor away. Okay?”

“You need more than an apple. Look at you.” Mom plucked at Effie’s sleeve. “Skin and bones.”

“Men like skinny women.”

It was a mistake, Effie knew that at once, but the words had hurtled out of her before she could stop them. Mom frowned and backed up, then turned, shoulders hunching. She went to the rack of cookies and began putting them into a plastic container. They couldn’t have been cool enough yet. They were going to mush and stick together.

“Well,” Mom said. “I guess you’d know all about what men like. Wouldn’t you?”

It made it hard to feel bad for her mother when she came back with a crack like that, even if Effie deserved it. Which she didn’t. Not really. At least, not anymore.

“There’s nothing wrong with knowing what men like, Mom. You could try it yourself, you know. Then you wouldn’t have to sit around here alone all the time.”

Mom didn’t turn. “Maybe I like being alone.”

“Nobody really wants to be alone, Mom. C’mon. Dad’s been gone a long time...” Effie stopped. Her father had died of a heart attack, too young. She still missed him, and no doubt her mother did, too. “I’m just saying, there’s nothing wrong if you wanted to go out sometimes.”

“I have plenty to keep me busy. I have no need to paint myself up and whore myself around, Felicity. I don’t believe my value as a person is reflected in whether or not a man wants to put his penis inside me.”

“Liking sex doesn’t make me a whore,” Effie said.

“No,” her mother said. “Letting them treat you like one does.”

Effie’s fingers curled into fists that she forced herself to open. “It’s not the fifties, okay? If a woman wants to date a lot of different men, that’s her...that’s my choice.”

Mom turned as she pressed the lid onto the plastic container. It shook a little as she gripped it in both hands. So did her voice. “What kind of example are you setting for Polly?”

“That’s a shitty thing to say.” Even during the height of what Effie thought of as her “experimenting” phase, she’d never brought any of the men home. Nor had she brought around any of her thus-far lackluster LuvFinder dates. “You know I don’t expose her to strangers. What I do with my business as an adult person is just that. My business. Don’t you dare give me grief about Polly.”

“No, no, you don’t expose her to strangers.” Her mother’s voice dripped with derision. “Just that one man. Probably the worst of them all. Him, you let slink around all the time, don’t you?”

It was an old and tired argument. “Heath loves Polly like she’s his own. And she loves him. He’s good to her.”

“He’s no good for you,” Mom snapped. “He’s the opposite of good, Effie. He’s horrible for you, and that means he’s no good for your daughter!”

“I know you hate him,” Effie began and thought of more words but stopped herself before she could say them. They wouldn’t matter. All these years later, all the same words. Nothing she said would make a difference.

“Of course I hate him,” Mom answered. “What I don’t understand is how you don’t.”

For a moment, Effie sagged. It was too fucking hard to deal with her mother sometimes, even on the best days. With this old argument rearing its head, all she could do was hold up her hands like a surrender. She shook her head, silent.

Her mother slapped the plastic container down on the counter. “You’re better than he is.”

“Why? Because his parents split up when he was a kid or his mother wears her skirts too short and his dad works in a convenience store, or because he never went to college?”

Those were all part of the reason, though she doubted her mother would ever admit to such snobbery. Effie ran a hand across her mouth, smearing her lipstick onto her palm. Now, shit, she would have to redo it. She rubbed the pink streaks into her skin.

“I’m going to be late,” Effie said. “I’m just going to freshen up in the bathroom and then get going. I’ll pick Polly up tomorrow after school, if that’s still okay.”

“And if I say no, I want you home tonight at a reasonable hour so you can pick up your own daughter and take her home so she can sleep in her own bed, where she belongs? If I tell you that, what would you say?”

Effie gave her mom a steady, unflinching look. “I would say that your granddaughter loves spending time with you and sleeping over here is a treat for her, and you know it, and you taking her to school in the morning is an even bigger treat, because we both know you always take her to the doughnut shop on the way. She loves that. She loves being here. She loves you. And so do I, Mom.”

Her mother picked up and put down the container of cookies on the counter hard enough to rattle them inside. “Who is he tonight?”

“Someone I met online. Dating service. It’s just a date, okay?”

“Have you seen him before?”

“No.” Effie shook her head. “This is the first date. We’re going to dinner and possibly a movie. Totally bland and lame. He works with computers, wears glasses and doesn’t have any pets.”

Mom sighed and rubbed at the spot between her eyes with her middle and third fingers, a habit she’d had for as long as Effie could recall. “What else do you know about him? Have you left his name and information somewhere, in case something...happens?”

Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty, charming, detailed. He was seven years older than Effie. Divorced with no children, though he spoke warmly of nieces and nephews. He didn’t smoke or do drugs or even drink to excess, or if he did, he was both lying about it and very good at hiding any evidence of it.

“He’s probably not a serial killer,” Effie said. Her mother didn’t laugh. “I get it, Mom. Okay? I get it. You worry.”

When her mother didn’t reply, Effie took a step forward to hug her. Her mom didn’t yield at first but softened after a few seconds and rubbed Effie’s back. Her mother sighed.

“I worry about you, Effie. I’m your mother. It’s what I do.”

And had always done. Effie understood it, perhaps more so now that she had a daughter of her own. She squeezed harder, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry detergent and, fainter beneath, a hint of Wind Song. Her mom had grown thin herself, the ridges of her shoulder blades hard under Effie’s palms.

For a moment, Effie thought about canceling her date with Mitchell. She could stay here, hang out with Mom and Polly. They could watch a movie together, something funny. Her mother had kept Effie’s old room pristine, exactly as it had been the day Effie left this house for good. A shrine to her mother’s inability to let things go.

Effie could let go, though, and she did, putting some distance between them. “I’ll pick her up after school tomorrow. I already sent a note to the school that she’ll take the bus here.”

Mom nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

There was more to be said, but Effie didn’t say it. It wouldn’t change anything that had happened, and it wouldn’t make a difference in anything going forward. Nothing would.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and left her mom behind.

chapter five

“When do you think she’ll get up?” Heath paces beside Effie’s bed.

With a sigh, she tosses back the covers so he can get in beside her. It’s cold in their apartment and too early to turn up the heat. “She’s three. She’ll be up when it’s light out, and then it’ll be nonstop for the rest of the day, so I’d get another hour of sleep, if I were you.”

Christmas. As a kid, Effie had woken before dawn to creep downstairs and peek at what Santa had left beneath the tree, but although Polly’s excited about presents, she hasn’t quite grasped the concept of getting up before the sun rises to open them. There isn’t much under the tree for her anyway—going to school means only part-time work for Effie, and there are a lot of bills to pay before she can afford to spend too much on junky toys that will be broken within a day or two. There will be more gifts at Effie’s mother’s house later in the day, probably too many, and Polly will be overwhelmed with it all, but there’s no telling Mom not to spoil her only grandchild.

“I can’t sleep.” Heath sighs and flops onto his back, taking up too much room in Effie’s double bed.

She shoves him onto his side with another sigh and curls against his back to make it easier for them to share the space. It’s warmer, too. Her feet are icy, so she tucks them between his calves. His yelp of protest makes her giggle. In seconds, he’s turning to face her, tickling until they’re both breathing too hard.

That isn’t all that’s too hard. The press of his erection on her thigh is too familiar to deny. And it’s Christmas, Effie thinks when they move together, when he kisses her, when he slides inside her. How could she say no to him at Christmas?

Because the “no” is on its way, and she feels it every time he tries to hold her hand. A few days ago, Effie got some mail addressed to “Mrs. Heath Shaw” despite never having signed up for anything, ever, using anything close to his last name. They’ve been living together in this apartment for nearly four years, and what had been meant as a temporary solution has started to feel far too permanent. Still, it’s Christmas Day, and she lets the pleasure overtake her because it’s too hard to resist him even without the shiny lights and promise of something special under the tree.

