Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
E MILY
It’s the last Sunday before school resumes for the year. My classroom is ready, thanks to Charlie using one of his days off to help me, and I’m eager to meet the new group of kindergarteners that will be in my class this year.
As a last hurrah to summer, Charlie and I are heading over to Meadow Creek today for brunch at the new Ma and Pop restaurant that just opened there. Then we’re going to hike and explore the state park.
I’m excited to be out with Charlie somewhere we don’t have to hide that we’re together. If that means we have to go to Meadow Creek, so be it.
But I really want to tell Trina what’s happening. The other night just didn’t seem like the time.
We’ve been driving for about ten minutes, and I’m working on getting us some jams playing over the speakers.
When I choose Taylor Swift’s new album, Charlie rolls his eyes.
“You’re so predictable,” he teases.
“Would you rather I put my audio book on?” I’m grinning to myself because Charlie would die if I played my book. Yesterday, I walked around the lake picking blackberries to make cobbler while Charlie fished, and I stopped my book right before the second steamy scene. It’s all queued up and ready to play.
“Whatever you want.” He’s watching the road closely as it’s curvy.
Let’s have some fun.
I flip the audio over to my book and lean back against the door, my body angled so I can watch Charlie’s reaction.
The deep bass of a male voice thumps through the truck speakers: “Chapter Five. Good Girl.” I grin as Charlie flashes me a quick glance, one eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead.
“My hands shake as Jonah approaches me, a predatory gaze in his eyes. I feel my panties getting soaked as he looks my body up and down. When he’s mere inches from me, his hard cock pressed against my belly, he asks, “How do you want to be fu ? —”
Charlie’s eyebrows fly up almost to his hairline and his eyes bulge. “Christ, Emily. Put Taylor Swift back on. Please.” His ears and face flush a bright red.
I press pause on the audio book, laughing and damn proud of myself for the effectiveness of my effort to make him want to listen to my music.
“What?” I feign innocence. “It’s our book club selection this month. I have to have it done by Friday.”
“You ladies are a bunch of pervs.” Charlie’s mouth suddenly falls open. “Is this the book you listened to while you picked blackberries yesterday?”
“Yup.” I emphasize the “p.”
“So, when you did that new thing with your mouth, did you learn that from your book?”
“Uh huh. That was from chapter three.”
“Well, shit. Now I don’t know if I should be freaked out that you’re in this book club or give the author a five-star review.” The corner of Charlie’s mouth curves up in a sexy grin.
“Why, Charlie Fitzgerald, did you just make a joke?” I tease.
“I think I did. Go figure.”
Charlie reaches across the console and takes my hand in his and we drive the next several miles without talking.
I get lost in the soothing sensation as he caresses my palm with the rough pad of his thumb. I squirm in my seat a little, trying to reposition myself. Who knew a little thumb caress could be so arousing?
When Charlie spares me a quick glance and I see the smirk on his face, a warm flush creeps up my cheeks.
“What’s going on over there?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Before he can say anything else, his phone rings over the Bluetooth on his truck. I watch as his brow furrows, and then he lets go of my hand and presses a button to answer the phone.
“Mom?” Charlie’s voice is laced with concern as the distant roar of a man’s voice yelling in the background echoes through the speakers. I can’t make out his words, but they’re spoken with raw rage.
“C-charlie?” a timid female voice asks. It’s practically a whisper.
“Mom. It’s me. Are you okay?”
Suddenly, the man’s voice sounds much closer. “Who the fuck are you calling?”
I shrink back at the venomous tone.
And then the call disconnects.
“Hell. I’m sorry Em, but I have to go check on her.”
“Oh my gosh. Don’t be sorry. Go.”
Charlie veers into the next turnout on the road and changes direction, heading back to Elladine. Over the next several minutes, Charlie’s shoulders tense, a muscle twitches in his jaw. He’s not going over the speed limit and I suspect it’s because I’m in the vehicle. It’s clear from the way his hands grip the steering wheel he’s eager to get to his parents’ house and I doubt he’d be driving so carefully if it was only his safety at risk on these winding roads.
I want to help, but I don’t know how or what to say. So, I turn off the music and sit in silence.
After twelve long minutes, Charlie jerks the truck to a stop in front of a small bungalow and barely waits until the engine is off to jump out. As if he only just now remembers I’m with him, he throws me a quick look. “You should probably wait here.” Then he slams the truck door and takes off toward the back of the house.
I’m paralyzed with indecision—do I stay in the truck, or do I go make sure he’s okay? But I’m jolted into action when angry masculine voices fill the air surrounding me, followed by a woman—I presume Charlie’s mom—screaming, “No! Stop, please!”
I grab my cell phone in case I need to call the police and leap out of the truck, then run to the back of the house. The voices get louder as I draw near, and I stop dead in my tracks when I get to an open door and look in. The scene unfolding before me is terrifying. A broken glass vase lies shattered on the kitchen floor, wildflowers strewn chaotically around the room. Several drops of blood—enough to worry me—speckle the white tile floor.
And across the room is Charlie, who has an older man—I assume his dad—pinned to the wall with his forearm.
“Did you lay a hand on her, you piece of shit?” Charlie’s growl is ferocious. “How about you mess with someone your own size? Or are you too afraid I’ll fight back now that I’m not a little kid anymore?”
His dad’s face is beet red and though he can speak, his voice is raspy under the pressure of Charlie’s arm on his throat. “Fuck you. She’s my wife and what I do with her is none of your business. If she wants to act like a whore, she’ll get treated like a whore.”
The man grunts as Charlie presses harder with his arm in response to his words.
“He didn’t hit me. Please let him go, Charlie. I’m fine,” his mom begs. She’s pulling on Charlie’s arm, trying unsuccessfully to pull him off his father.
