I Got Better - Morgan Wallen

Chapter 1 - fresh start

Stevie knew she was going to leave him three minutes after he hit her.

Not because it was the first time.

Because it wasn't.

That was the worst part. Not the sharp crack of pain across her cheek. Not the way her head had snapped sideways hard enough to make her vision spark for half a second. Not even the taste of blood where the inside of her mouth had caught against her teeth.

It was the fact that for one terrible, breathless moment after it happened, she had still been standing there trying to figure out how to make him less angry.

The kitchen light above the stove buzzed softly, throwing a pale yellow glow over the room. The pasta she'd been making sat half-finished on the counter. A jar of sauce had tipped over during the argument, red leaking slowly across the laminate and dripping onto the floor in lazy, thick lines. The smell of garlic and tomato hung in the air, ordinary and warm and horribly wrong for a moment like this.

Dylan stood across from her, chest rising hard, hand still flexed at his side like it hurt him more than it had hurt her.

His eyes were already changing.

That was the thing Stevie had come to know best over the last five years — how fast he could become somebody else and then become the version of himself he wanted her to forgive.

The rage had gone first.

Now there was shock.
Then frustration.
Then that look she hated most of all — the one that said look what you made me do.

"Stevie." His voice softened instantly, as if gentleness could erase the sound that still rang in her ears. "Baby—"

She stepped back before she even thought about it.

The movement was small. Barely anything.

But Dylan noticed.

His face hardened for a split second before smoothing over again.

"Don't," she whispered.

The word came out thin, frayed at the edges.

He held up both hands, like he was the calm one now. Like he was the safe one in the room.

"I didn't mean to do that."

A lie so old it had grooves worn into it.

Stevie pressed trembling fingers to her cheek. It was already heating beneath her skin, throbbing in time with her pulse. She could feel the shape of what had happened beginning to bloom there. In a few hours it would darken. By morning it would be impossible to hide without makeup and strategic hair and careful angles.

Dylan took one cautious step toward her.

"Stevie, come on. Look at me."

She didn't.

Because if she looked at him, he would start rewriting it. He always did. With that low, even voice. With those eyes that made people trust him. With that unbearable patience he only seemed to have when he was putting the pieces back together enough to break them again later.

"You know I'm under a lot of pressure right now," he said. "You know that."

Her hand dropped from her face.

There it was.

Not an apology.
An explanation.
A reason.
A way to carry the blame back to her side of the room.

Something in Stevie went still.

Five years.

Five years of him choosing her clothes under the guise of complimenting her. Five years of him taking over her bank account "to help with budgeting." Five years of slowly making himself the center of every choice until she didn't know where his wants ended and hers began. Five years of giving up pieces of herself so gradually she didn't notice she was disappearing until there was barely enough left to recognize.