Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Deanna
“ A ddison, sweetie, go inside and play.”
“I want to stay with you!”
I shake my head. “No, baby. I need to talk with Officer James. It’s best that you don’t hear it. You’ve heard enough today already. Go on in. I’ll just be a minute.”
Addie reluctantly goes inside, her slim shoulders slumped forward and her head hanging low. I know that defeated posture only too well.
Having Officer Luke Hartford show up in the middle of all my drama is just the frosting on a shit cake. My humiliation is now complete. I could hear every word Kyle was shouting. Every ugly name that he called me brings back dozens of memories of other times when he called me those same things. And when he beat me so badly I couldn’t even go out in public. It’s all just rushing back in, flooding my mind.
Check your senses. What are you touching? What are you tasting? What can you smell? See? Hear?
I silently go through the mindfulness exercises that my therapist worked on with me. They help. They don’t make it go away, but they make it seem just a little smaller. Not so overwhelming and all consuming. It puts me back in touch with the present and allows me to remember that my future does not have to look like my past. And neither does my kids’.
Watching Malcolm take off in his truck—a truck he worked hard and paid for himself—has messed me up. He might not be a baby anymore, but he’ll always be my baby. Him driving anywhere in the state he was in is dangerous. Reckless. And Luke Hartford is out there making sure he’s safe, making sure he gets where he’s going without getting hurt or in trouble. And the phone number he wrote down for me, the phone number that is still tucked away inside my wallet, is taunting me.
How many times over the past two weeks have I pulled that out and looked at it? How many times have I punched that number in on my phone only to chicken out before hitting the call button? Because he’s too young. Because I’m too old. Because I’m too damn broken to even think of getting tangled up with someone. What could he possibly see in a divorced mom of two with stretch marks and scars and enough baggage to fill an airplane hangar?
“You okay, Deanna?”
I look up and see Troy James. Guilt washes over me. That man nearly died because of Kyle. Because I hadn’t left Kyle when I should have. “I’m alright, Troy. How are you? This can’t be easy for you.”
“It’s not. I’d like to knock him on his ass, but I’m not him and that’s not what I do. So I’ll arrest him for violating the restraining order, resisting arrest, disturbing the peace, parole violation, and whatever the hell else I can think of between now and when I book the bastard.”
“Thank you, Troy. You’re the best.”
He nods. “Hartford was in a hell of a rush to get here…and he’s been moping around the office for two weeks. And it’s been about two weeks since he came over here to tell you that Kyle had been paroled.”
“He’s a nice boy,” I reply.
Troy snorts. “Boy my ass. Deanna, you might be five years older than him.”
I look down at Kyle, who’s still glaring up at me through the windows of the SUV. “It might as well be a century, Troy. Leave it alone. Please.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue the point. Then he just sighs. “Don’t let him win, Deanna.” Then he walks away, taking my bastard of an ex-husband back to jail.
___
It’s just after eight o’clock. Malcolm has texted me. He’s staying with JT for the night, which is a relief. Normally that would be a no-go on a school night, but I know he’ll be safe there with Emma and Cody. I’ve got Addison in bed already. It was a long, hard day for all of us, and she needs her rest if she’s going to have even a halfway decent day at school tomorrow.
I get myself a glass of the cheap box wine that’s in my fridge. Even cheap, it’s still a luxury for me. My part-time medical transcription work barely pays the bills. If not for the domestic violence program through a local nonprofit, we wouldn’t even have this apartment. While I appreciate all the help, it rocks me to the bone to have to accept it. That little voice in my head, the one that sounds alternately like Kyle and my uber-religious judgmental parents, tells me over and over that I’m not enough. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not smart enough. That I’m never going to make it on my own. Needing outside help only seems to shore that up.
When I sit down on the couch, I turn the TV on to some mindless reality show that’s really only for background noise. Then I pull my phone out of my back pocket and reach into my purse on the table, fumbling for my wallet.
With that tiny and now well-worn slip of paper in hand, I punch in that number. But I don’t call. I text. Two words.
D: Thank you.
Immediately, I see three little dots.
L: You don’t have to thank me. That was my job.
D: Following my kid to give me peace of mind was not your job. It was a kindness that I truly appreciate.
More dots. Then a long pause. Then the dots reappear. It happens a couple more times and then a message finally comes through.
L: That’s not kindness, Deanna. That was just being a halfway decent human. That it seems like kindness to you makes me want to punch your ex right in his fucking balls.
The laugh that escapes me is way too loud. I cover my mouth to try and stifle the sound. It’s unfamiliar. I haven’t laughed like that in a long time. When I finally have control over myself, I type out a reply.
D: I’d kind of like to see that.
Dots. More dots. And it goes so long that I think he’s not going to answer. Finally, my phone dings.
L: You could have dinner with me. I could demonstrate the technique.
I shouldn’t feel so tempted. I shouldn’t want that so badly it hurts. I want to dress up and take my time with my makeup and be excited to go out with a man. I want to feel excited for something again.
D: I’m not turning you down. Don’t think that. But I can’t say yes just yet.
Dots.
L: I can be a very patient man when something is worth waiting for. You. Are. Worth. Waiting. For.
It scares me. A lot. Because that’s what Kyle was like in the beginning. And I know now what it is. Love bombing. I’ve educated myself on all the ins and outs of being a domestic abuse survivor. But he’s not Kyle. And I have a therapy session tomorrow with a fuckton to talk about.
D: Goodnight, Luke.
Rather than wait for a reply, I silence my phone and lay it face down on the table. I’ve been brave enough for one night.