Chapter 22 #2
The two words hit me like a speeding car. My head practically snaps back with whiplash. Who’s dead? What’s happened? It finally filters into my numbed out brain exactly who Maverick is talking about. That’s why he came from the club in such a hurry. It’s why he had such pain and grief on his face.
The man who attacked me.
Dravin or Wizard, or both of them, found him.
“O-oh. Oh my god.” It’s all I can squeeze out. I cling to Maverick. He sets one hand on my hip and the other shoots to my neck. He cradles my head like it’s going to come loose and flop around. Maybe it is.
I’m breathing fine. I’m not panicking, but I still feel as though I’m going to pass out. It all hits me at once.
Pain, anger, sadness, flashes from the past, fear, regret, but overriding all of it is relief.
Relief so keen and sharp that tears prick my eyes.
Does that make me a terrible person? I want to be ashamed of that feeling sweeping through me, strong enough to buckle my knees, but it refuses to come.
This man probably had family. People who are mourning his loss, or who did.
Even if I don’t feel bad that a monster like that is dead and can’t hurt anyone else, certainly I should feel bad for those who loved him?
They might not have even known what kind of person he was.
Finally, something trickles in. A squeeze in my chest.
“He died a few years ago,” Maverick says, now that I’ve had time to process his words.
I always thought that I could feel this man’s evil still out there. Still haunting me, but that wasn’t true. It was just my mind, my memories, the trauma etched into my muscles.
“H-how?”
A muscle in Maverick’s jaw clicks. “A car accident.” The hand at my waist clenches into a fist before he unfurls it. “I have no way of knowing if it hurt, but I hope it did. A lot. I hope it was agony. The worst kind of hell.”
I know I don’t want that, but I can’t say that I blame Maverick for feeling that way.
If someone hurt him, I’d be murderous. I would wish the worst kind of suffering on that person.
I suppose that in a way, he was hurt. Painfully.
For years. He was forever changed by being in prison, but it’s harder to personally wish something awful on a nebulous gang of criminals.
Do I wish they weren’t in the world? Yes.
Of course. I wish that they wouldn’t hurt innocent people, that good people wouldn’t die because of them, that families wouldn’t have to suffer.
I do wish that there was something anyone could do to shut down criminals that extend all the way to the top, corrupting the justice system itself, but I don’t know how to do that.
At least Maverick gave it a shot.
I do wish that the judge that sentenced him and that all those who let the real evil just get away with it, would have to face jail time themselves. I’d like them to suffer to the full extent of the law.
A sinking pit opens up in my stomach. A weird, warm blanket descends over me, smothering me.
I’m too hot suddenly, but I’m also shivering.
Shaking. Trembling. Is this shock? I should be angry, so so angry, but maybe after years, I’ve just had enough of it.
The real disappointment I feel is that this man won’t serve any sort of jail time for what he did.
Although, isn’t death worse than prison?
“Does he have any surviving family?” I’m not even aware that I asked the question until Maverick responds.
“The mother is still alive.”
This man. He was human like the rest of us. Born to a mother and probably loved by her. Unless she was a terrible person, or someone else was. Abuse doesn’t excuse anything, but it would explain the way some people turn out.
“I have her address,” Maverick admits.
He’s not suggesting that we go leave the house and confront her.
Just like that. It wouldn’t be possible.
Would it? I couldn’t show up on her doorstep, making demands, pushing her to atone for what her son did.
She might have no idea. She might be completely innocent of all wrongdoing, mourning the loss of her child.
My anger would only open up all her wounds.
Even if she’s terrible, even if she knew, even if she did nothing, could I just point a finger in her face in order to make myself feel better?
“I know who she is,” Maverick says, voice dangerously low. “I could do anything. You just give me the word, and I could make her pay for years of your suffering. She had to have known.”
“No.” The word is a wheeze from my constricted lungs. “No, I- I don’t want you to do that. I feel that part of healing is forgiving those who have wronged you and misunderstood you.”
Maverick’s eyes shine. “Do you have any idea how inspiring you are?”
“I don’t think it takes a lot of strength or courage to choose not to ambush an elderly lady.”
“Not ambushing her. Forgiving her. Forgiving him.”
“I just want to let it go!” I don’t mean to shout, but the words echo in the hall.
I let out a shuddering sigh and make sure I’m not so loud or harsh.
“Part of letting go does mean telling her, I think. I could write to her. She could choose not to respond, but at least I’d be able to let her know what happened and that I’m choosing to move on.
I’m choosing my life over the attack. It will always be with me, but I’m more than that.
I don’t want to condemn her or pass judgment.
That- that- his being dead means that I can finally put this to rest. The only thing that I can do now is offer myself some grace.
I might live with regret about not doing anything sooner, but there’s nothing I can do to change that now.
I want to choose mercy and forgiveness, even if it’s for me too.
