Chapter 12
“Alrighty, welcome to Romantic Chic Boutique,” Ana says as we enter the everything-pink, flower-filled space packed with dainty dresses, lingerie and more—all of which I’m sure is way too small to fit over my hips and stomach.
Oh my God! How embarrassing will it be if I can’t find a single thing to fit me here?
Especially after we drove all this way and dragged this poor girl out of her house after something tragic.
She said Gio helped save her life, and it makes me wonder if it was in any way similar to how he saved mine.
And, if it was, it makes me question if New Orleans is truly the best place to settle?
Even more so, I wonder what world Gio operates in?
It seems death and danger surround him. Yet, I suppose they surround me too.
My mind overcome with thoughts, I take a deep breath and try to refocus on the room before me.
Ana’s store is small and narrow, almost shot-gun style.
Yet, it is beautifully designed and decorated.
The wood floors are painted an interesting mauve color while the brick walls are painted a brighter shade of pink.
There are two fireplaces, one on each end of the far wall.
And, at the front of the store, there are two sets of glass French doors overlooking a quintessential French Quarter street.
They allow tons of sunlight into the room.
It’s then that the gorgeous, tiny, red-head Ana flips a switch and the large, crystal chandelier in the center of the store illuminates, making the space even more enchanting.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” I say. “But you’re getting married in a week.
The last thing you should be doing is helping me, us.
I feel like this is all too much.” I glance at Delilah.
She’s already found herself seated on the floor nearest one of the French doors playing with both dogs.
At least she’s trying to. The two of them, Ru and Brinkley, are more occupied with each other.
Brinkley does not look happy with Ru’s plump butt smack dab in the middle of his plush bed.
“There are many things that are too much. Doing a bit of shopping isn’t one of them.
” Ana says, as she finally slows down enough to make eye contact with me.
“Besides, everything for our wedding is handled. It’s just going to be a small, family-only event at my brother’s house here in the French Quarter.
And, with recent events, as Gio put it, I could use the distraction. ”
With that, Ana’s green eyes drift from my face down my body.
I suppose she’s taking in the makeshift outfit or perhaps, judging which of her store’s clothes will fit me.
I follow her gaze and wonder what a mess I must look like.
“So, how did you and Gio meet?” She asks, her voice much higher pitched and peppy as she hurries to the table topped with lingerie-clad mannequins.
“Oh, well, that’s a long story,” I say, shyly lowering my head and following behind her.
“Distraction. Remember?” She poses her question with a sweet smile and then reaches for a white-lace bra and panty set that is absolutely stunning, but I fear too delicate to work for me.
“Right, well. It started with me walking into a bar in search of a job and it ended with me becoming Gio’s live-in maid.”
“Interesting!” Ana says, her brows raising as she hands me the lingerie. “You can tell me more after you put this on. The dressing room is right over there, and there is a robe inside you can put on overtop. While you’re changing, I’ll start pulling items for you.”
“Oh-kay.” I take the set from her and quickly glance at the size.
Hmm, this might actually work. The fabric feels so soft.
And, while bras aren’t the most comfortable thing in the world, this Southern heat has me in desperate need of one.
The under-boob sweat just feels even grosser with skin-to-skin contact.
Moving toward the dressing room, I give Delilah one last glance and find she’s calmed the little white dog down enough to pet him. Ru gets in on the action and licks Brinkley’s head, which has the little white cotton-ball practically rolling his eyes. I smile and let out a small chuckle.
Inside the dressing room, I carefully slip off Gio’s t-shirt-turned-skirt in case it’s all I have to wear home.
And then I unknot and unbutton his white dress shirt.
It’s a nice garment with thick, sturdy fabric.
I don’t know how I’ll ever get the crease out of it from where I tied it.
But it wasn’t quite wide or long enough to work as a dress alone, so I had to improvise.
It was nice of him though to leave the items he did for Delilah and me. And I suppose this is nice of him too.
Even though all this fuss makes me uncomfortable, he’s not wrong.
We need things and I can’t exactly exist in his dress shirts with no underwear for the rest of my time in New Orleans.
That thought allows my reluctance with this shopping experience to fade.
Yet, it is replaced with an amplified version of the anxiety I had when I walked into the store.
We need things. I need things. And now, I just hope it isn’t too much trouble to find them.
I don’t want Gio’s kindness and generosity to give way to impatience and frustration.
Naked, I avoid eye contact with the floor-length mirror before me until I have the lingerie set on.
In truth, I’d prefer to avoid eye contact altogether.
But I suppose I should see what the fit is like.
With the soft, feminine fabric caressing my curves, I slowly lift my eyes, taking in my body from the ground up.
As I do, I find my reluctance to face the mirror has less to do with my insecurities and more to do with the memories my naked body evokes.
I remember every one of Clive’s touches and the injuries or marks they left me with.
I remember the dirt crusted into my bloody shins and knees from when he pushed me to the ground.
I remember the bruises all over my legs from being lashed with his belt.
I remember the way my stomach turned purple and how it hurt to breathe when he broke my ribs.
As tears well in my eyes, I don’t even see the lingerie.
All I see is him. All I see is the pain from my past.
There’s a scar on my lower back and on my left butt cheek from when he chased me around the house with a knife.
That was when he was drunk and mad that his football team had lost. Apparently, he’d placed a bet on the game, and he’d lost a good bit of money.
His rage turned to me when I walked through the living room at the wrong time.