“Jesus, Mom. For once, stand up for yourself. I’m here. You called me. You don’t have to be afraid of?—”
His mom’s voice shakes, and her eyes go wide. “I-I didn’t call you. It must have been a pocket dial. I-I accidentally knocked over the vase and then got cut.”
“The vase of flowers you got from some other man, like the slut you are,” his father snarls at her.
Charlie’s whole body leans further into the hold he has on his dad when the word ‘slut’ flew from his father’s mouth.
Jesus, dude. Read the room and quit giving Charlie more ammunition.
“No, Charles. I swear I got them from the Sue down the street. Her garden is blooming. Charlie, please let him go!” Tears are streaming down his mom’s face.
My heart is pounding as I step over the threshold, my hands shaking. I know when Charlie’s dad notices me by the sneer on his face, but he rapidly moves his focus back to Charlie.
“You think you’re better than me, Charles? Well, you’re not. You’re a Fitzgerald through and through. Any bitch stupid enough to end up with you will be just like your mother.”
In a flash, Charlie’s arm is off his dad’s throat and his hand grips tightly under his father’s chin, hyper-extending the man’s neck. I can see he’s not squeezing, but it’s scary, nonetheless.
* * *
CHARLIE
A shaking hand touches my shoulder, and a voice I’d know anywhere whispers, “Please stop. This is scaring me.”
I look over my shoulder and find Emily standing there, her face pale and her breaths shallow. I can’t hide a wince of sadness and embarrassment as it flits across my face, and I only hold her gaze for a fraction of a second before I cast my eyes downward.
I never wanted her to see any of this—what I can become. It was na?ve of me to think maybe I really could have her and not let this part of me touch her life.
I drop my hand from my old man and step back. My mom releases a relieved sob and reaches for my dad, who brushes her off and walks to the counter, grabbing his keys and wallet.
“I’m going out, Marianne. Have this fucking mess cleaned up by the time I get home.” And he stalks out the door.
My mom is crying, and I watch as Emily gingerly walks up to her. Like she’s approaching a frightened child in her kindergarten class.
“Hi, Mrs. Fitzgerald. I’m Emily, Charlie’s… friend. Let’s go over to the sink so we can check out that cut on your hand. Okay? It looks like it’s bleeding quite a bit.” Her voice is soft and soothing, and a twinge of pain pinches my chest that my ugly world has touched sweet Emily Flynn.
I walk over to the kitchen closet and pull out the trash can, broom, and dustpan and sweep up the mess on the floor. While I refuse to let myself look at Emily and my mom, I listen to every word they say.
“I think I got the glass out. But it looks pretty deep. You might need to go to the ER for stitches.”
“No,” my mom says quietly. “It’s not that bad.”
“But it’s still bleeding a lot. And maybe they could use that skin glue stuff instead of stitches, if you don’t like needles.”
“I can’t.” My mom’s voice is flat, quiet.
“I promise stitches don’t hurt that?—”
“She won’t go, Emily. They ask questions when you show up in the ER too many times with suspicious injuries.” I don’t even look at them, speaking slowly, with no inflection in my voice.
“Charlie,” Emily chastises me, her voice hushed. Back to focusing on my mom, Emily says, “I’ll hold pressure for a bit, and we’ll see how it looks after that.”
I finish cleaning up the flowers and glass, then put away the broom, dustpan, and trash can and grab a few bleach wipes. I crawl along the kitchen floor, scrubbing my mother’s drying blood off the tiles. When I’m reminded this isn’t the first time—or even the second—I’ve had to do this, I shake my head.
When I’m done, I head to the bathroom, wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror. All I see is disappointment and fear—fear that my father is right and I’m no better than him. I want to see a different man in the mirror, to know I’m not like him and not destined to ruin any woman who loves me. But, right now, I’m just not seeing it. I turn around and open the linen closet, reaching behind the cleaning supplies to pull out the small tackle box I keep stored there.
After I get back to the kitchen, I sit down at the table and place the box on top of it. “Come on over, Mom. Let me have a look.”
Just like we’ve done too many times to count, my mom sits in front of me so I can examine her injury that she’ll insist until the day she dies is her fault, not my father’s. When I pull the paper towels off of her hand, the bleeding has stopped. Emily stands behind my mom, watching, a comforting hand on my mom’s shoulder. It almost hurts to see how sweet she is.
I inspect the laceration, then clean it with an anti-bacterial wipe. I lift my gaze to my mom. “I think we can get away with the skin glue this time,” I say quietly.
“Okay,” my mom whispers.
I spend the next five minutes repairing the cut, then put some antibiotic ointment on it.
“Thanks, honey. I’m sorry I got you into this.”
I take my mom’s good hand in both of mine. “No, Mom. I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to lose control and make everything worse. But I’m so afraid he’s gonna seriously hurt you one of these days and I won’t get here in time, or I won’t be able to fix it.” I pause and look down, embarrassed by the mist forming in my eyes. “Would you think about leaving and coming to stay with me?”
I already know the answer. I’ve asked more times than I can count.
“He’s my husband, Charlie. This is where I belong. It’s my home.”
I nod, lean in and kiss her forehead, then stand up and clear my throat. “I should probably go before he gets back. I’ll put this back in its hiding spot.” I glance at Emily for the first time since she told me she was afraid of me. “Would you please wait for me in the truck?”
Emily nods and I head back to the bathroom to hide my emergency kit behind the cleaning supplies, where he’ll never find it. Five minutes later, I climb into the cab of my truck and turn toward Emily, though I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye. “Would you be okay if we just go home?”
“Of course. We can go to Meadow Creek anytime.” She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. And it makes me feel like a world class jerk.