Heath slides a hand between them to stroke her in time to his thrusts. He’s close, she can tell, but he’s holding back to make sure she gets off first. It’s perfect. She can’t stop it. Heath’s touch is magic, it’s fire, it’s fireworks and jingle bells. She comes with a low cry into his kiss, and Heath laughs, so pleased to have done that for her that he joins her in the moment after.

They sprawl in silence for a few minutes. She times the spacing of her breathing to his. Their hands are linked. He’s falling asleep, but Effie is wide-awake.

It would be so easy to stay here with him and Polly in this tiny, bordering-on-decrepit apartment. Easy to keep struggling through school and work and raise this child with him. But what would not be easy is this, the linking of their fingers and the sound of his breathing next to her in bed. Love is not easy, Effie thinks as she pushes up on her elbow to look at Heath’s face in the faintly brightening light coming in through the window. She keeps herself from tracing the lines of his face with her fingertip, because she doesn’t want him to wake.

She loves him. She will probably never love anyone else, not like this. But how would she ever know if she could, if she doesn’t try? If this is all they have because it’s all they believe they can ever have, how is that good for either one of them? To never have even the illusion of a choice?

Down the hall comes the pitter-patter of little feet. Polly is awake. Effie shakes Heath and slips out of bed to pull on her robe as the faint squeals of joy come from the living room. Together, Effie and Heath follow the delighted laughter. Polly dances in the multicolored glow from the tree they left lit all night for just this reason.

“Santa!” Polly cries, clapping tiny hands. “Santa was here!”

“I’ll make coffee.” Heath kisses Effie on the cheek and squeezes her for a second.

“Wait. Hold me close,” she murmurs when he moves away. She pulls him back for a longer embrace as they watch Polly shaking each package. She hasn’t yet figured out she’s allowed to tear into them. Effie squeezes Heath, her cheek pressed to his chest.

This could all be so easy, if only it weren’t always so hard.

The phone rings. Her mother, frantic and desperate, incoherent. Heath holds out the phone and Effie takes it, alarmed, until she can get her mother to slow down long enough to speak.

“Your father is dead,” her mother says. “I need you to come to the hospital.”

Dead? That cannot be. Her father is always there, has always been. Her father can’t be gone. What will Effie do, if this is true?

What she does is go to the hospital, leaving Heath to stay with Polly so Effie can help her mother take care of everything that needs to be taken care of. Phone calls. Arrangements. She stays for two days at her mother’s house in the bed that had been hers for as long as she can remember, listening to the low, keening sounds of grief filtering to her from down the hall and finding herself incapable of going into her mother’s room to offer her any comfort.

On the third day, Effie finds her mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee in front of her and a grim look. She has a sheaf of papers. She pushes them toward Effie.

“There’s money. Your dad’s insurance policy. There’s enough here for you to move out of that apartment. Get yourself a place. Unless you want to move back with me...” At the look on Effie’s face, her mother laughs harshly. “Of course not. Of course you don’t.”

Effie looks at the numbers on the papers. It’s like swallowing an icicle, this sudden realization that she does have a choice. With this amount of money, she’ll be able to buy a house. Support herself and Polly while she tries to make a go of her artwork. This money is freedom, and Effie knows she’s going to take it. She has to.

“I won’t beg you to stay,” Heath tells her. “I won’t fucking do it, Effie.”

“I don’t want you to beg me. I want you to be happy for me.”

He won’t look at her. She can’t blame him. Effie is upsetting this easy familiarity they’ve built together. She is breaking them apart. She can’t explain to him why it has to happen, for both of them. She’s not quite sure of it herself, except that before now she felt she didn’t have a choice, and the money has made it possible for her to make one. Before, Effie thought Heath was the only man she would ever be able to love, but she’s never tried to find out otherwise, never fallen in love with someone new.

All they’ve ever known, really, is each other, but that was not a choice either of them made. It was forced upon them. How can either of them know if there isn’t something better, if she doesn’t do this now? If she doesn’t try, for both their sakes?

She lets him believe she’s selfish. She takes his anger. Then she steps back to let him go.

She is going to have to let him go.

chapter six

Effie loved the curve of a man’s thighs. Muscles, crisp and curling hair. She let her mouth follow the bulge to Bill’s knee, which she nipped lightly before letting her tongue trail slowly over his calf to the blunt knob of his ankle. This time when she pressed her teeth to his skin, he groaned.

Effie looked up at him for a second before moving up his body to straddle him. She let her fingers dig into his chest, not hard enough to break the skin. He wouldn’t like that. When Bill grabbed her hips, she let her head fall back. The brush of her hair along her shoulders, almost to her waist, sent shivers all through her. Her nipples tightened, craving his mouth.

“Touch me,” she said.

Obediently, Bill’s hand slid between them until his knuckles pressed her clit. He rocked his hand against her. The pressure was good—not enough to get her off, but still nice. Bill had big, strong hands. He could circle both her wrists with one of them, though he never had and Effie doubted he ever would. He was too afraid of hurting her.

“Do you want to taste me?” she asked.

Bill groaned again. “You know I do.”

She wanted that, too. Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty and charming, but their date had been bland and unremarkable. He’d been nice enough. Polite. He’d insisted on holding the door open for her and pulling out her chair, which was a pleasant surprise.

He hadn’t kissed her good-night.

It might be that he was too much of a gentleman or maybe he didn’t like her enough. Effie didn’t really care. He’d asked her if she might consider going out with him again, and she’d said sure, but she wasn’t convinced he’d actually call her. She didn’t really care about that, either.

Right now, Effie only cared about Bill’s hot, wet tongue on her cunt. Making her come. All she wanted or needed was a thick, hard cock inside her.

“Eat my pussy,” she breathed and moved up over Bill’s face, her knees on either side of his head. She let her body hover over his lips, not close enough for him to touch her unless he made the effort. When he did, laughing, she pulled away, just out of reach.

With a small growl, Bill grabbed her hips again, his fingers digging in. He pulled her close. Got his mouth on her. His tongue swiped her expertly, delving into her folds and probing her entrance before moving up to start a steady pace against her clit.

“Fffffucccck,” Effie breathed. She gripped the headboard, already rocking against him. No more teasing. No games. Pure pleasure.

Bill slid a finger, then another, inside her, fucking as he licked. The dual sensations sent her tumbling closer and closer, but her orgasm danced just out of reach. She needed something...more.

“Harder.” She twisted to look at his cock. He had a hand on it, stroking. The man was nothing if not coordinated. He was going to come before she would; this had become a race. She didn’t want to lose.

Gripping Bill’s headboard until it creaked, Effie fucked herself against his mouth and fingers. He stretched her, too much. It hurt and not in the good way. It was a distraction that was keeping her from going over. She would be sore for days.

So close, so close and yet not close enough. Bill stepped up the pace, one hand jerking his cock while the other slipped away to grab her thigh. His tongue worked, swiping less steadily, the pace switching up at random.

She was going to lose it. Effie cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples and then pinching them. Hard. The pain sparked a small surge of pleasure, but not enough.

Bill let out a low groan and rolled them both so he was on top. He fumbled in the nightstand for a condom and put it on before sliding inside her. He pumped a few times, then shuddered.

That was it for her. All done. Her cunt ached from the pounding of his fingers, but everything else felt swollen, throbbing, dissatisfied. Like menstrual cramps but worse. Women could get blue balls, too, she thought and shoved him until he rolled off her. Effie moved onto her back, head on the pillow beside his. They lay shoulder to shoulder until the slickness of his sweat repulsed her, and she shifted half an inch. He noticed, though. Bill always did.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” he said as he sat up to dispose of the condom in the trash pail by the bed.

