17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Abby
I ’d almost forgotten about the flowers Dallas had waiting for me when we got home from the park two nights ago. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or if he knew, but he didn’t get me roses. I’m immensely grateful for that. The pink peonies have fully opened now. They’re gorgeous. But something has been festering in the back of my mind like pressing on an old bruise, and I couldn’t place it until a few minutes ago.
All those roses Sam had gotten me after our big fights always ended up strewn across the room, glass vases with them. I can only think of one time when the flowers made it to the point of wilting, and I got to throw them away and put the vase in the cupboard like a normal person. Something that should be such a simple, cute gesture has turned into a mind fuck. I pull one out of the white, hourglass vase, running my fingertips across the soft petals before smelling it. The scent fills my nose with a delightful aroma. I’ve never had a favorite flower, but I could see myself choosing peonies if I were ever asked.
I’m not sure where the instinct comes from, but I start plucking the petals off one by one. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. The last petal makes my heart jump. He loves me. It’s the opposite result I got from the rose I picked apart with Sam. I need this win today.
Dallas walks out of the bathroom after his shower, stuffing his arms through his navy blue button-down shirt. He looks curiously at the petals covering the counter. “What are we doing with the petals?”
“Oh, um, sorry. I’ll clean it up.” I frantically get up and pull the garbage out from the cabinet under the sink.
“Woah, you’re okay. I was just curious.”
I slow myself down. “Right. Sorry.”
“I’m still curious what you were doing.” He leans his elbows on the counter once his shirt is fully buttoned and he’s folded the collar down. he picks up a petal and smells it.
I sweep the petals into the garbage with my forearm, letting Dallas toss the one he picked up in as well and return it to its place under the sink. “I uh … it’s stupid.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid. I promise not to laugh.”
I shoot him a leery eye but he holds his fist out to me, pinky finger extended just as he had a couple nights ago. I hesitate another moment before wrapping my pinky around his. “You know that thing people do where they say ‘He loves me. He loves me not?’” He nods, waiting for me to continue. “Well, that’s what I was doing.” I avert my eyes, not wanting to see if he’s holding back laughter.
“And? What were the results? Do I love you or not? Because if it ended in anything other than ‘He loves me,’ we’re playing again until we find one that gives us that answer.”
I look up, and the small joke makes me smile. “It did.” My heart warms at his almost admission of love, but it scares me all the same.
"Good." Our eyes are glued to each other for a minute before Dallas pushes off the counter and looks at the clock. “Are you ready?”
That’s a loaded question. “Not at all.”
I’ve been ready for almost two hours. I was trying to distract myself. I fixed my hair twice, redrew my eyeliner four times, and changed outfits probably close to ten times only to end up putting on the first outfit again. When I didn’t have any more getting ready to do, I forced myself to sit down and write. What? I didn’t know. But I got some words on the page before I could process what I was writing. I didn’t let myself reread it.
Waking up this morning brought with it a scary realization that I might see Sam for the first time since he sent me to the hospital—as long as he shows up—and as long as I can get myself to join Trisha in the courtroom. I’ve been ignoring the idea since Trisha gave us the first date for court. I haven’t let myself think about it, consider the thought that I’d be seeing him. And now, knowing just how soon that is, I’m trying to force the thought down, so I don’t lose control of my mind, my body. I can’t have a panic attack right now. It would derail the wall I’ve fought so hard to build. I refuse to ruin that.
I round the counter, smooth out my black slacks, and re-tuck my white shirt into the back where it came loose. I slip on the black blazer I borrowed from Rose. I hadn’t realized how close in size we were until Dallas suggested it when I was panicking about not having anything to wear. Rose had given me a few options of colors but the only color that seems fitting for the situation is black, like a funeral.
The steps up to the courthouse seem so much longer today than they have every other time I’ve been here. They take more energy to scale than the last time. I’m not out of breath, but I can’t seem to breathe regularly.
Trisha is having us meet early in a conference room to discuss a few things, and it’ll give me some time to relax before we go in. Her words. Not mine. Relaxing seems like a foreign concept with today’s events.
