Broken home, p.1
Broken Home, page 1
part #4 of Way Home Series
Broken Home
Way Home Series Book Four
Kim Mills
Broken Home
Copyright © 2019 Kim Mills
All Rights Reserved
Broken Home is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are all the products of the author’s imagination.
Except the Canadian Armed Forces. That's real, look it up.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Even if you think it’s about you, it’s not.
Front cover designed by DesignRans
Editing by Susan Soares: SJS Editorial Services
Illustrations by Dh
(There are no illustrations)
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
More By Kim Mills
Dear reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Jeremy
The first thing I notice when I come to is how cold it is. Our house is always warm, hot even. Years of sleeping in the worst conditions means I hate sleeping in the cold.
It wakes me with a start. I assume I must be in the field, in a tent, or even under the stars. The ground under me is hard, and I have no blanket covering me.
Then I open my eyes, and I remember.
“I’m not doing this anymore, Jeremy.”
There was a finality to it that time, more than all the times in the years before. She had said that sentence over and over. She’d left me more times than I even remembered. But that time, that time it felt true.
“C’mon, Love. You don’t mean that. It’s just a rough go, we’ll be fine. I have a job now, and I’ll cut back on the beer, right? That’s what you want? We can get on, Love, just need a little while…”
It had been then I’d noticed the packed bags. Not just her big one, but the smaller ones next to it. The sight of them had made my blood run cold.
She’d left so many times.
She’d never packed a bag.
“It’s not a rough go, Jeremy. It’s a rough… it’s a rough life. And I can’t do it anymore.”
I went to reach for her, but I was swaying on my feet. Too much beer. Too much hurt.
I yelled. I don’t even know what I said. Something hurtful. Something cruel, probably.
Then there was the plaster on my hand.
In my hand.
Deep in the skin of my knuckles.
I flex them now, and the pain shoots up my arm. Caked blood cracks as the skin moves under it, the smell of copper mixing with the bleached-out smell of the room around me.
It hurts.
I hurt.
I hurt her.
“I’m leaving, Jeremy. You need help but not from me. Not anymore. I’m leaving.”
“Deb, you don’t want to leave…”
“I DO!” She looks at me, broken, then takes a deep breath and the certainty in her eyes undoes me.
“There’s someone else, Jer. I’m sorry. Please, let us go. Get help but let us go.”
Every part of me aches as I sit up. I hear my knees crack as I throw them over the side of the bench. Nausea pitches in my gut, and I double over, with my head between my knees. I keep my eyes open, staring at the socks on my feet, wondering abstractly where my shoes are, willing myself to focus on that. If I close them, I can still see her.
“Deb! Deb, don’t do this!”
She’s crying. Who made her cry? Did I make her cry? Rage blinds my vision as I see the kids in the backseat of the car. They’re staring at me with tears running down their face. I move towards them. I just want to hug them, hold them, tuck them in bed, here, with me.
“Stop, Jeremy. Just let us go.”
When she turns, I see the plaster in her hair. It matches my fist, and I see a flash of my hand as it punches through the drywall next to her tear-streaked face that’s frozen in fear.
I did this.
“Let us go, you asshole! Please, just let us go.”
I did this.
I stand frozen, eyes riveted to the white flakes in her tangled black hair, as she throws the last bag in and opens the driver’s door.
“When… When will you be back?”
My voice is cracked and broken, like the plaster, and just as irreparable.
She just shakes her head at me, and it causes a piece of the white rock to fall to her shoulder.
“Just let us go, Jeremy.”
I screw my eyes shut, covering my face with my hands. I hear a deep moan that sounds like it comes from a wounded animal somewhere. It’s not until I open my eyes again that I realize it came from me. My stomach is rolling inside me, attempting to banish any of the liquid poison that might be lingering inside. My mouth waters, and I swallow hard, breathing deeply to try to keep it down.
“Jeremy Finnamore?” a loud voice calls out, accompanied by the metallic clank of the locks.
I look down at the hard, cement bench I am lying on, the white toilet in the corner, the drain in the middle of the floor.
“Sir,” I croak out, sounding like a soldier, albeit a broken one, responding more out of instinct than understanding.
“On your feet. Let’s get you sorted out.”
Stepping into view is a man who looks smaller than the voice makes it sound, a pressed uniform on that makes him look as sterile as the holding cell I’ve found myself in.
I stand, swaying a little on my feet, my head a rush. The door opens, and the officer enters, his handcuffs in his grip, barely contained look of disgust on his face.
“Just let us go, Jeremy.”
The last piece of plaster falls from her hair and onto the ground behind her.
I did this.
1
Jordyn
Walking into the gym is the second hardest thing I’ve done today.