Effie twisted to look at him. “Don’t be like that. Jesus, Bill. Have a little more class.”

“That’s a good one.” He snorted softly and lay back with an arm beneath his head. Somewhere in his house a clock chimed, though she knew him well enough not to believe the hour it was crying. He’d have forgotten to set it back for the time change, let the batteries run down, something. “You come over here after being out with some other guy, half-drunk, and all you want to do is fuck.”

She hadn’t been half-drunk or even drunk at all. She’d sipped from a glass of wine, just enough to let it linger on her breath. She just let Bill think that because it gave him an excuse to demand she stay until she’d sobered up. He was a cop. He didn’t condone drunk driving, though he didn’t seem to have a problem fucking her and letting her leave without so much as a cuddle after. Of course, that was why she came to Bill’s apartment late at night after bland and dissatisfying dates in the first place.

Effie sat up, cross-legged, and poked him in the side. “Oh, don’t act like it’s your dream to have me here in the morning, making me eggs.”

“You could make me eggs,” Bill pointed out.

“I can’t cook,” she lied with a hint of a grin and poked him again. This time, he snagged her hand and held it for a moment as they looked into each other’s eyes.

He settled her hand on his hip. She gave him a second or so before withdrawing it. He noticed that, too.

“You could stay,” Bill said in a low voice. “The bed’s big enough. You could have all your own space.”

“I have to get home to my kid.”

Bill frowned and pushed up on his elbow. “Bullshit. Your kid’s with your mother tonight.”

“How would you—” Effie scooted backward and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then said over her shoulder, “What did you do, drive past her house? Check it out? Creeper.”

“If you’re with me, your kid’s with your mom. Or with someone. You wouldn’t leave her by herself. I know you better than that.”

She did not like that, not one bit, this idea that he believed he could ever know her. That he was right only soured her further. Effie stood, searching for her panties and settling for her dress. That, at least, she’d hung neatly over the back of a chair. The underwear had come off at a rather more heated pace. She’d probably kicked her panties under the bed or something, but she’d be damned if she was going to get on her hands and knees to look for them.

“Ah, shit, Effie. Don’t be like that.” Bill got up, too, and came around the bed to grip her by the upper arms, though loosely enough she’d have no trouble getting free if she wanted to.

“It’s late,” she said. “I’m sure you have to work in the morning. And I have things I need to do, too.”

She had a commission to work on. Laundry. Her tires needed to be rotated, she’d almost forgotten about that appointment, and then she had to get over to her mom’s house to pick up Polly.

“Sure. Fine.” Bill let her go. Stepped back. Naked, his belly and chest still glistening with sweat, he bent to grab his T-shirt and cleaned himself off before tossing the shirt in the direction of a pile of laundry on the floor.

“God forbid you should put it in a basket,” she murmured.

Bill snorted soft laughter. “The hell do you care? I don’t see you offering to do my wash for me.”

“Does that mean you have to live like a pig?” Effie buttoned the shirtdress to her throat and smoothed the skirt over her bare ass. It was going to be cold outside without her nylons, but they’d been shredded within a few minutes of her arrival here.

Bill frowned again, harder this time. “You have a mouth on you. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” Effie shrugged and turned away. Bill caught her arm again, a little harder this time. Surprised, she faced him. “Hey.”

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let her go. He pulled her closer. Shit. Was he going to kiss her?

“No?” he said when she turned her face at the last second so that his lips brushed her cheek.

Effie said nothing. It was such a fucking cliché. She usually didn’t even care about kissing in that way, except right now when he wanted it from her, and she didn’t want to give it.

“You come over here and fuck around with me,” Bill said into her ear. “You won’t sleep over. You won’t let me kiss you. You don’t let me get anywhere fucking close to you, do you?”

Effie shrugged out of his grasp. “Don’t.”

Bill sighed and scrubbed at his short, pale hair. “Go, then. I guess I’ll see you the next time you have an itch that needs to be scratched.”

He slammed the door to his apartment behind her, which made her want to thump her fist on it until he opened it again. He wasn’t being fair. This was the way it worked with them. He should’ve been used to it by now. She’d needed and wanted him to get her off, but he hadn’t. She’d wasted her time and his. She’d hurt his feelings and hadn’t meant to.

Shit. Effie sighed and didn’t knock on the door. In her car, she watched Bill’s silhouette in the window. He would stand there until she drove away, so he could be sure she left instead of, what, being murdered in her car in the parking lot? Effie laughed without humor, hating the bitter taste.

Backing up, she pulled out into the street. In her rearview mirror, she watched the golden square of light from his window turn into darkness. Then she drove home.

chapter seven

“How was he?”

She wasn’t startled. Didn’t scream. She’d known Heath was waiting for her the second she came into the kitchen and saw the back door was slightly open. You’d think she’d be smarter about it, take a baseball bat or something to protect herself in case it was a serial killer who’d happened to pick her house out of all the ones lined up along this suburban street. You’d think she’d have been more careful about locking her doors, the way her mother had urged her over and over again to be.

When the worst had already happened to you, everything else seemed a lot less dangerous.

“None of your business.” Effie went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, listening for the sound of the crack as she broke the sealed lid before she drank greedily.

Her stomach rumbled. Mitchell had taken her to a Chinese place for dinner, and there’d been no way for her to eat any of that jumbled-together sort of food. Nor any good way to explain to him why she couldn’t have anything touching each other on the plate. Not without sounding like a lunatic. She’d gone to Bill with a different sort of appetite and he’d left her hungry, too. She pulled out a block of sliced cheese and took a piece. She offered one to Heath. He refused.

“Dammit, Effie.”

She turned and leaned against the counter. Heath wore all black. Ancient jeans, ragged at the hems. A black hoodie over a black T-shirt. He’d left his shoes by the door, and he wore no socks. She had to look away from his bare, long toes—his feet killed her with their perfection. His arms stuck out a few inches below the sleeves. Heath had a hard time finding clothes that fit him. Legs and arms and torso too long. At six-five he was gangly, even now as a man when he’d filled out with muscle.

Thinking of his body, Effie swallowed hard and drank more water. Her thighs rubbed together, slick from her earlier, unsated arousal. Her lower abdomen still felt crampy.

“Where did he take you?”

“Jade Garden.” She chewed slowly. Swallowed. Washed down the rest of the cheese with a swig of water, then another.

Heath let out a short, sharp bark of mocking laughter. “No wonder you’re hungry now.”

“He was a nice guy,” Effie said mildly. “He’s a software engineer. He makes good money. He smelled nice. He wears glasses.”

Heath moved closer. He’d been working in the cafeteria at a local private college for the past couple years. He did most of their catered events. He stank of grease and fried foods with an undertone of grass and smoke. He would taste like honey. Effie didn’t move away, but she didn’t lean into him, either. Didn’t soften or bend, didn’t open her mouth for him to kiss her.

Heath leaned in to sniff her neck. His lips moved against her skin. “You fucked him.”

“No.”

“You fucked someone,” he said and slid a hand under her dress and between her legs. His fingers cupped her hard enough to force a gasp out of her. In the next second he’d pushed his fingers inside her. “He’s still dripping out of you.”

In, out, his fingers slid against her slick heat, but he was wrong. She wasn’t wet inside from Bill, but from this. Oh, fuck yes, for Heath, always for him. He could look at her from across the room, no words. None needed. A glance, and she was weak-kneed and trembling at the thought of his touch. Of his mouth, that tongue. His teeth.

