Chapter 3: Orphaned Hearts and Foolish Choices

At first, the thrill was real—I clung to him every night, but after a while, I couldn’t keep up.

The first few months were a blur of late nights and whispered promises. But the fire that burned so hot at first started to scorch me, leaving nothing but ashes.

But a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old guy is unstoppable; aside from a few days each month when he’d back off, he never let up. My legs shook every time I got out of bed—like I’d end up in the lake with my old man.

There were mornings I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d make it through another day. Sometimes I’d laugh about it with the girls at the laundromat, but mostly, I just felt tired.

He still acted like a fallen prince. Wanted silk shirts, steak dinners, and spent every dime I’d saved.

No matter how hard I worked, he always found a way to spend faster. He’d strut around in thrift-store silk, acting like he belonged at The Ritz, and I’d just shake my head, wondering what I ever saw in him.

When I asked him to fish with me, he’d fake a headache or a sore foot—just wanted to lounge around and be fed.

He’d groan and clutch his side, but as soon as I left, I’d catch him shooting hoops with the neighborhood kids or flirting with the waitress at the diner. It was almost impressive, the way he avoided honest work.

I fished by day, fought with him by night.

Our arguments were legendary—neighbors would turn up their TVs just to drown us out. But I kept coming back, because sometimes love is just another kind of stubbornness.

After three years, he looked healthy and sharp, while I was thin, pale, and in rags—and starting to regret it.

I’d catch my reflection in the window and barely recognize myself. Meanwhile, Garrett just seemed to glow brighter, like he was feeding off my exhaustion.

Especially lately, when he kept whining for that Southern Belle wine.

Every time I walked in the door, he’d ask about it, voice all sweet and pleading. I’d grit my teeth and promise, even as I counted pennies in my pocket.

I got up before dawn to fish for the morning market, washed laundry for others at noon, fished again in the afternoon, delivered to the restaurant before the dinner rush, then did another job before curfew, and finally staggered home.

There were days I’d close my eyes and see nothing but water and soap suds. My hands were raw, my feet blistered, but I kept moving, because stopping wasn’t an option.

Honestly, what I made in a week was less than what he wasted in a day. Sometimes I wondered if I should just buy myself a new, more obedient husband.

Sometimes I’d daydream about running away, starting fresh somewhere no one knew my name. Maybe I’d find a man who’d carry his own weight—or at least carry me, once in a while.

I kept hearing that men in Savannah are gentle and considerate, know how to treat a woman, and the place is rich with fish and rice—perfect for fishing.

The way folks talked about it, Savannah sounded like heaven. Gentlemen in pressed shirts, fresh-caught catfish on every table, and no one asking about your past. I started to believe it might be true.

I spent a hundred bucks on a ticket south to Savannah—leaving in a week. It felt like the first real step.

The ticket felt like a promise—a way out. I tucked it into my bra, close to my heart, and tried not to think about what I was leaving behind.

It was the first time I’d spent that much on myself, and figuring if I didn’t, that drama king would just blow it anyway, I didn’t feel too bad.

I let myself feel a little proud, even as guilt nipped at my heels. For once, I was doing something for me, not for anyone else.

On the way back, I saw her—a woman holding a photo, eyes searching the crowd. Looking for her husband, missing three years.

She stood near the bus stop, raincoat buttoned tight, eyes red-rimmed. The photo was faded, but the face was unmistakable—Garrett, with that same cocky grin. My stomach dropped.

The man in the picture looked just like Garrett.

I glanced away, heart thudding. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? But I kept walking, telling myself it wasn’t my problem anymore.

Garrett got home before me, changed into the plain clothes he only wore around me, ditching the Rolex and dress shirt.

He always did that, you know—shedding his fancy skin like a snake. Slipping back into the role of my broke, charming husband. It was almost impressive, the way he could be two people at once.

When I got home, he was bringing two dishes from the kitchen to the table, calling me to eat.

He’d set the table with mismatched plates, humming off-key. He looked proud, like he’d just won a medal. “Babe, you’ve worked hard. I made you two dishes tonight.”

After rinsing the plates and handing me a fork, he stood up to serve me food.

He made a show of it, piling my plate high. “Eat up, babe, you’ve gotten so skinny lately.”

Never mind that he always claimed real men never cooked.

He’d said it a hundred times, chest puffed out, but here he was, apron tied crooked, trying to play the part.

There wasn’t even a head of lettuce in the house. How the hell did he make two dishes—one with meat, one with veggies?

I eyed the food suspiciously, poking at it with my fork. The colors were too bright, the smell too familiar—like something I’d delivered to the bistro earlier.