Chapter 2
The social worker came back after Ryan’s footsteps faded from the hall.
She didn’t ask me to repeat what had happened. That was the first thing I noticed. She sat in the plastic chair beside the gurney, keeping her hands folded in her lap, and looked at me instead of at the chart.
“I can help you make a private discharge plan,” she said. “You decide who receives information about you. That includes your husband.”
My thumb rested against the edge of my phone. Ryan’s message still glowed on the screen.
Stop making yourself into a victim.
“I don’t want him in here,” I said.
“Then he doesn’t come in here.”
“He’ll say he has a right to know where I am.”
“He may say that.” Her voice stayed even. “It doesn’t change your right to choose.”
The words landed slowly. I had spent so long measuring every decision by Ryan’s reaction that choosing something without preparing for his anger felt almost reckless.
She helped me confirm that the hospital would not release information about my room or condition to anyone without my permission. She wrote down the number for a local victim-support nonprofit and explained that I could call later, from somewhere private, if I wanted help with safety planning or referrals. She gave me a folder containing my discharge instructions and the medical documentation started that night.
I slid the papers into my bag beneath my phone.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” she asked.
I looked toward the curtained entrance. “Not with him.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
The question should have embarrassed me. Instead, it made the empty space around me visible.
“I have a friend,” I said. “Natalie.”
“Can you call her?”
My hand shook so hard that I pressed the wrong name twice before finding her number. Natalie answered on the second ring.
“Claire?”
I closed my good eye for a moment. “I’m at the hospital.”
There was a pause, not long, but long enough for me to hear the change in her breathing.
“What happened?”
“Madison hurt me.” Saying it made my throat tighten. “Ryan was there. I need you to come get me.”
“I’m coming.”
“Don’t contact Ryan.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t tell anyone where I am.”
“I won’t, Claire.”
The certainty in her voice nearly undid me. I looked down at my jeans, at the faint crease where my knees had been pressed together on the gurney.
“I don’t want to talk about it in the parking lot,” I said.
“Then we won’t.”
The social worker nodded once, as if Natalie had passed a test she didn’t know she was taking.
By the time I was cleared to leave, the fluorescent lights had made everything look drained of color. A nurse brought me a wheelchair, but I stood instead. My legs felt unsteady, and I held the folder against my ribs like it could keep the night from opening back up.
Ryan was waiting beyond the treatment area.
He stood near the vending machines in his polo shirt and khakis, his shoulders tight, his phone in one hand. When he saw me, his expression shifted from irritation to something that looked almost like alarm.
“Claire,” he said.
I stopped beside the exit. The social worker remained several feet behind me, close enough to hear but not crowding me.
Ryan took one step forward.
I lifted my hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped. His jaw worked once.
“I just want to talk.”
“I’m leaving.”
“With who?”
“That’s not your decision.”
His eyes flicked to the folder, then to the phone in my hand. “You’re really going to do this? Walk out and make me look like—”
I turned toward the sliding doors before he finished.
Outside, the air was colder than I expected. The parking lot shone under the lamps, each puddle holding a blurred reflection of the hospital sign. Natalie’s car waited near the curb with its hazard lights blinking.
She got out but didn’t rush toward me. She stood beside the driver’s door and let me cross the distance myself.
“Passenger side?” she asked.
I nodded.
She opened the door and moved away so I could get in without being touched. Once I was seated, she placed my bag on the floor and waited until I pulled the seat belt across my chest.
Only then did she close the door.
Through the windshield, Ryan appeared at the hospital entrance. He didn’t come after us. He stood beneath the bright lobby lights, watching.
My phone vibrated.
Then again.
Then three times in a row.
I didn’t look immediately. Natalie started the car, but she didn’t pull out.
“You can turn it off,” she said.
“I need to keep the messages.”
“Then keep them.”
That answer steadied me more than comfort would have.
I opened the screen. Ryan had sent four messages.
Please come back.
We need to handle this privately.
Your friend doesn’t understand our family.
Call me now.
A fifth appeared while I was reading.
I’m still your husband.
I took a screenshot of each one and saved them in a separate folder. My fingers moved carefully, one action at a time. Screenshot. Save. Lock the phone.
Natalie glanced at me, then faced the windshield.
“Where should I drive?”
I looked back at the hospital doors. Ryan was no longer there.
“Somewhere he doesn’t know,” I said.
She put the car in gear.
May you like
Neither of us spoke as we left the parking lot. I kept the medical folder under my hand, my phone beside it, and my wedding ring closed in my palm. By the time the hospital disappeared behind us, Ryan knew I had gone.
He just didn’t know where.