The water bottle fell to the floor, splashing her legs with chilly liquid. She put both her hands up flat on his chest. His T-shirt bunched under her fingers. She pushed at him, but Heath had put his other hand at the small of her back, holding her still.

He slid his fingers deeper until his thumb pressed her clit. His teeth took the place of his whisper, fierce on the tender skin of her throat. Effie’s head tipped back; now her fingers clutched at his T-shirt not to push him away but to keep herself from falling. Not that Heath ever would have let her.

He would never let her fall.

“So fucking wet,” Heath breathed into her ear. His hand moved faster. He added another finger, stretching her. His thumb stroked. Had it only been this morning that they’d been doing this?

He backed away from her so suddenly that Effie took a couple stumbling steps forward in order to keep her balance. She cried out, low, as she lost her grip on his shirt. Her head spun.

“I waited for you,” he said. “I was worried.”

What else could she do then, but draw him close to her and hold him? What else but to kiss him, first gently and then as though they each were the only meal the other would ever need? Here in the dark and in the morning’s ugliest hour, it was surely all right to take him by the hand and lead him into her bedroom, where he stood in front of her as she undressed slowly, piece by piece until she was naked in front of him.

Heath hesitated before stripping out of his hoodie, then pulled his T-shirt over his head with one hand over his shoulder in that purely male way. He tugged the button on his jeans and then slid the zipper down notch by notch without ever looking away from her. He wore no briefs beneath, and at the first sight of the dark bush of hair, Effie let a low groan slip out of her. Heath pushed his jeans down and kicked them off.

Effie backed up slowly until she reached the bed, then scooted back on it. She opened her thighs to show him her treasure and reveled in the way his gaze flashed in the light coming from the window. Propped on her elbow, she let the fingers of her other hand toy with her cunt, easing inside and then up to circle her clit. Slow, slow, until her head fell back and her back arched at how good it felt to have him watching her.

“Did he eat that pussy?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t make you come.”

A stuttering, sighing moan ground from her throat. “No.”

“Look at me, Effie.”

She managed to lift her head. Heath’s cock was in his fist. He got harder as she watched. Long and thick, his cock was slightly curved upward. Effie had been with dozens of men. She’d seen a lot of erections. Long, short, thick, thin, bent, uncut. Low-hanging balls or tight and high. Some men trimmed or shaved their pubic hair and some let it grow dense and wild. Yet of them all, Heath’s was the only one she could have picked out of the crowd. She knew his body as well as she knew her own.

And he knew hers. Moving closer, he knelt between her legs to rub his prick along the seam of her cunt, up and over her clit again and again until she fell back onto the bed, legs splayed wide to urge him inside her. He teased her with the tip of his cock, his hands planted beside her head, his hips barely thrusting. Slick, flesh on flesh. She wanted him to fill her.

When at last he began to move, her hands went above her head, palm to palm, fingers linked. She gave herself up to the pleasure of him rocking his cock against her. She lost herself in it. She came in slow, rolling waves, aware she was crying out but not caring. So many times they’d had to fuck in silence, careful not to let anyone overhear them, but now in this empty house she let herself give voice to the passion only Heath had ever been able to give her.

Over and over, she rose and crested and dipped; over and over, he took her body higher until she thought she might pass out. Or die. Yes, she could die right now with him making her come. Or maybe she’d already died and this was both heaven and hell, this never-ending climax.

When the shaking of her body eased and she was able to breathe again, Effie opened her eyes. Heath still held himself above her. The cords on his arms stood out. His mouth had parted, slack, but his gaze was sharp and focused on her face. It stabbed her, that look. Penetrating and intense.

Without putting a hand on his cock, he nevertheless managed to find her opening and push inside. She groaned at the way he filled her. She moved to touch him, but he muttered a command for her to stay still. He didn’t move. He stared into her eyes and pressed his lips together.

“Please,” Effie said again. “Heath.”

A low noise like a growl rumbled out of him. He slid out of her almost entirely, then back in. So slow, but not gentle. Sweat dripped from his face onto hers and she licked it away, drowning in the taste of him.

He fucked her that way forever. Each thrust began to sting. She couldn’t come again, it was impossible, but the pain was a pleasure of its own and she rode it the way she’d done the string of earlier climaxes.

Heath drew a series of ragged breaths. His hair fell in front of his eyes as he ducked his head. His arms had begun to shake, but he didn’t lower himself onto her. He fucked harder, desperately. Frustration twisted his expression. Finally, he stopped, pushing upward again on his hands. He shook his head, but when he tried to pull out of her, Effie hooked her heels behind his calves and kept him close.

When she slapped him lightly across the face, Heath shuddered. The next time, she did it harder. His gaze flashed. Angry, but also that other thing, that dark thing that never went away between them. So she did it again, and this time he let out a low shout that got lost inside her mouth as he dived to kiss her. It was brutal, a clash of teeth and slash of tongue. She raked his chest with her nails, and he took her lower lip between his teeth. Then her tongue, biting.

They moved together, rolling, until she was on top. His hands gripped her hips. He thrust upward hard enough to knock her forward, her hands flat on his chest. She kissed him, not kind or sweet or loving. They made war and love at the same time until at last he pounded his cock deep inside her again, crying out. Then he went still.

Breathing hard, Effie uncurled her fingers. She smoothed the crescents her nails had left in his skin and bent to kiss the marks. A few of them overlaid the faint bruises from the last time they’d been together. One or two of them had bled and she took some extra time to soothe them. Then she rolled off him and onto her back beside him.

Heath was silent for a while before he turned onto his side, away from her. Effie had been staring up at the ceiling, cataloging the aches and pains of the aftermath. She waited a second or so before turning to spoon him from behind. Her face pressed the warmth between his shoulder blades.

“You stink,” she told him. “You need a shower.”

Heath didn’t move. He found her hand and tucked it against his chest. Effie nestled her crotch to his ass and breathed him in. She licked his skin. Tangy. She closed her eyes. They would sleep this way, if she wasn’t careful. Tonight she wasn’t sure if she cared.

“Are you going to see him again?”

He meant Mitchell, but he could’ve meant Bill. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to think before she answered. “Yes. If he asks.”

“Will you tell him about me?”

There was so much about Heath to tell, how could she begin to answer that? Effie nipped his shoulder blade instead of a reply. Heath rolled to face her.

“Will you?”

“No.”

“Nothing? Not a word?”

She smiled. “It’s not any of his business, is it?”

“Is he one of your fans?”

At that, she frowned and sat up. “That’s not fair, Heath. You know I don’t fuck around with them.”

“So, how did you meet him, then?”

“LuvFinder.” Effie laughed, embarrassed suddenly in a way she hadn’t been before. “I thought I’d try it.”

Heath snorted. “Better than trolling for dates at bars and insurance conventions, I guess.”

She pinched his nipple hard, until he swatted her hand away. “Shut up.”

“So,” Heath said quietly, “you’re looking for love this time?”

“Isn’t everyone?” She said it nonchalantly, but she knew this admission changed everything. Until recently, she’d only been exploring. Considering her options. Having fun. But lately she had to admit that she was searching for something more—something real. She wasn’t sure she could find it with anyone but Heath, but she’d be damned if it wasn’t worth trying.

“Not everyone,” Heath said. “Some of us have already found all we ever want.”

He ran a fingertip over her cheek then, and along her jaw. He finished by tracing her lips. When she opened them as though to bite him, he didn’t pull away, so she kissed it instead. Then she took his hand and turned it over so she could press a kiss to the inside of his wrist and the scars there.

“I just want something normal,” Effie whispered. A confession. It felt good to say it loud, like prying the last tiny piece of a splinter that had been festering beneath her flesh. “Is that so much to ask for? To be the same as everyone else?”

