Chapter Six
When she got home, Arden found her apartment sparkling clean, and a new lamp on her end table.
“The other one was broken,” Jen told her as she and Zoey placed flower arrangements. “I couldn’t find an exact replacement, but it’s pretty close.”
“It’s even better, thank you.”
She looked at the floor, remembering how he’d dragged her by the hair. There would’ve been blood.
“You cleaned.”
“Honey, you keep a clean place, but we weren’t going to have you come home to any sign of what happened.”
“I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
“I put one arrangement on her desk,” Zoey said as she came back in. “Since the doctor said you can write as long as you rest, and stop if you get a headache. I’ll get the last of them, Mom.”
“Nothing like flowers to perk everything up,” Jen said as Zoey went down again.
“We stocked your fridge and so on. Plenty of eggs for scrambling, milk, yogurt, ice cream—you can make smoothies. And April made you potato soup. Doug made his famous bread pudding, no raisins for you this time. I made spaghetti sauce, and that’s in the freezer when you want it.
You need to cook the pasta until it’s soft. Then—”
Arden just put her arms around her aunt.
“We want you to feel comfortable, feel safe, heal.”
“If I don’t, it’s my fault, not yours. You’ve sure handed me the keys to it.”
Jen laid her hands, gently, lightly, on Arden’s face. “I want you to promise me you’ll call if you need anything. Even if it’s just to talk, or to have someone here for a while.”
“That’s the easiest promise I could make or keep.”
“You know one of us, we’ll take turns, is going to check on you every day.”
“You’d hurt my feelings if you didn’t. But I can tell you.
” She glanced over and smiled as Zoey brought in the last of the flowers.
“I’m going to be okay. I’ll rest, mostly because I get tired.
And since I can’t go back to the bookstore looking like this, even if they’d cleared me for that, I’m going to use this as an opportunity to write. ”
“Stop when it gives you a headache,” Zoey added.
“Stop when and if it does. I’m going to get back to my life. I won’t let him take that from me.”
“Okay then. How about I heat up some of April’s soup for you?”
“Actually, Burnie and I are going to lie down for an hour, then I’ll heat it up.”
“Burnie?”
Arden pulled the purple dragon out of her purse. “With a u, like burn. Dragon, dragon fire, burn. Get it?”
Zoey laughed, gave the stuffed dragon a quick tap. “You and Burnie take a nap. Text later, okay?”
“I will. Thank you, everybody, for everything.”
She knew they left because they understood her, and that she needed to be alone. She could be grateful for that, too.
She turned the dead bolt, then stood, took stock.
Feel safe? Maybe not all the way, but nearly. He’d never have gotten in if she hadn’t opened the door. Now she’d locked it. Now he was locked up, and if there was any justice, he’d stay that way.
“Come on, Burnie, let’s lie down. Fifteen minutes, unless we conk.”
She rested, ate soup—so soothing. Since she didn’t want to go outside and frighten small children with her face, she took laps around the apartment.
Then, she tried the next step. She sat down at her desk, opened her work in progress.
“He can’t take this away either.”
She read back a few pages, nodded.
Yes, she remembered where she’d wanted to go.
And went there.
Just over an hour in, she felt the headache starting. Instead of stopping, she tried closing her eyes first. Since she could see the scene, she’d try writing it with her eyes shut.
With that method, she managed another hour, and accepted she’d done enough for one sitting.
She shut down, then did some more laps while trying to decide if she’d have more soup at dinnertime, try the spaghetti, or just scramble a couple eggs.
At the knock on the door, panic shot straight up from her toes, through her belly, and into her throat.
“It’s Monica and John.”
One slow breath didn’t do it, so she took two more before she went to the door, then couldn’t stop herself from checking through the peep.
When she opened it, Monica reached for her hands.
“We heard you moving around. I should’ve texted instead of just coming up.”
“I’m so glad you came.” She drew them both inside. Locked the door behind them.
Then she turned, hugged John. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Oh, I didn’t—”
“You did. If you hadn’t come, he’d have killed me.” She said it flatly—fact, not speculation. “And you.” She held Monica. “I can’t tell you what it meant to me to hear your voice. You stayed with me, and I needed that so much.
“Come in, sit down.”
“We don’t want to tire you out,” John began.
“You’re not. I have wine—and I have soda for you. I’m going to have a glass of wine,” Arden decided.
“Meds?”