The first was walking into school. But I do that everyday, so it should hardly count anymore. I didn’t see them today, though I could have sworn by the way my skin prickled and the hairs on my neck stood up, they saw me.
Everyone sees me. Everyone knows.
I just went to my classes and my practicum. Thankfully, it’s not hockey season, and the little clinic I work at is filled mostly with soccer players, dancers, gymnasts. Still, I hear the whispers as I take my notes and wrap their ankles. I know that they know.
They think they know.
They don’t know me at all.
Once I’m done for the day, I mentally check it off from my countdown. My brain has made an exact number of times I need to see this building, see the front steps, see the scuffed floor, see the sights outside the doors when I make my way to the bus.
I take transit to the farthest station I can find, as I’ve been doing for weeks now. As though there’s safety out of the building, out of the neighbourhood, that grows with every kilometer between me and it. This time, I get off the bus a little early, though, and with a deep breath, I get through the doors of the gym.
Interestingly, no one notices. The pounding blood in my ear and thump of my heart is only heard by me. I walk to the front desk where a bored-looking girl with poker-straight black hair and acrylic nails sits in front of some unappetizing-looking nutritional shake, glances up.
“Hhhhhhh,” I go to speak, but it’s been the first words I’ve spoken in hours, and they don’t come out right. I clear my throat. She keeps looking bored.
“Hi. I signed up for the self-defence class. My name is Jordyn.” She looks at me a long moment before shifting her eyes to her computer and grabbing the mouse.
“The free class. Right. Ya, you can get changed in there,” she gestures to where it says “women” on a big white tiled wall, “and then go in there and wait for the instructor.” She points to a large room off to the side covered in gym mats. I try to give my best smile as a thank you, but ponytail doesn’t look up at me again.
I slink into the changing room, closing myself into a stall and taking deep breaths before I open my bag and shimmy around the tiny space, changing into some sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. Both about three sizes too big. I cinch the pants and throw the oversized jeans and sweater I was wearing back in the bag, closing it up and bringing it with me to the big mat room. I can’t afford to leave it all in there to get stolen. Not that I have anything worth stealing.
I don’t look in the mirror. I know my hair is an unruly mess of pink curls. I know my makeup has faded off, and the bags under my eyes can’t be hidden. None of that can be helped, and I’m not here to look nice. I just want to learn.
Just inside the room are two people. One is a woman, with short red hair and a pair of running tights. She’s talking to a man in a pair of basketball shorts and a maroon-coloured t-shirt. They turn to look at me as I enter, and I freeze.
“I thought this was an all-girls class.”
“It is. I’m just the instructor. My name is Twiz, what’s yours?” I realize I spoke aloud when the man answers me and approaches, his long legs taking giant steps I can’t get away from. He’s good looking, too good lookin
I want to run.
I want to run.
Why aren’t my legs moving?
He stops just short of me, his head cocks quizzingly to the side, and he freezes before squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. This time, when he talks, it’s quieter, gentler.
“Sorry, I got a little too excited to see a new face, I think.” He extends his hand slowly, keeping his body at more of a distance than would be considered normal for an introduction.
“I’m Twiz, and I teach the self-defence part of this class.”
I take his hand and shake it a long moment before my brain remembers I should say something, too. I don’t get anything out when my mouth opens, and I’m left closing it awkwardly. He doesn’t seem to be put off.
“It’s okay, we can get to the talking part later. How about you head over with Erika for some stretching. You can partner with her today; she’s usually my partner, but I can share.”
I open my mouth again but, in the end, just nod. Eventually, my feet move towards the redhead, and Twiz makes a sound of encouragement.
“That’s it, baby girl. We’re glad you’re here.”
Baby girl.
I can’t remember the last time someone used a term of endearment for me, and I thought I’d hate it, but I don’t. I kind of love it. It’s not sexual, the way he says it, or even condescending. It comes out of his mouth the same way a name would, and I feel less inclined to ever tell him my name just so I can hear it again.
From a distance, though. Because he’s still a little terrifying.
I get to the other side of the room and stand in front of the leggy redhead that Twiz called Erika. She immediately puts her hand out.
“Hey there, I’m Erika. I’m so glad you’re here, I usually have to be Twiz’s partner. It isn’t as fun as it looks.” She smiles conspiratorially, and I don’t believe it one bit. She loves being his partner. I’ll keep her secret, though. I shake her hand, but I still haven’t said anything. Now, it seems like it would be weird to start.