At that, Heath sat up and got out of bed. With his back to her, he said, “Effie, don’t you know that in a million years you could never be the same as anyone else?”

She watched him gather his clothes and leave her room. She waited until she heard the back door close. Then she went, naked, into the kitchen to lock it.

chapter eight

“My mother says I’m not allowed to see you anymore.” The words come easier than Effie had thought they would. She’d practiced them in front of the mirror at home for an hour, every time stuttering, but now they sound as casual as if she were asking Heath about the weather. “She says it’s not healthy for us.”

Heath stares at her with large, hollowed eyes. He’s been smoking. He stinks of booze. There’s a blossoming bruise on one cheekbone that Effie didn’t put there. She’s sure it came from his father or another kind of fight, not from another girl, but that doesn’t matter. It makes her want to kiss him and also to slap him harder on the other side to make one to match it. It makes her want to hold him close.

Still without a word, Heath pulls a joint from the pocket of his denim jacket. He licks the end and tucks it into the corner of his mouth. The Zippo lighter comes from his jeans pocket, and the sight of it makes her mouth dry. That lighter had been Daddy’s. She hadn’t realized Heath had kept it. All these years later, and seeing it is still...it’s hard.

“Say something,” Effie demands.

Heath shrugs and lights the joint. He offers it to her. She should refuse. She doesn’t even like weed. It makes her sleepy and sometimes anxious. It reminds her of those hazy, blurry basement days when neither of them had the strength to get off the bed because Daddy had dosed them up with something to keep them from trying to get away. Yet the joint had been in Heath’s mouth, it will taste of him even if only the barest amount, and this could be the last she’ll ever have of him.

“She’s not wrong,” Effie says a minute or so later when they’ve passed the joint back and forth a couple times. They’re alone here in the picnic pavilion, but the park is officially closed. This is a risk, but then so is being here with him at all, even without the weed. “You know she isn’t, Heath.”

“She hates me.”

Effie shakes her head, already swimming from the pot. “She doesn’t... She’s only trying to protect me.”

At that, Heath pinches off the joint and tucks it away. “From me.”

“From everything,” Effie says.

“Where was she when you were getting pulled into the back of a van?” Heath’s voice is low, hard, sharp. Knife-edged. “Or when you were kept like a dog in the dark for days on end, or when you almost died? Who protected you then?”

He is angry. She can’t blame him. She understands why, but she understands why her parents worry, too.

“What does your dad say? Oh, right. He goes along with whatever your mother says.” Heath sneers.

Effie frowns. “Look, your parents might not give a damn about you, but mine do.”

He doesn’t flinch, but she knows she’s poked him someplace tender. It should make her behave more sweetly toward him, knowing she’s being hurtful, but there’s something dark with the two of them that makes her only want to hurt him more. It’s that dark thing her mother worries about. To be honest, it’s scares Effie, too.

“I’m only seventeen, Heath. What do you want me to do? Run away from home? Live on the streets? I’m going to college next year. I’m going to make something of myself. Not like you.” Her voice rises. Her fists clench.

“You think I’m nothing.”

She doesn’t. Effie thinks, in fact, that Heath is everything. He is too much to her and she to him. Even at seventeen she knows it. The girls in her class, her “friends,” are worrying about who will ask them to the prom, and none of them have any idea what it’s like to love someone so much you’d die for them. Literally die.

Heath rakes a hand through his dark hair, which has been cut shorter than she’s ever seen it. He told her he was going on job interviews again. Without a high school degree, without the hope of getting a further education, there isn’t much out there for him. Gas station attendant. Stock clerk. It’s been a year since they got out of the basement, and Heath’s quit or been fired from a dozen jobs. He can’t make anything stick. Nothing but Effie, anyway.

“I have to go,” Effie says. “I told my mom I was going to the library. She thinks I was going to write you a letter instead of telling you in person.”

“Why didn’t you?” He paces a little, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. His boots are scuffed, and the way he kicks at the gravel shows how they got that way. He won’t look away from her.

“I wanted to see you.”

Something small and hopeful glimmers for a second in his gaze before vanishing. “You should’ve written a letter. It would’ve been easier.”

“I don’t care about it being easy,” Effie says.

Then he is kissing her. Hard and hot and leaving her breathless. His hands on her. Over her clothes, cupping her breasts, then under her shirt to touch her bare skin.

Last weekend Effie went to a slumber party with some girls from school. She’d been best friends with a couple of them in middle school, but they’re not close anymore. She pretends they are, hoping maybe it will become the truth. They all played Truth or Dare and the biggest question was about who’d “done it” and who had not. None of them had.

Effie had lied and said she hadn’t, either.

“But I thought—” Wendy Manning had started to say before Rebecca Meyers shushed her.

Effie knew what all those girls thought. In the year since she’s been home, the rumors have flown fast and thick. But Daddy had never touched her. Not like that. He’d done a lot of things, but he’d never done that. It was a lie to say Effie was a virgin, but faced with that solemn-faced group of girls, Effie was not about to say anything else. They still giggled about touching “it” or French kissing. None of them understood sex at all.

When Heath pushes a hand between her legs now, Effie pulls away. “No.”

She hasn’t slapped his face, but she might as well have. Heath frowns. He reaches for her, but she dances out of his grip again.

“I said no!”

“You don’t have to worry. I brought something,” Heath says. “We’ll be careful this time.”

Effie’s lip curls. “You want me to fuck you right here on the picnic table? Classy.”

“I want to be with you, and I want you to feel safe, not worried about anything happening again. But you know if it did, I’d take care of you.”

Effie hops off the picnic table. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened. She doesn’t want to think about it. “No.”

“You don’t love me,” Heath says.

This is too much. All this time and all that happened with them, and now he wants to tell her that he loves her? What is it supposed to mean, what is she supposed to do about it now, when everything has changed?

“I already told you how I feel about that,” she snaps. “It’s easy to love someone when they’re all you know.”

“Effie, please...”

“No.” She holds up a hand, backing away from him. “We can’t go back to where we were, Heath. Don’t you get it? What happened to us, it was totally fucked up. Okay? We had a super shitty thing happen to us, but we got out of it, we made it through, and now...it’s over. You can’t hold on to it. It’s not normal. It’s crazy. It’s wrong between us. You have to let it go. You have to let me go.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Not wanting to and not being able to are not the same things!” Effie wants to punch him with her fists but settles for hitting him with her words, forcing him back a few steps.

Heath holds up his hands. Turns his face. He stops moving so that if she keeps advancing she will be pressed against him, and she stops herself from doing that. They stand less than an arm’s length apart. Close enough she can see the throb of his pulse in his throat.

“Loving you has nothing to do with choice,” he says.

“Because we never had one!”

Heath is silent.

Effie lifts her chin. “You’ll find someone else to love. We’re still kids. You never find the one you’re supposed to be with forever when you’re a kid.”

“There is no forever for me without you,” Heath says, and Effie knows he means it. “If I never see you again, Effie, there will still never be anyone else but you.”

She’d learned about sex, but whatever she’d believed she knew about love shatters in that moment, leaving her broken in its wake. Shaking her head, Effie says nothing as she backs away. Three, four steps take her to the driver’s side of her father’s car. She’s behind the wheel a moment after that. Staring straight ahead at the road, wondering what would happen if she drives herself straight into a tree.

She unbuckles her seat belt.

She puts her foot on the gas.

But in the end, Effie is not about to die for love. Not again. Not ever.

When she walks in the front door, her parents are waiting for her. So are two uniformed policemen who exchange looks when her mother flies up off the couch to grab her. Effie recognizes one of them. He was the one who found them in the basement. Effie remembers that he held her hand while they waited for the ambulance.

“What’s going on?” She tries to slip out of her mother’s clinging, desperate grasp.

