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1Anywhere But Here

Myka

I’m sitting in my car, chewing on my thumbnail, furiously fighting back tears. I’m in my driveway—or, rather, whatused to bemy driveway. Whatused to bemy home. The house I spent the past six years turning into a home, all by myself.

It wasn’t large, and when we bought it, it wasn’t very nice, either. Kinda ramshackle, if I’m being honest. But back then, I was eighteen and my husband twenty-two. He wasn’t an attorney then, only a lowly paralegal working his way through his law degree. It was…a fixer-upper back then, and that’s putting it nicely.

A one-story ranch, it had been stuck in the seventies. I’d seen the beauty in the bones of it, though, trained to do so by my father, who is a home builder, renovator, and real estate agent. I’d seen what it could be, and it was all Darren and I could afford, anyway. I’d painted every single wall. I’d personally ripped out and put in all new flooring—assisted by Dad and PopPop and my two brothers, Angus and Jordan. They’d also helped me knock out the wall between the kitchen and living room and put up a load-bearing beam. We’d redone the whole kitchen for less than cost, since I had a family of professional builders helping me on the weekends.

Short of it is, I’d made itmyhome. Every photo and piece of art was hung by me. Every decoration. Every drawer and cabinet pull, every light fixture. It’smineand I’m darned proud of it.

And I’m about to drive away from it forever.

In the back of my ten-year-old Wrangler I have four suitcases; a duffel with my makeup and hair stuff; a backpack containing my laptop and various electronics chargers; my yearly planner; my well-worn, floppy, red-leather Bible with my name engraved on the front; and on the seat next to me, the Coach purse I’d scored at a yard sale.

All of my possessions.

In my purse are the divorce papers, signed, sealed, and delivered, adjudicated, and 100% final. With it, my name change documentation, returning my last name to Donovan, rather than keeping my cheating, scumbag, lower-than-dirtex-husband’s stupid garbage last name—Milch.

Yes, for six years, my name was Myka Milch—pronounced Mike-ah Milk. Yeah. For real.

Now, I’m back to being Myka Donovan again.

There’s that, at least.

But still. Stupid, garbage, lower-than-dirt, cheating ex-husband aside, I don’t want to leave my home.

My phone rings. Through the hot haze of tears, I answer it without looking at the caller ID. “H-hello.”

“Mike.” My sister, Ana. “I felt a disturbance in the Force, so I called you. What’s up, baby girl?”

I sniffle. “I can’t do it, Ana.”

I don’t have to tell her what. “Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. I’ve been sitting here in my car in the driveway for ten minutes. I can’t do it, I just can’t. It’smyhome, not his. He didn’t do a darn thing to help. I did it all—with ya’ll’s help.”

“Myka, honey.” Her voice is quiet—she’s my eldest sister, and like a second mom to me; not that I need a second mom, since my first and real mom is the best mom ever; Ana is just a natural-born caretaker like that. “You have to. Work with me, okay?”

“Okay.” I sniffled.

“Step one, put the car in reverse.”

I inhale deeply, hold it, and do as I’m told—clunk, the shifter hits the R. “Okay.”

“Check for cars, both ways, and then just back out. Don’t think. Just do it.”

I shake my head. “Can’t.”

“Open your eyes, Mike.”

“I’m crying too hard. I can’t see a thing.”

A pause. “Hecheatedon you, Myka.” Her voice is hard. “Hedoesn’tcarethat you had three miscarriages and a stillbirth in four years. Hedoesn’tcarethat you were so depressed you could barely get out of bed for weeks at a time.”

I know what she’s doing, and it’s working.

She’s not done. “You saved yourself for him. You left college for him. You gave him a home. And what did he do? He cheated on you, divorced you, and took the house.”