She doesn’t seem to mind, as she just flops down on the mat and stretches. Eventually, I sit next to her and mimic her movements. She knows what she’s doing, even the over-educated fitness brain that I have from too many university classes is impressed with her technique. She tells me about the classes they’ve had so far since I’m a little behind. She goes over the order of things and the moves they’ve already practiced that she’s willing to review with me, if I want. I just nod, and she seems happy with that.
We start with someone named Shawn who takes us through some cardio work that leaves me more out of breath than I’d like. Sleep hasn’t come easily lately, and neither have healthy meals. It’s obvious by how out of shape I seem even though I’ve been trying to get to the gym. Even though it’s only been half a year since I was in my best shape. I may have lost weight, but I didn’t do it to be healthy. I’m sure most of it was hard-earned muscle that gave itself away from too many nights on an empty stomach.
When it comes time for the self-defence portion, Twiz calls Erika up for a moment and demonstrates a simple standing evasion. He goes over a few different scenarios and ways that you could modify for angles and situation, and then tells us to practice. Erika walks over to me as he heads over to the other end of the classroom to help one of the pairs work it through.
“Okay, guess it’s you and me! Could you tell me your name? I feel like it won’t be as endearing if I call you baby girl, too…” Erika approaches, and I snort a little, almost even laugh.
“Jordyn,” I croak. She nods.
“Jordyn with the pink hair. I like it. Do you want to be the attacker or the attacked here?”
We go through the motions a few times, and soon Erika shows me some of the moves they learned before this. It’s not very hard, and surprisingly, none of it is impossible for me, even with the eight to ten inches I would guess Erika has on my five foot nothing. By the time Twiz makes it over to us, the class is almost over, and I’m almost caught up.
“Looking good, baby girl; you’re a natural for this,” he says, nodding at my last toss of Erika from her side approach.
“Her name is Jordyn,” Erika says from the floor, and he grins.
“Jordyn. Nice. Well, great job, Jordyn. I was going to catch you up, but it looks like Erika’s done that for me! Any questions?”
I shake my head a little too hard, feeling the mess of pink shift back and forth with the motion. I must look ridiculous, but I must remind myself I’m not here for that. I’m here to learn self-defence.
“Good. That’s good.” He doesn’t move however, and Erika comes up to squeeze his tattooed forearm before heading to the changing room.
“This your bag, Jordyn?” she asks, probably to stop me from the obvious open mouth staring I’m doing at what is clearly her boyfriend, or at least the guy she wants to be.
“Yes.” It comes out too loud. Twiz turns and heads to the changing room and for some reason, I panic that he’s leaving. I haven’t said anything to him yet.
“Umm…” I get out, and he stops and turns to me, his head cocked again with a curious look. I realize that only one of his eyes is blue. The other is brown. I take a deep breath.
“Could you actually just call me that other name still?” He scrunches his face a second and then it seems to hit him.
“Well, of course, baby girl. Have a great week. I’ll see you next Friday.”
My cheeks turn crimson as I realize what a fool I just made of myself. I couldn’t get the right words out. There was something about having him use the nickname instead of my name that seemed safer, but now that it’s out of my mouth, I realize I just asked a man to call me baby girl. He’s never going to talk to me again. Or worse… Oh God, what if he thinks I like him? Then he might come closer next time. I need him and his good-looking face and strong arms to stay far, far away.
I grab my bag and head to the changing room. I hide in the stall until I hear the sounds fade, and I know everyone is gone. Opening the door slowly, I check to be sure I’m alone, then race to the shower. My bag will get a little wet, but that’s okay. I let myself enjoy the hot water as long as I can before I put all the clothes back on. Jeans, a t-shirt, a giant hoodie.
I take my time leaving the mostly deserted gym on the late Friday night, before heading out to the brisk spring air.
I have a schedule in my head to keep my anxiety at bay. I repeat it over and over, so I know what I’m going to do, and it keeps my head occupied. The library is open for another hour, and if I make it there in time, I can get a book to read. A quick bite to eat at the sub shop where I can get two for one and save the second for tomorrow morning. Then I’ll ride the bus until service ends, choosing a new bus shelter for a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow.
This wasn’t how I imagined twenty-three would end, but I zip up my giant sweater and head out.
2
Jeremy
“Hey Jer,” I’ve barely turned around from getting a Keiths for some teenager at the end of the bar when I hear Twiz call my name. I pull his whiskey and Coke before I even turn around.
“Twiz. You here on your own?” I pass the drink and give him a quick glance as I type orders on the screen in front of me. I never realized owning a bar would involve so much fucking typing, or I never would have taken the job.
“I was. Mike’s on his way, and I see Tav in his usual spot…” He moves before he finishes the sentence, which is fine with me. I’ve already turned around to another order on the bar. It’s another busy Friday night, which is good for business but hell on my nerves.