“You’re all right,” Mom says.

Her father swipes a hand over his face. “Thank God.”

Effie, staring over her shoulder at the cop, turns her attention to her mother. “Yes, I’m fine. I told you I was going to the library.”

“Effie, we know you weren’t at the library,” Officer Schmidt, that’s his name, says. “You were with Heath Shaw in Long’s Park.”

Effie fights off her mother’s grip. Panic rises. “Where is he? What’s wrong? What happened to him?”

“You don’t need to worry about him anymore,” Mom says, but Effie won’t even look at her.

Her father takes a step forward but stops when Effie shakes her head. She glares at the cop. He should understand, more than any of them.

“Where is he?”

“Heath attempted to take his own life shortly after you left him. He was discovered by a jogger and taken to Lancaster General Hospital. He’s in stable condition, but he’ll be remanded to a psychiatric care facility for the next few days while he’s monitored.”

“He tried to kill himself?” Effie sags, vaguely aware her mother is tugging her arm to get her to sit on the couch. She allows herself to be pushed. She shakes her head. “What did he do?”

“He cut himself.” Officer Schmidt’s voice is gentle, and he doesn’t look away from Effie’s eyes, not even for a second. “It was unclear whether or not he’d harmed you, however. He told us you’d been together, but not if you’d left safely.”

“Of course I did. Heath would never hurt me. Not ever.” She shakes off her mother’s attempt at a hug and buries her face in her hands. The world spins. She thinks she might vomit right there on the rug, and won’t her mom be upset then, when Effie makes a mess?

“Now that you’re home safe, that’s all we need to know.” Officer Schmidt comes closer to squeeze Effie’s shoulder. He looks again deep into her eyes, then takes a business card from his pocket and presses it into her hand. His fingers are strong and warm. “If you ever need anything, Effie, anything at all, I’m here for you.”

Lots of people will tell her that in her life, but only a few of them ever are.

chapter nine

Polly had brought home a thick folder stuffed with information about the science fair. It was not optional. It was going to be a nightmare.

Effie, paint smeared all over her hands from the projects she’d been working on all day, gestured. “Okay, so what are some of the choices?”

“Testing the amount of sugar in sodas. Raising baby chicks. Ooh—”

“No,” Effie said. “No way.”

Polly rolled her eyes but ran her finger down the rest of the list. Her small mouth pursed, her brow furrowed. She looked a lot like Effie’s mom when she did that, and a wave of love for her daughter forced Effie to the sink so she wasn’t caught being all mushy. Sometimes Effie wondered if in her pursuit of not being too attentive, too hovering, she’d somehow ruined Polly. The girl was blessedly and casually independent, not at all clingy or a hugger. Still, not needing someone and not believing they would be there to help you when you needed it were two very different things, and although it never seemed as if Polly didn’t trust Effie to take care of her, there were plenty of times Effie felt as though she’d come up short in the parenting department.

Polly paused with her finger on the paper. “I could grow plants in different soils with different kinds of water. Like, with acid and stuff.”

“Acid, that sounds pretty dangerous.” Effie scrubbed at the paint under her fingernails. She’d been working on a commissioned piece and was hating it, which was why she’d still been painting when Polly got home. Usually she tried to be finished by the time school ended so she could spend time with her kid. Procrastination, thy name was “Chuck Norris Riding a Unicorn.”

“Not, like, superbad acid, Mom. Like, I dunno. Baking soda or whatever.”

“Baking soda is acid? Since when?”

Polly shrugged. “How about I could try to design a thing for an egg that protects it from breaking when you drop it off a roof?”

“Does that involve you going up onto a roof to drop things off it?” Effie scrubbed a little harder, looking over her shoulder.

Polly grinned. “Maybe.”

“Also no way. You’re the kid who broke her leg tripping over a shadow on the sidewalk. I’m not letting you up on the roof.” Drying her hands, Effie turned to lean against the counter. “Can’t you pick something easy and delicious, like testing different types of chocolate chip recipes to see how they change when you add or subtract vital ingredients?”

“Is that on the list?” Polly shook the papers.

“I have no idea, but if it’s not, it should be.” Effie came closer to look over Polly’s shoulder. “It would be fun. And I could be your taste tester.”

“You don’t eat cookies with chocolate chips in them,” Polly said matter-of-factly, then paused. The girl had always worn her emotions all over her face. She looked scared now, and sad, and Effie’s heart sank.

“What is it, Pollywog?”

“Meredith Ross said... She said...” Polly caught her breath and bit her upper lip with sharp white teeth.

Meredith Ross was a shitty little princess diva whose mother had gone to school with Effie. Delores Gonzalez had been a few years older than Effie, but she’d lived two houses down from Effie’s parents, so the walk back and forth to school had often been made only a few steps behind her. Effie had very vivid memories of the back of Dee’s head. They’d never been friends. Dee had been there the day Effie came home. The entire neighborhood had turned out to welcome Effie with a party like something out of a nightmare. It had been her father’s idea, God bless him. He’d meant well. He’d had no idea how hard it would be for Effie to come back home and face all those people.

This wasn’t the first time Polly had complained about Meredith. Once, when Effie was eight and Dee ten, the older girl had made fun of Effie’s favorite dress. It sounded as if Dee’s daughter was following in her mother’s footsteps. Effie kept her expression neutral, though. Polly already looked on the verge of tears.

“What did she say?”

Polly ducked her head. Her shoulders heaved on a sigh. She shook her head, not speaking.

It wasn’t like her to be so reticent. Effie pulled up the chair next to Polly’s. Their knees touched. She took both of Polly’s hands.

“Hey. Tell me what’s going on.”

Polly shook again, this time with silent, wrenching sobs. When she looked at Effie, blue eyes wide and confused, Effie’s heart broke. She pulled Polly close, stroking the girl’s blond hair over and over.

“Mama, is Heath my dad?”

Effie paused as her fingers snagged in Polly’s hair. She untangled them gently and squeezed her daughter harder. “No, honey. No.”

“Meredith said Heath is your brother, and that he’s my dad! Both!” Polly’s voice broke, agonized. She pushed away to stare at Effie. Her mouth worked. Her cheeks had flushed crimson.

“Oh, Polly. Honey...no. Heath isn’t your dad. He loves you very much, but he’s not your dad. And he’s not my brother.” Her voice hitched on that word. Brother. Sister. Daddy. She tried so hard never to think about Heath in that way, no matter how many times she’d been forced to call him that. Effie grabbed a couple of paper napkins to wipe Polly’s face. “Why did Meredith even say such a thing?”

“Because she’s a bitch!”

Effie choked back laughter and made her voice stern. “Polly.”

“She’s jealous because I got invited to Sam Walsh’s party, and she didn’t. Because she’s mean, that’s all. And Sam’s mom said she could only have four friends over, and I was one of them. But Meredith got mad.” Polly sniffled. “So she told everyone that Heath is your brother and I’m his kid. She said it was illegal and gross, and that I was probably deformed, because that’s what happens when brothers and sisters have kids together.”

Effie’s stomach turned over. “Polly. No. I promise you, Heath is not my brother. If he was, then Nana would be his mom, right?”

Polly sniffled again but looked relieved. “Yeah. And Nana doesn’t like him.”

“No, she doesn’t.” There was no point in lying about it.

“Because something happened when you were younger,” Polly said with some more confidence.

Effie hesitated. She’d never discussed with Polly what had happened to her from the ages of thirteen to sixteen. She’d meant to when Polly got older, probably when she was closer to thirteen herself, but she was only eleven now. There hadn’t seemed a need to get into the details. It was actually something of a surprise that nobody had ever told her anything about it before now.