And then, of course, the tiny, round mark on my shoulder blade.
That one was the most painfully earned. But I didn’t earn it.
I didn’t earn any of them. Earning implies I deserved the torment I endured.
But I didn’t. I just have to remind myself sometimes.
Turning my attention away from my backside, my tear-filled gaze reaches my breasts.
It’s then that I remember his other touches—the ones of similar nature to those I endured last night.
I feel empty as I remember all the times I prayed he would just fuck me instead of chasing me and beating me.
How disheartening is that? But that was my reality.
At least when he fucked me, it was a short-lived violation.
The torture would only last as long as his erection did.
Then he would fall asleep, and I’d be free until the next time he had an unrelenting urge to hurt me.
But, all the other times, there was no telling when it would end.
The uncertainty, unsure of when Delilah might come out of her room or return from playing outside, only made it worse.
I pinch my eyes closed as tears drip down my cheeks.
Covering my mouth with my hand, I back away from the mirror and stifle my cries as emotion rips through me.
My chest heaves as I struggle to control my breathing.
My body shakes as the painful memories course through me.
Dropping to my knees, I hunch over and rock back and forth in the corner.
The simple movement is something I do in moments like this, when it all feels too much, when my body doesn’t feel like my own and my mind feels like a storm—an uncontrollable, unstoppable tornado of torment that leaves me unable to think of anything else save for the thickness of the walls.
After all these years and even after leaving him, I still analyze us and try to make sense of a senseless situation.
I teeter between blaming myself and knowing I didn’t deserve what happened to me.
I constantly have to pull myself from my self-loathing and redirect my anger.
I’ve even made excuses for him, because the reality of what happened between us—what he did to me—is almost too heartbreaking to admit.
I don’t want to admit it. And so, it lingers inside me. Or, at least, it has.
My husband never loved me, and we never truly had a relationship.
It was all a lie. I think seeing Damon and Ana today, even just in those few moments, has forced that suppressed truth to the surface.
There’s no denying the difference between us.
While they look forward to celebrating their love for one another, I know that mine and Clive’s marriage certificate only made it easier for him to make me his prisoner.
And what he did to me within those walls was more than just physically violating.
It was emotionally manipulative and verbally abusive.
It was walking on eggshells every day for years.
It was captivity with no hope of escape until I created some for myself.
There was this one time when I was pregnant and struggling with morning sickness.
He locked me in a closet all day because he was tired of me occupying our only bathroom.
I was left to sit in my own vomit and excrement for hours.
Then he slapped me for making such a mess.
No. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t deserve it.
But, when I think of how long I endured it, I can’t help but hate myself a little.
And I don’t know how to let go of that feeling even after I’ve let go of him.
That crushing reality, almost as crushing as my time with Clive, pulls a fresh wave of emotion from me.
I grab Gio’s shirt from beside me and bite down on it to stifle the sound of my cries. As I pray that Ana and Delilah can’t hear me, there is a knock at the door. I jump, my eyes flashing open. Quickly, I remove the shirt from my mouth.
“How’s it going in there? Are you ready to see your first batch of options?
” Ana asks. Her voice sounds chipper enough, suggesting she’s unaware of my condition.
Good. These old buildings, like our cabin in the woods, are built to conceal heartbreaking secrets—all the realities we wish to never speak of.
I inhale deeply and take my time exhaling.
“Mhmm,” I mumble, distrusting my voice.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite hear that,” Ana says then.
Another deep breath and I use Gio’s shirt to dry my wet and flushed face.
Standing, I continue to steady my breathing and try to remind myself that all of that is behind me.
Clive will never hurt me again. He will never chase me, hit me, rape me, push or kick me again.
My wounds are still healing, but the threat has been eliminated.
Oh, if only that were true. Last night proves there are plenty more threats to contend with.
And the same fear I’ve lived with for years still lingers.
Suddenly, I crave my bedroom at Gio’s. I crave the simple and familiar sense of solitude I enjoyed when Clive was away at work and the safety of a home without a predator.
Spotting the pink satin robe hanging on the wall next to the door, I grab it and slip it on without giving my body another glance.
The bra and panties feel comfortable enough.
I’m sure the size is fine. And the quicker we get through this, the quicker I can return to my safe haven.
Although, recognizing my growing comfort with Gio does leave me with a bit of warmth, a bit of hope amid my hollowness.
I can’t say that I trust him, at least not completely.
But, if I can see the difference between Clive and me and Ana and Damon, then I suppose I can also recognize the difference between Gio and my former husband.
And it’s not because of all the things he’s buying for Delilah and me, nor is it his laugh or attempt at making breakfast or even the thoughtful gesture of leaving us clothes.
All those things can be fake and fleeting.
But the way he looks at me—that’s different.
I’m not sure how else to describe it. It’s just different.
Perhaps that’s why I truly went with him last night, despite having no viable alternative.
Perhaps that’s why I placed my trust, however small, in him.
Perhaps that’s why I feel myself growing more comfortable.
It’s then that I take another deep breath and ready myself to open the door.
This won’t be easy. It isn’t. There are still battles to fight, especially those within my own mind.
But no matter how long it took me, I found a way to leave Clive.
And now, no matter how long it takes, I will find a way to live without the memories of him holding me hostage.
I owe it to myself and to Delilah. And, maybe, just maybe, with overcoming my inner demons, so too will I overcome my inner critic.
I can find a way to love myself in all the ways he never could, in all the ways no one ever has.