Chapter 22 #2
“I don’t need,” she starts, then pauses, her chin dropping to her chest as she contemplates what it is she wants to say. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“This is more about what I want you to hear,” I say and wait for her to drop the knife, wipe her hands, and turn to me.
“Maybe you didn’t believe what he did to me.
Maybe you don’t believe that he’s still a threat.
And maybe you won’t believe me when I assure you, he is.
That’s fine, you don’t know me, after all.
You do know the people in this town, though.
All the ones who would rally behind you if anything like what happened to me were to happen to you.
I’m guessing, because of how common this sort of thing is, and given your profession, you’ve probably come across a woman or two that needed an escape. A safe place. Like I did. Like I had.”
“Louisa.”
“No. Don’t say my name as if you know me.
As if you’re sorry or care. You sold my safety.
The one place I felt secure from the man who nearly killed me.
For what? Jealousy? Did you think it would give you a shot with Grady?
You know nothing about him if you think he’d be so easily manipulated,” I say, watching the tears pool in her eyes.
“You’ll have to live with that. With the fact that you were willing to let another woman be hurt because you wanted a man.
You’ll have to live with people around here knowing what you did.
With how easy you can be bought. And you’ll have to live with seeing me here.
Often and forever. I’m not going anywhere.
I won’t forget, but I’ll be kind, maybe even cordial.
Because I would never treat another person the way you treated me. ”
“I am sorry,” she says, tears now streaming down one cheek.
“I’m sure you are,” I tell her. It’s hard to run from guilt and regret. Especially when the victim of your horrible decision confronts you with it. Her dilemma isn’t my problem to solve, though. I have plenty of my own to focus on. “That doesn’t change anything for me, though, does it?”
There’s no chance for her to answer, because I’ve said what needed saying before I walk back to Grady and Sam.
“That’s it?” Sam looks disappointed.
“She’s not who I have real problems with,” I tell him. “And she’s not worth more than I gave her.”
“Mercy looks good on you,” he says. Then, rolls his eyes before adding, “I guess.”
Grady and I leave in laughter. I haven’t had so much laughter as I do with him. Even in situations like these, we find it. I find him. A hope sprouts that he finds me, too.
“That was quicker than I expected,” he says, opening the passenger door of his truck for me.
“The message was delivered.”
“It didn’t look like she said much.”
“I decided I didn’t care what she had to say.
I’m all too familiar with what women will do to be with a man,” I say, buckling my seat belt.
I know exactly what I did to be with Pierre, after all.
Grady stands in the door, staring at me in silence, for a moment.
He simply nods before closing my door and walking around to the driver’s side. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Driving me. Letting me take the lead.”
“You’re not used to that, are you?” He reaches over the center console to take my hand.
“No,” I answer. “When I started modeling, I had no control, at all. It wasn’t until I established myself that I was able to say no to jobs and events with the creepier figures in the industry. Then, came Pierre, who slowly gained control over almost every aspect of my life.”
“Abusers are good at that. It’s easier for them after they isolate you and start making all the rules,” he says.
“I wish I’d seen it earlier. Before him, I had good friendships. I had a good life. Loneliness can be a bitch.”
Grady eyes me quickly before moving his sight back to the road.
Silence descends, making me nervous. A small knot forms in my belly; it grows tighter the longer the quiet lasts. It’s a familiar feeling. Too familiar. Louisa would have lived with fear. Waiting for him to bring up whatever issue was plaguing the moment. Lou’s different, though. Lou is stronger.
“What are you thinking?”
He doesn’t answer, though, as he worries his thumb over the top of my hand until we pull into his driveway. Still, he doesn’t answer until we’ve stepped inside Irma’s house. As soon as the door closes, he backs me against the wall, cups my cheeks, and makes me look at him.
“How lonely were you when you met me?”
“Lonelier than I’d ever been in my life,” I admit, even though I know it may break both our hearts. I won’t ever lie to him.
“Fuck,” he says, long and slow. His agony penetrates through my skin and into my veins.
“I haven’t been since that night you let me cry on the beach, though,” I say, afraid it won’t be enough.
He won’t understand. His doubt will win him over.
All that lingering distrust left from what Brenda did to him that he tries so hard to hide.
Mostly, he does. There are times, though, when I see it.
Like recognizes like. I see him as well as he sees me.
That’s how I know this hurts him.
What I don’t know is if he’ll let it change our trajectory. Will this pause be a fissure we can bandage as it mends, or a canyon that will be too wide to cross?
“I want—” he says before his lips shut tight and a hard swallow works down his wide throat. “I’m not sure how to believe that.”
“You trust me,” I plead. “You know me enough to know I’m not her.”
“Do you know yourself well enough to know that what you feel for me is real?”
His question freezes me. Chills me to the bone. I’ve done nothing but doubt myself. Until recently, until I came here and started to believe I had worth again. That I’m capable and strong.
He’s been a big part of that. But he’s not at the core of it. I am.
As quickly as the cold came in, it’s replaced by indignant flames.
I’m here because of me. I am who I am today because I fought to get out of a horrible situation. It was me who dug myself out of the dark hole I was living in.
Me.
“I know what I was. Who I’ve been,” I say over the stones clogging my throat. “And who I am, now.”
“And who is that?” His hands haven’t moved, but his fingers tighten in my hair, as if he’s clinging for hope.
“Louisa Susanne Moreno,” I say with a raised chin. “Successful model, damn good baker, and motherfucking survivor. I know who I am. I know that I’m not the same woman you first met and I’m sure as fuck not your ex-wife. I know that as truly as I know you’re not my ex-boyfriend. Why don’t you?”
I shove him away and walk further into the house, and his footsteps echo. His hand finds mine, spinning me back to him.
“I’m trying. I want to.”
“Then, do it,” I say. “Isn’t that what love is? A leap of faith? It’s trust that your heart will always find mine and mine will always find yours. I’ve never trusted mine as much as I do now. But I won’t fight for a man who doesn’t feel the same. Not ever again.”
“Love?” His voice is softer, now, edged with emotion.
“Yes. I was going to tell you tonight before you fucking ruined it.”
“You love me,” he says with a smile. He lifts me at the waist, my legs instinctively wrapping around him.
“I do,” I say without hesitation. “I’m not leaving. Stowaway will be my home. You need to decide if I’m here as a friend or something else.”
“Because you’re in love with me.”