“Yes. That’s why Nana doesn’t like him,” Effie said.

“It happened to you and Heath together?”

Effie nodded. “Yes.”

Polly frowned and plucked at the hem of her shirt before looking at her mother. “Meredith said the only reason you ever sell any paintings is because people on the internet are perverts.”

“Meredith Ross needs to keep her mouth shut, and so does her mother.” Effie’s voice rose, and she forced herself to calm. “Don’t listen to her, honey, okay? She’s a jealous little brat. You don’t need to worry about my paintings or anything else. It’s none of her business. You just concentrate on being the best Polly you can be, and ignore her.”

Polly didn’t look entirely mollified, but she nodded. Effie hugged her again, squeezing tight before letting her go. She held the girl’s shoulders gently for a moment, though, looking closely at her daughter’s face.

“If she gives you any trouble, Polly, you tell me. I’ll talk to the teacher.”

“No!” Polly looked alarmed. “Mom, no. Don’t do that, I’ll get called a tattletale.”

“Is she telling everyone this stuff?”

Polly shook her head. “I don’t think so. And if she did, I’d just tell them it’s not true. Because it isn’t. Right?”

“Right.” Still angry but not showing it, Effie looked over Polly’s list with her as they tried to settle on a project. Leaving it to be decided another time, she shooed her kid off to watch an hour of television before dinner.

Her phone buzzed with a call she picked up without looking to see who it was. Expecting her mother or Heath, Effie was ready to launch into a bitter tirade against tween girl bullies but stopped short at the sound of a male voice. “Oh. Mitchell. Hey.”

“Hi, Effie. Is this a bad time?”

She looked at the pot of water she was boiling to make boxed macaroni and cheese. “I’m just putting together a gourmet feast for me and my kid. How are you?”

“Good, good. I thought I’d give you a call. See if you wanted to chat.”

Effie hesitated. “I’m kind of in the middle of some things. Maybe later tonight?”

“Oh, sure. Dinner and stuff. Right. I should’ve thought.” Mitchell laughed softly. “Bachelorhood tends to make you forget about things like regular mealtimes.”

Somehow, she doubted that. Mitchell had not impressed her as the sort of guy who survived on day-old pizza. Was he angling for a dinner invitation? That was the problem with this dating stuff, Effie thought. It was so much more complicated than bringing home a guy from a bar and sending him home in the morning with a phone number one digit off so he wouldn’t be able to call her again.

“I had a great time with you. I wanted to let you know,” Mitchell said when Effie didn’t speak.

“Me, too.” She cradled the phone against her shoulder to pour the pasta into the water.

“So...we’ll talk later. Okay? Looking forward to it.”

“Me, too,” Effie repeated and let him disconnect the phone call first. She stared at the phone for a second or so. She hadn’t assigned him a special ringtone or added a picture to his contact information, so for the moment, Mitchell remained nothing but a string of numbers.

“Give him a chance,” she murmured to herself. “This is what you want.”

Something nice, something tame. Something normal. That was what she was looking for.

Wasn’t it?

Polly was so quiet at dinner that nothing Effie said got a smile out of her. Clearly, she was still bothered by what had happened with Meredith. So, after they’d polished off the mac-n-cheese and Polly had cleared the table, Effie sent her off to her room to do homework.

Then she picked up the phone.

“Hi, Dee?” Effie fell into the old nickname before thinking it was possible Delores didn’t go by it any longer. Then she decided she didn’t give a rat’s ass what the other woman preferred to be called. “This is Effie. Polly’s mother. Your daughter’s in Polly’s class.”

“I know who you are, Effie, of course.” Delores sounded bubbly, as if maybe she’d already started on the early evening cocktails. No wonder, since her husband had left her several years ago for not a younger woman, but an older one.

Maybe that was unkind.

“So listen, Dee, I’m going to cut straight to it. Keep your mouth shut about my daughter, your speculation about her father, and about Heath.” Effie drew in a breath as if she was dragging on a cigarette. “You know damn well he’s not my brother. And not that it’s any of your business, but he’s not Polly’s father. Get your own house in order before you start talking shit about mine.”

Dee sputtered. “What... I... Wait a minute. What?”

“My kid’s eleven years old. She should be worried about her science fair project and growing out of her favorite jeans too fast. Not any other bullshit you want to spread around.” Effie paused long enough to hear a snuffle from Dee through the phone. She smiled to be sure the other woman heard it in her voice. “She has a lot of people in her life who love her. She hasn’t suffered for the lack of knowing who donated the sperm that made her.”

“Oh.” Dee sounded confused. She’d never been the brightest shade of pink in the palette. “Oh, I didn’t know you had a sperm donor.”

Effie had in fact been knocked up the old-fashioned way and had been making a sarcastic comment, so now she sighed. “Dee, Jesus. It’s none of your business. Okay? Why would you tell your kid anything like that anyway? And as for my paintings, also none of your business. What difference does it make to you who buys them or supports them?”

Silence. Effie waited. Through the phone line she heard another snuffle.

“I’m sorry,” Dee said finally. “I didn’t tell Meredith any of those things. She must’ve overheard us talking.”

“Who was talking?”

“Friends, I guess.” Dee made a small, apologetic noise. “The subject came up at the last mommy meeting I had here. I guess she overheard us...”

It was far from the first time Effie had known herself to be the topic of conversation. For years after coming home she’d been approached by reporters and curiosity seekers wanting a piece of her story. After the debacle with the coming-home party, her dad had forbidden any of them from contacting her, but after he died, there’d been a few who managed to find her contact information. Some had been ballsy enough to approach her instead of just posting voyeuristic bullshit about her on that stupid fucking forum for sickos who liked to collect memorabilia from crime victims. Someone had even made a documentary. Effie had been offered money to participate, but she had refused.

To hear it now, though...her stomach twisted again. She wanted a drink, something strong. Instead, she forced herself to breathe.

“Why the hell are you gossiping about me anyway?”

Dee made another of those noises. “They asked me. Some moms from school, I guess they found out we went to school together, and when they heard about Andrews being up for parole...”

“Wait a minute. What? What the fuck?” Effie froze, her fingers cramping and curling around her phone.

“An alert came up, I guess, about how a convicted sex offender was possibly going to be living close by. I guess you know where the house is.”

Effie swallowed bitterness. “Yes.”

The same house. It had passed to Andrews’s children when he went to prison, and as far as she knew, they’d never sold it. Nobody had ever seemed to be living in it anyway, whenever she drove past, which was only on the rarest of secretive occasions. It had always been empty, the grass a little too long, merchandisers littering the driveway. At Halloween, no local kids egged it or strung toilet paper in the trees. The house had gained its own reputation.

Dee coughed. “Well. It’s only a couple blocks away from where I live now. If he gets out on parole, he’ll be living there. So, you know, they put out this petition to sign so that there wouldn’t be a pedophile living there.”

“I don’t think you can keep him from moving back into a house that he owns,” Effie whispered through her clenched jaw. “No matter what he did.”

Dee was very quiet then, only the sound of her breathing coming through the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone Heath was your brother, Effie. I told them that Andrews made you and Heath call him Daddy, that’s all. And that’s the truth, right? I didn’t make it up. I wasn’t lying! They asked me, and it’s not like any of them lived around here when it happened. They don’t remember the stories.”

“Oh, God. Well, aren’t they lucky they have you to catch them up.” Effie swallowed again, her throat closing. All those women in their yoga pants and matching hairstyles, matching smiles. She’d never quite fit in with them, and now they all knew about her...this, the worst thing. But that wasn’t what upset her the most. “Look, when it affects my kid, Dee, I get really pissed.”

“I’m sorry,” Dee said after a minute. “They’re really worried about him getting out and living so close. That’s all.”

