Chapter 8 #3
She was jumpy from being alone for the past hour.
And Tom used to grab her roughly when she didn’t move fast enough.
A hand on her shoulder could turn into a grip that left bruises.
It hadn’t descended into full-scale violence but she had been so afraid that it was only a matter of time.
After he had driven drunk with Rosie in the car, she had known it was no longer about her.
It was about Rosie and Eli. Keeping them safe.
But Ethan’s touch had been gentle. When she’d flinched, he’d immediately pulled back. It was so unfair of her to make him feel bad when he was doing so much for them.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, the truck’s heater turning the cab warm and close. The afternoon light was fading to evening, painting the mountains in shades of purple and gold.
Lydia breathed.
She was safe.
The truck was warm, and she was with a man who’d dropped everything to come get her. He had been worried. He had pulled back the instant she’d shown discomfort.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “For coming to get me. And for being patient enough to explain about the caring versus control thing. I needed to hear that.”
“I should have been clearer from the start,” Ethan said, his eyes on the road.
“I’m not trying to monitor you or tell you what to do.
” He paused. “In Kandahar, we lost people because they went out alone. They didn’t tell anyone where they’d be.
I understand this isn’t a war zone, but Tom is dangerous, Lydia.
What he did was attempted murder. I need you to take that seriously. ”
“I do take it seriously.” Lydia watched the trees blur past her window. “But I also can’t live in fear. I can’t let him take any more from me than he already has. It’s hard to find some balance between being careful and being paralyzed.”
“I get that.” Ethan glanced at her. “How about this? You don’t have to tell me everywhere you go, but when you’re going somewhere isolated, somewhere he might corner you alone?
Let me know. Just so someone knows where you are if something goes wrong.
Or let me go with you. I’m not worried about the grocery store or errands in town.
But out here … my pulse has been racing since I got your call. ”
It was more than reasonable. It was the kind of compromise that recognized her autonomy while acknowledging the real danger she faced.
“I can do that,” Lydia said.
They drove the rest of the way in a more comfortable silence, and Lydia found herself relaxing into the warm truck cab. The twenty-odd minutes felt safe in a way that surprised her. Like a bubble of protection against the world outside.
Ethan’s hands on the wheel made her feel at rest.
He cared. Not because he wanted to own her or control her, but because he saw her as someone worth protecting.
When was the last time anyone had made her feel like that?
Mrs. Figgs’s house appeared around the corner, warmly lit against the gathering dusk. Eli and Rosie came running out before Ethan had even parked, their faces bright with excitement.
“Mommy! We made cookies! And Mrs. Figgs taught me how to crochet!” Rosie launched herself at Lydia the moment she opened the truck door.
“I can see that, baby.” Lydia hugged her daughter close, breathing in the scent of sugar and vanilla that clung to her hair.
Eli was more subdued, but his eyes were bright as he hugged her waist. “The insurance man came?”
“He did. Everything’s going to be okay.” She ruffled his hair. “We’ll talk about it at dinner.”
Ethan was already unloading boxes from the truck bed, carrying them toward the house with Mrs. Figgs offering unnecessary help and commentary. He treated the older woman with respect, patient and kind in his responses, even as she fussed over him like he was her own grandson.
This is what a good man looks like.
Nothing like Tom.
Ethan left for a bit, coming back with grocery bags. Dinner that night was simple. Spaghetti with store-bought sauce, garlic bread, a salad Eli helped make. But Ethan had set the table with actual placemats and napkins, had lit candles, had put on soft music in the background.
“What’s all this?” Lydia asked, pausing in the kitchen doorway.
“Celebration,” Ethan said, pulling something from the refrigerator. “Your insurance claim is moving forward. That’s worth celebrating.”
He set a bottle on the table, and Lydia’s breath caught.
Grape juice. Sparkling grape juice in a wine bottle, fancy enough to look special but completely alcohol-free.
The gesture nearly undid her. He’d remembered. About Tom’s drinking, about how alcohol had poisoned her marriage, about how she might not want wine at her celebration dinner.
“Is that fancy juice?” Rosie asked, bouncing in her chair.
“The fanciest,” Ethan said solemnly. “Only for special occasions.”
He poured it into actual wine glasses, plastic ones for the kids, real ones for the adults. He raised his glass. “To fresh starts,” he said, looking directly at Lydia. “And to being brave enough to take them.”
Lydia’s eyes burned as she touched her glass to his. “To fresh starts.”
They drank sparkling grape juice and ate spaghetti and talked about everything and nothing.
Rosie told a rambling story about Mrs. Figgs’s cat.
Eli asked Ethan about the ambulance. Lydia sat at the table in a house that wasn’t hers, with kids who were giggling and relaxed, and a man who’d brought grape juice instead of wine because he cared about her past.
For the first time since the fire, maybe for the first time in years, she felt something that could be called peace.
The insurance money would come through because, thankfully, her great aunt had prepaid the policy for the year.
Eventually she would find a place of her own.
But right now, in this moment, with candlelight flickering on the walls and Ethan’s smile warm across the table, Lydia let herself imagine what it might be like if she didn’t have to leave.
If this quiet, steady, grape-juice kind of care could be hers to keep.
She raised her glass again, silently toasting the possibility of maybe, someday, something more.