She smiled at Monica. “I haven’t needed any pain meds today. So wine works.”
“Then I’d love a pop, and I’ll envy you and John and your wine. Let her do,” Monica murmured when Arden went to the kitchen. “It’s good for her.”
“You heard me moving around because I’m supposed to walk, and I’m not ready to take that show outside until my face heals up more. But I’m following the rules. Rest, walk, eat, exercise the brain.”
She brought out John’s wine, and a ginger ale on ice. Then went back for her own.
“You’ve got some beautiful flowers here.”
“The ones you sent are in my office. They brightened it up while I did a little writing today. Exercising my brain.”
“Not to diminish that, but put them all together, they still don’t match up to the enormous and gorgeous arrangement your family sent us.”
To prove it, Monica took out her phone. “I took pictures.”
“Well, whoa.”
“Right? The delivery guy could barely get it in the door,” John told her. “Luckily I’d just gotten home from school or we’d have blocked the hallway with it.”
“We’d met them before, but spent a lot of time with them that night. You have a great family, Arden, one that loves you.”
“I do.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. The buzzing in my ears is gone, and that’s a huge relief. It’s easier to swallow, and I don’t have a constant headache. A little sore, but really better.
“They denied him bail.”
“We heard,” John said. “Your aunt’s keeping us informed. And I’m going to say good. He shouldn’t be out on the street. Sick, violent bastard.”
Arden saw Monica rub a hand on John’s thigh as if to bring down the temper.
“No, I feel exactly the same. I can’t express it like I want to, as I’m not up to yelling and shouting yet. At first, lying in the hospital, I tried to think of what I’d done to make him think I was interested in him.”
She shook her head before Monica could speak.
“Nothing. None of this was on me. I never did anything to make him think that. And even if I had—which again, fuck no—I didn’t deserve this. No one does.”
She sipped some wine.
Monica gave her hand a squeeze. “No, no one does.”
When they left, Arden decided to go back to the soup, then had to admit fatigue was setting in, and just a touch of a headache.
She readied for bed—checked her door locks again—then cued up an audiobook. Listening, with Burnie tucked into the crook of her arm, she let herself drift away.
While she slept, Dustin lay on his cot.
He hated lights-out. Hated not being able to stretch out, watch TV, play some video games. He hated being in a cell, not having good sheets, a decent goddamn pillow.
And the slop they fed you? Disgusting. He’d considered a hunger strike, but a man needed to eat.
When he got out, he’d see to it Arden cooked all his favorites. It was the least she could do.
Still, even after all this, he’d forgive her. Women were weak and emotional, and just fucking stupid in a lot of ways.
She needed him to take care of her, to make sure she lived as she was meant to do.
He’d known the first time he’d seen her, walking into that bookstore, so tall and slim, her hair shining in the sun. He’d known even before he’d dreamed of her that night.
She knew, too. He’d seen that by the way she’d looked at him, the way she’d smiled at him.
When he got out, they’d pick up where they’d left off.
They’d need to move, of course. Somewhere quiet, a little remote. No more city life—too many bad influences and distractions for her.
Probably one of those bitches she hung around with had told her to string him along for a while, to play hard to get. He’d just get her away from those bitches.
A spacious cabin in the mountains, he imagined. A big kitchen for her to cook for him. She’d take care of the house, he’d take care of the yard, like things were supposed to be.
She could have a space for writing, that was fine.
Until the first kid came along. Then she’d need to give that up, concentrate on being a good mother.
More than his ever did.
They’d have plenty of kids. She’d take care of them; he’d take care of her.
He knew he’d have to teach her another lesson, but if he did, he did.
Once he got out, he thought, and turned on his side to try to sleep, things would be fine. The way they were meant to be.
He slept, and he dreamed of her.
Determined it was the best way to heal in every way, Arden pushed herself back into routine. Or what she thought of as her interim routine.
She had to skip the gym and working at Next Chapter for a little while, but she could and would fill in that time.
Considering the condition of her face, she stuck to her apartment. Maybe she slept a little later in the morning, but since she woke multiple times in the night, it didn’t matter.
So she set an agenda.
Get up, have coffee, do laps around the apartment for fifteen minutes.
Make and drink a protein smoothie. All of it.
Dress for the day. Write until one o’clock.
Make lunch, eat lunch. Another fifteen minutes of laps.
Back to work at two, break at five to deal with any emails, texts, or return phone calls.
Make and eat dinner.
Laps.