“I’ll be in touch.” I avoid his eyes and step on the gas, forcing him to step back from the truck. I don’t even look in the rearview mirror as I pull away.
I hit the road, grateful for the one thing my dad gave me besides my blue eyes that earned me my middle name—my truck. It’s small, only two seats, but it has four-wheel-drive and even though it’s the color of baby shit—the dealership calls it champagne—it’s been the most reliable thing in my life.
The highway stretches out before me, and talk radio blares static through my speakers. I punch off the obnoxious noise and force myself to sit in my own silence.
Stupid, stupid, Shyann.
Five years of college for what? I worked my butt off to get where I was, got handed the opportunity that would catapult my career, and killed my chances in a few seconds of live newsfeed. Now there isn’t a broadcast company in this country that will touch me. And I’m broke.
I know better than to let my personal feelings interfere with my work. As much as I regret what I did to end my short career, I can’t say I’d do anything differently. There’s no way I could exploit that young girl’s suffering.
The girl’s mother had a heart defect and the severe beating put too much stress on her heart and killed her. Not a painless death, I’m sure, but at least it was quick.
Unlike my momma’s.
No, she had to suffer for over two years, her body giving up at an agonizing pace, leaving her mind for last so she’d be completely aware of how she was dying. The memories slice through my mind’s eye, my dad holding her limp body, roaring his anger at God.
It was sitting in that cold church, watching every person in our town filter past me with words they hoped would ease my pain. That was when I decided I’d get out of Payson the second I graduated and never go back. I was angry, starving for a fight. Desperate to have my dad back rather than the empty man with the dead eyes who she left us with. He hated that I was leaving, never understood my need to run, to do all the things I promised my momma I’d do. We fought. Hard. Unforgivable words were exchanged, and we haven’t managed to patch our relationship since.
Now I’m crawling back to beg for mercy, the prodigal child, broke, jobless, and with debt hanging off me like dead weight. If there’s one thing I know for sure, Nash Jennings will never let me live this down.
He might be a proud man, but I’m just as proud. I’ll need time to save money, figure out my options, and the second I do I’m out of there. Yeah, this is my best option.
I’m meant for big things. This is simply a speed bump.
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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
When I published my first book I didn’t intend to write more than the one. If I could sell six books to six people I didn’t know I considered myself a success. But that first book sold well over six copies and I knew I couldn’t stop there.
I was bitten by the writing bug and have poured my soul into every novel I’ve penned since. Some of my books have become USA Today Bestsellers, New York Times Bestsellers, and Fighting to Forgive won a RONE Award. I couldn’t be more proud of where my writing has taken me.
I live in Phoenix with my husband and two daughters where I’m lucky to be able to do something I love and still be home to juggle carpool, field trips, and fifth-grade homework.
When I’m not writing, reading, or spending time with my family I can be found on any of the local mountain trails hiking, or at the gym when the desert temps become unbearable. I love being outside, beach vacations, and spending time with friends.
THE FIGHTING SERIES
Fighting for Flight
Fighting to Forgive
Fighting to Forget
Fighting the Fall
A Father’s Fight
Fighting for Forever
Fighting Fate
SPLIT
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A Perfectly Split Christmas: A Split Short Story Page 4