This is a smaller conference room than any we’ve been in before, and it feels a bit suffocating to sit here and wait. Dallas sits next to me, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. I can’t tell if he’s just that chill about everything or if he might be trying to distract himself as well. If it’s the latter, I won’t be the one to pull his attention away.
I stare at the wall ahead while we wait for Trisha to arrive. A large abstract painting hangs above a skinny table placed against the wall. It’s far too cheery and upbeat for what’s about to happen. The pinks and reds swirl together like ink in water. Or blood. And the faint memory of it pooling at the back of my head shivers down my spine.
I shake my head, ridding myself of the thought. Dallas looks up at my movements but doesn’t say anything. He sets his phone down and offers his hand as Trisha walks through the door.
She greets us with a smile. “Good morning.” Her black business suit somehow looks even more formal than her usual attire, though I suppose that’s fitting for a day in court. She hugs Dallas before taking a seat next to me.
She folds her hands in her lap and turns her chair toward me. “How are we feeling right now?”
The question almost makes me laugh. How else would I be feeling other than internally screaming in a moment like this? And it’ll likely only get worse once we make our way into the courtroom. Whether I’m trying to prevent myself from screaming or bursting out in laughter, I’m not sure. I hold my breath for a moment. “We’re here.”
It’s the only honest answer I can give her without setting off all the alarm bells in everyone's heads. If I gave her any other answer, they might think I’m about to make a run for it, go back home, hide under the covers, and never come out. Or they might think I’m actually as unstable as I feel.
“You are. And I think that’s a respectable answer.” She sounds authentic when she speaks. I don’t detect any hostility. So, I smile and wait for her to continue with whatever we need to go over ahead of time. She grabs her binder from the table and flips it open. A few loose documents sit in a sleeve protector, and she pulls them out. “So, I just want to give you a rundown of how today will go so you know what to expect. I’ll put this all in as plain of English as I can to make it easier to understand because I know how complicated legal speak can be for someone who’s not used to it.”
I nod and scoot my chair a little closer to the table.
She points to the paper in front of her. “Today’s case is the start of Cooper vs. Peterson. It’s a criminal case. We are pushing for a felony charge of domestic violence. Most of today will be simple things like providing the charge information, making sure everyone understands the charges, and setting the hearing date. You won’t have to do anything.”
I nod again, completely unsure of what to say. She slips the papers back into her binder and closes it.
“Okay, you two stay here. I’ll check in down the hall to see how we’re looking on time and come to get you when everyone’s ready to start. If you choose to go in, I’ll keep you out of his sight as long as possible. We will get you through this.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Dallas says before she leaves us alone again.
The hand that tightly gripped Dallas’s now grips the leather beneath me so hard it might rip from the seams. He pivots my chair to face him and kisses my forehead. No words. Just silent support. That’s what I need right now. Nothing anyone says will make this easier. And it’s taking every bit of willpower to keep myself in check.
A few minutes later, Trisha peeks her head into the room. “They’re ready.”
Fuck.
It takes everything in me to force my feet toward that courtroom.
To finally start setting things right.
To face the judge.
To face Sam.
Trisha hesitates before opening the large double doors. “Sam will be on the left. Just keep your head down. Only look where you’re comfortable. Dallas will sit directly behind us in the gallery.” She pauses for me to gather myself. “Okay. Are we ready?”
I shake my head, but the word “Yes” still comes out of my mouth. I guess I’m going in. I won’t know if I can do this unless I try. She gives me a sympathetic smile before pulling one of the doors open. I focus my eyes on the ground in front of me where my feet will be next. It’s the only thing keeping them moving, but they feel like I’m trudging through setting cement.
I don’t need to look up to know Sam’s already in here. I can feel his presence in the room like a sandbag swinging above my head, ready to drop at any moment. The room is quiet, not even the sound of shuffling paper occupying my ears. Dallas takes his seat in the front row of the gallery when Trisha opens the partition and guides me through. I take a seat on the right side of our table, the farthest seat from Sam, but it still doesn’t feel far enough away. It still feels like he could grab me if he reached out. The ghosts of his fingers latch onto my arm and throat, and all I can do is rub the tightening feeling away with my other hand.
