Chapter 40
“How about we trade stories?”I brushed a hand down her hair. “You tell me how you got your scars, and I’ll tell you mine.”
She nodded. “You go first.”
She hopped off my lap and dropped onto the couch, snuggling against me like a kitten. I slung my arm around her, loving the intimacy. I could have stayed like this forever.
God, please let this storm last another week.
I was probably the only person in New England grateful for Nor’easter Betsy. Vivian yawned and pressed her face into my chest.
“It’s past midnight. Do you want to go to bed first? We can talk tomorrow.”
She bolted up. “No! I need to know now.”
I smiled at her eagerness.
My heart raced. I’d never shared this with a girlfriend before.
“My mom died when I was young. She was sick, and my dad wasn’t the best husband or father. He drank, and it affected his personality. When she died, it got worse. He became a monster, and I was his prey.” I swallowed, reliving the first time he whipped me.
I told her about the leather belts, and she flinched.
“His work schedule differed each day, so I tried my best to avoid the times he was home. I stayed at Grayson’s house or Royce’s place whenever I could.”
I told her about the time I fought back and blacked out.
Vivian’s voice hitched, and she reached for my hand. She interlaced her fingers with mine, and that gesture comforted me more than she could ever know.
“Did you call the authorities?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No. I was too scared that they’d put me in foster care, which might have been even worse. My mom’s friend, Pam, called the police, but he got out and was forced to attend AA meetings.”
She sniffed, and I looked down to see her crying. “Baby, I’m okay.” I reached for the box of tissues from the side table and offered her a tissue.
“You were all alone.”
“It strengthened me.” I took another tissue and dabbed her eyes, where tears kept flowing. No woman had cried for me except my mom and Pam.
My chest tightened at the raw emotion coming from Vivian. She must’ve understood the pain I’d endured. I could almost feel the misery releasing within me with the flow of her tears.
How was that possible?
“No more tears, okay?” I cupped her face, kissed her forehead, and placed the box of tissues in her lap, just in case.
“I can’t help it.” She sniffed.
“The day I blacked out was the last time he whipped me. I worked out, built some muscles, and got stronger to protect myself. But I avoided him as much as I could.”
“And you joined the Navy right out of high school.”
I nodded. “He’d gotten into trouble and then locked up. He reached out to me once to apologize.” My throat tightened. “But words from my father seemed distant after so many years of neglect and pain. I didn’t know what to think or say to him. In a deep part of me, I felt his sincerity. Or maybe it was just my secret wish.”
“He probably sobered up in prison, and he realized what an ass he’d been.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But then a few weeks later, someone found his body in a parking lot. He’d been robbed and shot multiple times. I had decided to leave the Navy because I needed a change. His death hastened my return. While I served in the Navy, I studied wine and statistics, two different subjects. When I got out, I analyzed data for companies while continuing my wine studies.”
She stared at our joined hands. “Because of your father?”
“Partially. I was curious about alcohol and how it could affect a person. But I also wanted to know how it was created. What process did it have to undergo? What uses did it have? Wine is a science and art. I discovered it wasn’t the alcohol’s fault that turned people into monsters. We all have choices. The wine didn’t ask us to overdrink. Anything to the extreme is bad.”
“Like if you had sunny days every day, all the plant life would die. And then animals and humans would follow suit. We need the sun and the rain, right? Balance. Harmony.”
I smiled at how her mind searched for straightforward answers.
“Alcohol could also be medicine.”
“Yes.” She squeezed my hand. “Three times a week, my dad drinks a small dose of wine his friend ferments to improve his health. It has all kinds of herbal stuff in it. It’s an ancient practice. You know there’s a kung fu style called the drunken fist where you mimic a drunken person’s movement?” She demonstrated by moving her body in slow motion.
I laughed. “Not my preferred style.”
“And did you know that back in the day, the kung fu masters used hand-to-hand touch to transfer good energy into another person’s body for healing purposes?”
Nodding, I lifted our joined hands. “Holding your hand is like having the sun kiss my soul through your palm.” He squeezed. “It’s like a phone line from my heart to yours. We don’t need to say anything. A simple squeeze of your hand tells me what I need to know.”
“And what’s that?”
“That we belong together.”
Her face softened when she looked at our joined hands. “I knew a special man was lurking underneath the expensive suit on that day at the wine convention, but I didn’t know he was also a poet until now.” She caressed my face. “Thank you for sharing your story with me. It means a lot to me.”
I kissed her head. “Thank you for wanting to hear it. Now it’s your turn.”