“He’s not going to get out of prison.” Bill had told her so, enough times, and all she could do was believe it or live every moment of her life waiting in dread for it to happen.

“Well, there was something on the internet...”

“Rumors about it go around every few years when he’s up for parole, but he won’t get out. He was served with two consecutive life terms for kidnapping, indecency, cruelty to children and a bunch of other stuff. He’s not getting out, not ever.” Effie laughed, harsh and sour. “Tell all your biddy friends not to worry so fucking much. And tell your kid to back off my kid.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Dee said.

Effie took a slow breath. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

“Effie, if you want to come to our moms’ group...” The other woman trailed off.

Effie didn’t answer. The idea alarmed her. When Polly was younger and Effie had been struggling to get through school and working two jobs to make ends meet, she’d often eyed those put-together matchy-matchy moms in their playgroups with envy. Their fancy strollers and designer coffees. The way they all seemed to know how to keep their kids clean and dressed with what seemed like very little effort. There’d been days she swore finding two matching socks was a feat akin to Frodo’s journey to throw the ring into the volcano.

“So you can all talk shit about me to my face instead of behind my back? No, thanks.”

Dee sighed loudly. “I said I was sorry. They started to ask me questions. It’s not like any of this stuff can’t be found out on the internet. I mean, Effie, you make your living off it. Do you really think people don’t talk about it?”

Effie knew her work’s value lay in her past. She knew her story was public knowledge. She rubbed at the spot between her eyes. “Look, just...be more careful, okay? And tell your kid to back off.”

“She’s upset because her dad left,” Dee said after a second. “I know she’s been a pain to some of the other kids lately. She feels left out. Maybe if you could ask Polly to be a little nicer to her, you know, include her in some things...”

“You want me to have my kid befriend yours?” Effie frowned, thinking of all the little stories Polly had told her about Meredith’s bullying tactics.

“She used to have a lot of friends, and now she’s the outcast. She thinks they’re making fun of her because of her dad leaving.”

“It’s because she spreads rumors and makes fun of other kids.”

Dee coughed. “Girls like Polly... If she was nice to Meredith, the other kids would like her, too.”

Effie rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s how it works, to be honest. Polly’s not the one being nasty, you know.”

“I know.”

This conversation had not gone at all the way Effie had imagined it would. Consequently, her righteous outrage was fading in the face of Dee’s apologies and pleas on behalf of her lonely, socially alienated daughter. “I’ll talk to Polly.”

“I’ll talk to Meredith. And, Effie...if you don’t want to join the moms’ group, maybe you’d like to grab coffee one day? Catch up? I’m really sorry, I never meant for anything to be hurtful. It got blown out of context. It’s easy to forget there’s a real person on the other side of the gossip. Let me make it up to you.”

“Sure,” Effie said, to her own surprise. “That sounds great.”

Dee sounded pleased. “Great. I’ll call you next week.”

They disconnected and Effie tucked her phone into her pocket. She went into Polly’s room to wish her good-night, only to find her daughter already asleep. Another rush of love washed over Effie, so strong it made her want to cry.

It was only later as she was falling into sleep that Effie jerked awake with that feeling of falling. She’d forgotten to call Mitchell. She twisted in her sheets to look at the clock. Too late now. He really wasn’t the one she wanted to talk to anyway, but although she tapped in Heath’s number, she deleted it before the call could connect.

chapter ten

Serving her father coffee, Effie feels incredibly grown-up but far from mature. Not even with the small bump of her belly sticking out from the front of her maternity dress. It’s a horrendously ugly outfit and does nothing to hide the pregnancy she and her father have not yet discussed.

He takes the coffee and sets it on the table to look at her. “You don’t have to stay here, you know that? Your mother...”

“She made herself very clear.” Effie sips from a glass of ice water, the only thing she can stomach right now.

Her father sighs. “She’s sorry about that.”

“I’m sure she is.” Effie shakes her head. “But I’m fine here. Really.”

“If that boy wants to step up and take responsibility,” her father begins but stops when Effie holds up a hand.

“This isn’t Heath’s baby. I told Mom that. But Heath is willing to let me live here. It’s my best option. And it will be fine. Good. It’s going to be great.” As always since she came home, there’s an awkward silence in the space where once she’d have called him Dad. She can’t bring herself to do it anymore. It’s not Daddy, but even so, the name is soured for her. It’s not as if she can suddenly start calling him Pop or something like that. So Effie doesn’t call her father anything, and it’s obvious and uncomfortable, but neither of them ever mention it.

“I know you think so.” Her father frowns. “I understand.”

Effie sighs, sounding very much as he had only moments before. “You don’t.”

“I’d like to,” her father says.

This is never the sort of conversation a girl should ever have with her father. It involves trauma and awful things. Also sex, which wasn’t awful nor a trauma, despite the fact she ended up in this delicate condition when she ought to have known better.

Her father sighs again, looking so much older than he had even when Effie came back home, and she’d been shocked then at how much he’d aged in the three years she’d been gone. His smile reminds her of when she was younger and he’d take her on a Saturday to the hardware store to look at the tools. He’s the sort of father any girl would dream of, the kind who will get choked up when he dances with her at her wedding. Not that she’s planning a wedding anytime soon.

“The father. He’s not in the picture?”

Effie has not told the baby’s father that he’s the one who knocked her up. She hasn’t seen him since she found out. If he has by some reason heard about it, and he might’ve, because it’s a small town, he probably assumes, as her mother had, that the baby is Heath’s. And it should be, she thinks with a sudden, fierce twist of her mouth. This baby, the one she’s going to get to keep and not the one she lost, should be his.

She shakes her head. “No. He doesn’t know.”

“You could come home, Effie. We’ll take care of you.” Her father sounds sincere.

Effie believes him. But... “I’m almost nineteen. I’m in school, I’m working, and I’m having a baby. Living with Heath is helping me. We’re going to be all right. I don’t have to come home. I can’t.”

“Why not? Because of your mother? She’s just having a hard time with all of this. Honey, I know your mom likes to talk. But that’s all it is. She’ll come around. You know she will.”

“No, not because of her. Because I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You’re still our daughter. You’ll always be our little girl. Effie, your mom and I want to help you. That’s all.” Her father lifts the coffee mug as though he means to drink from it but puts it down without so much as a sip. He shakes his head. Sighs again.

Effie wants to make this easier for him, but she doesn’t know how. “This is the best thing for me.”

“To live in a crap-hole apartment, working and going to school, with a baby on the way? Living with a guy who can barely hold down a job of his own? I give him credit, don’t get me wrong, if the baby really isn’t his—”

“It’s not,” she says sharply. “And he knows that. So he does deserve the credit, and for more than just that. Heath works hard.”

“He’s been in and out of mental hospitals, Effie.”

“Once. That’s it.”

“Once is one too many.”

“Better than just going in and never coming out,” she snaps, not caring if she hurts her father’s feelings now. “Has he fucked up? Yes. We both have.”

“I understand. You went through something terrible together.”

“Yes,” Effie says quietly. “Together. And we’re going through this together, too.”

“Is he good to you?”

It’s not the question she expected, and she’s taken enough by surprise to nod. “Yes.”

Her father stands. “Well. I can’t promise you anything about your mother, but...I’ll try to give him a chance. I just want you to know you have choices. But if you need something, anything, you come to me, okay? I’m still your father, Effie, and I love you.”

“Love you, too, D-dad.” She stumbles on the word but gives her father a huge, long hug.

When he finally lets go to hold her at arm’s length, he looks her up and down. Her mother would have lectured, but her father smiles. He puts a hand on her belly.

“I bet it’s a girl,” he says. “And she’ll be beautiful, just like you.”

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