A few seconds feel like hours before the judge is announced and everyone stands. When we return to a seated position, things finally start moving.
My ears go muffled through the whole thing. I barely listen. Not that I want to. Every inch of me is so tense it feels like if I relax, I’ll fall apart like I’m holding all the pieces of myself together with a feather so small the tiniest movement might let it all go crumbling to the floor. Yet at the same time, I feel like I’m on fire and nothing will put it out unless I get out of here, and even then, I’ll smolder so hot I’ll ruin everything that comes near me.
I hear bits and pieces of it. Felony charge. Protective order. Assault. Out on bail. All words I’ve heard come out of Trisha’s mouth before but this time they come from a few different people. I don’t care to see who speaks when. It doesn’t matter. All I care about is making it out of here with as many pieces of myself intact as possible.
I manage to pull myself from my dissociation just long enough to hear the question I’ve been waiting for.
The judge asks Sam and his attorney to rise. I focus on the table, tracing the wood grain with my eyes. “Now that you’ve been read your charges, how do you plead?”
A short silence fills the room. It’s deafening as I wait to hear his voice, and I almost wish I hadn’t pulled myself from my mind yet. But I need to hear his answer.
In a very cool, calm voice, one he used to use with my mother when he was being polite, or with me the morning after a fight when he thinks everything had gone back to normal, he says, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
My head spins in his direction so fast it’s a wonder I haven’t given myself whiplash. His eyes meet mine, and a smile so small most people wouldn’t catch it dances across his features before it disappears. He knows what those words did to me. He knows exactly where to press, as if it’s an exposed nerve for him to toy with.
I want to say something, to fight his response, but I know that would get me in trouble. And Sam’s fist has kept me quiet for so long that I’m not sure I’d be able to anyway. The last time I stood up to him, I spent two days strapped to machines. I won’t do that again.
There isn’t much left to discuss. It goes by in a blur. When I’m asked if I understand and agree with everything, I say yes before zipping my mouth shut again as if each word I speak might bring me closer to shattering the resolve I’ve worked so hard to keep together. A trial date is set, the judge says his closing words, and finally, we stand to leave. When I look up, I meet Sam’s gaze for the second time today. It’s just as silently vicious as the first time.
He doesn’t move from his spot. He watches me so carefully I think he can see right through me, through my fake tough exterior. There’s no way it’s still intact at this point. It’s surely crumbled. But his gaze flickers to someone over my left shoulder, likely Dallas, and I see his features falter ever so slightly before he returns to his tough exterior and looks anywhere but at us.
Trisha leads me through the partition, and I reach for Dallas’s hand before I’ve crossed the threshold of the gate. There’s some brief legal talk from Trisha in the hall that I pay no attention to before I’m desperate to get out of here.
I can’t do this again.
Not here.
Not with Sam.
I manage to hold myself together until we're home, but the tears are already flowing as I walk through the front door. Logan starts to ask how it went but stops as soon as he sees me make a bolt for Dallas’s room. I shut the door and sink to the floor, my back against it, knees drawn close to my chest. I hear the mumbling from them in the living room but don’t bother trying to hear the words. Nothing they say can make me feel better. It’s an effort to hear anything with how badly I want to fold into a ball and disappear forever.
I pull myself to the bed where my purple blanket sits at the foot of it and wrap it around my shoulders, but it’s not tight enough around me to hold me together. I press my back into the side of the mattress, needing something solid to keep me steady, or as steady as I can be right now, but it doesn’t give me what I need. I search the room, frantic for something, anything solid to back myself into when a knock sounds on the door, and it slowly creeps open. Dallas peaks his head in, his eyes seeming to ask if it’s okay for him to enter.
I’m standing and hugging him so fast he almost falls backward into the wall. He shuts the door quietly, and we stand there. For how long, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t matter right now. I need stability. I need security. I need his unwavering embodiment of a statue to tie myself to until I no longer feel like the hole in my chest is getting bigger, until the feel of him, his touch, his voice, his bond with me starts to fill the gaps.