I want to build on the knowledge that I’ve gained from my mistakes. ”
“I love you.”
Those words, said so softly, might as well have been a shout like mine.
They bounce through the house, reverberating off the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
He didn’t mean to say it, I can tell, but he doesn’t seem to want to steal them back.
He goes quiet and still, but not tense. Calm. Maybe even peaceful.
“Oh, Maverick,” I breathe.
“I mean, imperfectly. It slipped out.”
“Did it? Because I’ve loved you for years.
” I release his arms and bring my hands back to his shoulders.
His eyes were already shining, but they’re like staring into the sun.
Of all the realities and lives I could have lived, somehow, I’m lucky enough to be here with him right now.
“There are millions of ways one person can love another. I can count at least a hundred that I feel for you. It’s always changing. Maturing. Developing.”
“A hundred? I might need to up my game.”
“So you did mean it.”
His face lowers, ducking close to mine. “I meant it,” he breathes, sounding half anguished, and half like he’s trying to hold back the greatest joy. “I just don’t want to scare you.” His brow creases into a frown.
“I’m not scared. Not of you.” I smooth his temple and let my palm fall to his jaw.
He turns, pressing his lips against my hand.
That kiss reaches me down to the soles of my feet.
I still can’t believe that I’m standing here and that this is real.
That I’m blessed enough to have this man in my life.
“I’m not scared of how you feel or how I feel.
I was before, but it’s another thing I’ve changed my mind about.
I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to stay locked in one spot.
I want to live. I want to feel. I want to breathe.
I want that in every way, in every part of my life. ”
He applies pressure to the small of my back, pulling me into him.
I’m already there. When his lips slant over mine, they feel like an even greater blessing.
A miracle. He doesn’t kiss me with the same fervent heat that he does at night.
There’s so much more intimacy in this, a depth of feeling that we haven’t been able to experience together yet.
There’s anguish and there’s joy. There’s the gut wrenching pain of the past and there’s hope for a tomorrow, where we’ve both told each other that we love each other—however imperfect it is—and that we’re not afraid.
When he pulls back, he swipes a finger over my bottom lip. I tremble at his touch, but it’s a good shiver.
“I don’t want to be blindfolded when we drive again,” I whisper, putting all my feelings into words. “I want to see the world. I want to look at you, sitting right beside me. I want to lose myself in you and find my reassurances there, until I can find them in myself. I will find them.”
“You will,” he agrees.
“I also want to write a letter to my parents. I want to forgive them too. I want us to be a family again. I don’t know how they’ll fit into my life again, and maybe it will be kind of like it is now, where we really don’t see each other or talk to each other that often, but I still want to reach out.
I believe that it’s the right thing to do. ”
Maverick and I stand perfectly still, sharing silent communication with each other. Feelings that don’t need words because words aren’t deep enough. We’re caught in each other’s gravity. Whatever it is flowing between us, I want to harness it. I want to use it as a power.
“Do you want me to help you write those letters?”
I could say no. Maverick would understand.
All this time, I’ve stood alone. I’ve wanted help, but I didn’t know what to do with it, and then I missed it like crazy when I had almost no one.
I can’t say that I respect this man, that I adore him, that I want to share a future with him, and keep stubbornly trying to do it all on my own.
I nod, then surge up and kiss him again.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, feeding the words against his lips.
“You can take as long as you need. As many drafts. As many hours.”
“Scythe still doesn’t feel like we’ve commandeered his house?”
“Scythe is happy. I promise. I took the rest of the day off, but I could tell the guys at the club that I need more time, if you want. I’m here for you.”
“I want you to go to work.” I pepper his jaw with kisses so that he knows that I mean that in the best way. “That’s healthy. I love that you have the club, even if you’re not a member. I’m so happy that you have good people in your life and that you have family.”
“And you. I have you.”
I flatten my palm over his beating heart, pressing down so he can hopefully feel the warmth of me even through his jacket. I keep it there, holding steady like a promise. “Yes. You have me.”
“And you have me.”
“I have you.”
“And the cats.”
“We both have the cats. They didn’t even try and destroy your scrotum.”
He lets out a bark of surprised laughter. It’s exactly what we need to release the tension of one of the hardest and most beautiful moments of my life. “I’m very happy about that.”
I join in his laughter, then bite down on my bottom lip when it trembles, the tears back, threatening to spill.
I can’t hold them back. I don’t have to.
My emotions are all over the place, and that’s okay.
I can want to be strong and still cry. I can tell this man I love him and feel absolutely weightless with the release of words that I’ve stored inside myself for so long that they’ve changed from mere language and mere emotion into priceless ore, and I can still feel the weight of everything I have to do pressing down on me.
It’s become so clear to me that I won’t have to face any of it alone. Part of loving someone is allowing them in and being welcomed in turn.
It’s no longer just me.
We have each other’s backs, but we also have each other’s hearts.