Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

Upstairs, Sal inspects two guest bedrooms and an office, finally settling inside the spacious master bedroom. The room’s clean and tidy, smelling of cedar and campfire, with a king-sized bed and a dresser. White linens, blush throw pillows, a large window that overlooks the backyard. The room looks comfortable and cozy. Sal longs for a nap on the bed. For unfettered sleep.

Moving to the dresser, Sal dances fingers across a framed wedding photo showing her and Luke on a beach, their eyes locked so intently on each other it’s clear their lips are next.

Breaking his watchful silence, Luke volunteers, “We got married in San Diego. Your hometown.” He smiles. “Fifty people. Fireworks.”

Sal stares at the photo, at the ocean. “I loved the water.”

Luke’s voice falls to a hush. “That’s right, darlin’. You did.”

How she craves a memory from that day. A slip of the ring, a taste of the cake—chocolate or vanilla—even the feel of Luke’s kiss, his mouth on hers.

Sal wonders if she stood on tiptoes to kiss him or if he came down to her level, a warm hand pressed on the small of her back.

Cheeks flushing, she steals a look at Luke as he arranges her luggage. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him. She can see he’s a good man. Intense. Protective. Handsome.

But what about their marriage? Were they good? As a couple? She’s been gone nine months. Sal thinks about that phone call she overheard on the bus. What if Luke had gotten over her death, was ready to live again, and now she’s back, torpedoing his brand-new life? He hasn’t moved to touch her, and Sal isn’t sure that’s what she even wants, but . . .

What if that’s the reason he’s kept his distance? Because he’s moved on with someone else.

With a sigh, Sal opens the closet. Her gaze swivels around the contents: clothes, baskets, buttercup-yellow tennis shoes. She looks up at Luke curiously.

He steps around the bed and leans back against the dresser. “You were a runner.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Like exercise?”

He laughs, the first honest laugh she’s heard from him, and Sal’s heart speeds up. He has a nice laugh. One that’s easygoing and happy, one that has his deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I got you some things in case what’s in the closet doesn’t fit you.” Luke flips open the lid of the suitcase. He brings out of it a few changes of clothes—T-shirts, jeans, leggings, silk pajamas. Last, but not least, is a cell phone.

Sal stares up at him. “You got me a phone?” After a life with Roy, the gesture screams freedom. Kindness, too.

“I did.” Luke shows her how to call up the screen. “I plugged in the numbers you used the most. I’m number two, right behind the pizza place.”

Sal laughs.

Damn. He’s funny too. She’s a goner.

She smiles. “Thank you.” As she takes the phone from his hand, they brush fingertips, and Sal shivers. Every nerve ending is lit and electric, leaping to life at Luke’s touch, unspooling something in her that’s been dormant far too long.

That’s when the memory hits like an icy blast. A similar phone in her hand, the glow of light on her face, and a text, a cruel text that said, He doesn’t love you.

The phone slips from her hand.

Sal goes dizzy at the memory, and her knees nearly buckle, but Luke shoots an arm out to catch her.

The world blurs as he holds her up, helps her sit at the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of Sal, wrapping a large palm around her knee.

She leans back against the headboard, closing her eyes, disoriented, trying to capture the memory.

“You’re exhausted.” Luke reaches out, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. Sal can’t help it; she leans into his warm touch, his gentle hand.

But before she can get too comfortable, he’s drawing away. “How about you shower and I’ll fix some dinner?”

“That sounds great.”

Luke stands, hesitates before he exits. As if he hates to leave her. “You’ll be okay?”

Sal’s lips thin. She’s already sick of the are-you-okay, of the watchful and worried eyes.

She lets out a breath and forces a smile. “I’ll be okay, Luke.”

Sure, her mind is a fucking tilt-a-whirl. Overcome by everything and everyone. But she’s not afraid. She’s spent too long in the dark. She wants back everything she can’t remember. She wants the light to shine on in.

Inside the bathroom, Sal starts a shower in the clawfoot tub. She’s relieved at the silence. At finally being away from prying eyes, from worried glances. The photographers made her jumpy, and as much as she wants to be all ballsy bravado, she’s crawling out of her skin.

As she lets the old pipes heat up, Sal goes to the vanity and unpacks the meager belongings she’s been sent home with. A variety of pill bottles. Nutritional supplements and migraine meds.

Slowly, Sal undresses. It feels as if her body has been to the impound lot and back. She’s sore and stiff and, frankly, fucking exhausted. She wants nothing more than a nice hot shower and a plush bed. She’s even ready to skip dinner, she’s so tired. Although that’s probably a bad idea.

Sal inspects her bony form in the mirror. She runs shaky hands over jutting hip bones, bony ribs, a hollow stomach. She knows she’s too thin; it’ll take ages for the clothes in her closet to fit her again. Her lips kick up at the corners. Or at the very least a few hearty breakfasts.

Sal angles her body, thinking of the woman she saw beaming back at her in those wall photos. Someone with curves, with a smile for days, with eyes that still sparkled. Her nipples tighten at the draft of chilly air, her pale breasts swaying—the only part of her body still packing some weight.

What Sal sees next in the mirror makes her breath catch. It always has. The entire left side of her torso war-ravaged by ripples of ugly scar tissue. She’s always wondered where she got the scars on her body. And now she knows. A plane crash.

She frowns at her reflection. She wonders what Luke sees when he looks at her. His wife or a hot mess of a woman.

When the shower’s so hot it’s steaming, Sal steps inside, letting out a little moan of satisfaction. Christ, it feels good. She relishes the warmth, the water cutting hard against her skin like a Brillo pad, ready to scrub her raw, ready to erase her past with Roy.

Sal would give anything to delete every single memory of Roy and replace them with her lost memories of Luke.

She wonders if she was the type who showered or bathed. Maybe she took a bath alone and a shower with Luke? Soaping up, sudsing, those lean, chiseled hands holding her close. Making her—

Covering her face, Sal lets out a laugh. One thing’s for certain—at least she’s been left with her imagination intact. Hell, she doesn’t even know if Luke’s hers anymore.

Still, she can’t help smiling at her mind-in-the-gutter thought. Preoccupied with her daydream, Sal dips to pick up a washrag, and when she rises, she cracks her head on the porcelain soap holder.

“Shit,” she swears, watching the floor beneath her dip and bob. Small splotches of red begin to appear between her toes. She touches her temple and it comes away bloody. As black spots pepper her vision, Sal reaches out to grab onto the filmy shower curtain.

Sit, Sal, sit. Before you fall over . . .

Slowly, she lowers herself to the bottom of the tub, tucking knees to her chest.

Bowing her face into her knees, Sal grips the side of her aching head, begging for Roy, for the dizzy spells, for her old, awful life to be washed away forever.