Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Grady
“The least I can do is speak out for those who cannot speak for themselves.”
Jane Goodall
It’s been the two longest weeks of my fucking life. If I had to guess, I’d say Paige agrees.
Every night we talk to Lou. The past couple of nights, we’ve video-called.
Her face carries only a few lingering marks.
Even though Paige saw them at their worst, Lou didn’t want to give her reminders.
There’s a lot of guilt that still lies there.
We both carry that weight. No matter how many times we say this is Pierre’s fault, Lou still blames herself for bringing that danger to Stowaway, and I still blame myself for not being there to stop him.
Her new therapist is helping. She says she can’t tell, but I can. It’s not just that, though. This project she took on, the charity foundation for other survivors, is giving her new life. A purpose I think she’s been searching for. Something to throw her weight behind and to feel proud of.
She takes amazing photos, gorgeously arranging herself with such ease, she makes it look like anyone can do it.
She says that’s just her face and body. Things she didn’t have a say in making.
House of Moreno is her brainchild, her creation, her cause.
The platform she needed, not only to feel accomplished, herself, but helping others in similar situations is helping her heal, as well.
The amount of support she’s gotten is impressive. Every night, she tells me who has signed on. I have to look up most of the names, but I can tell by her excitement how big in the industry they are.
For as much as I’ve hated her being gone, it’s been good for our relationship.
We’ve been forced to communicate differently—we talk more, instead of getting distracted by our environment, other people, or our sexual desires.
She talks a lot about her therapy sessions, which she’s having twice a week.
I love that she’s open with me about them, that she wants me to know because it helps me know her.
We both have a renewed sense of determination to make this relationship work.
I’m in it for the long haul. I can’t imagine wanting any woman in my life the way I want Lou in it.
Or the way I want her in Paige’s life. She’s already proven she’ll put Paige ahead of herself.
She reassures me of that each night when she asks to speak with my daughter.
Some nights, they talk longer than Lou and I do.
Paige is as enamored as I am. Proud, too. She tells everyone she can that her best friend beat up a butthole.
Pierre, the butthole, is still in our county jail. The judge gave him ninety days for violating the protection order. By the time that release is up, he’ll have all the new charges that are being brought up on.
We’re dealing with that as it comes, as it’s too difficult to predict. He hasn’t been able to call in favors, here, like he did in Los Angeles, but that doesn’t mean he won’t find a way to acquittal or some bullshit.
“I’m nervous,” Paige says, pulling on the hand she’s holding.
“There’s no reason to be, kiddo,” I tell her for about the thirty-fourth time. “Planes are safer than cars.”
“You keep saying that, but my tummy keeps twirling.”
“Maybe it’s not nerves, it’s excitement.” Her head cocks as she thinks that over, her nose scrunching up with skepticism. “I mean, you’re going to see Lulu, Jules, and Minnie Mouse.”
Lou invited us to some fashion awards ceremony in San Francisco, where she’ll be revealing her non-profit. From there, we’re going to drive down to Los Angeles and spend a few days at Disneyland. Surprisingly, Lou’s never been there. She and Paige will be experiencing their first time together.
Truthfully, I’m putting on a good show for Paige.
I’m nervous too. Luke is flying us down in a private jet.
He and Lou are already there, but we’re flying down with Juliet and a bunch of dresses.
The plane is fucking small. Like, toy airplane small.
Like, I’m not sure my shoulder width will fit through the door small.
Getting on it is a testament to how much I love that woman.
The driver of the car Lou hired to pick us up at home and drive us to the private airstrip just outside Portland, pulls our luggage out of the trunk as I side-eye the sleek winged thing that’s supposed to deliver us to California.
Juliet’s head pops out of the open jet door, and she squeals.
“Paige!”
“Hi,” my daughter yells back. “Look, Dad, it’s Jules!
” Her anxiousness is forgotten as she takes off running for the short set of stairs that lead up to our friend.
I thank the driver, give him a tip, even though I was explicitly told not to by Luke, and take the suitcases.
Mine, small and black. Paige’s, smaller and emblazoned with unicorns who I think may be farting rainbows.
Following Paige up the stairs, I greet Jules with a kiss to the cheek.
“What the fuck was that?”
“I’m trying to be, I don’t know, classy. Or civilized,” I say.
“Just be you, weirdo,” she says, taking Paige’s suitcase from me. “Sit wherever, it’s just the three of us on this flight.”
“Who is going to fly it?” Paige’s eyes turn into saucers.
“I meant us three, plus the crew,” Jules says. “Do you want to meet them?”
“Oh, yes,” Paige says dreamily. “Can I?”
“Of course.” Jules knocks on the cockpit door and the two pilots come out, as a flight attendant boards behind me.
“We’re all set,” the new man says, and Jules nods to him before introducing Paige to the pilots.
I find a place to squeeze my ass into. Everything feels too small.
“This plane is abnormally small,” I complain when they come to take their seats.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie, and nod toward Paige, who is climbing into the seat next to me. Jules sits across from us, grinning at me.
“I’ve got your suit,” she says. “When we get to altitude, you can try it on, make sure it fits. I also have the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen for Miss Paige.”
“Really?” Paige asks.
“Yep. Lou designed it herself and Luke had it made just for you.”
“Oh, my goodness, I can’t wait to see it!”
The plane starts to taxi, and I close my eyes, feigning a nap so my kid doesn’t see what a fucking coward I am.
“You are absolutely fucking stunning,” I say, nearly stammering.
Our plane landed with only enough time to get us from the airstrip to the hotel Lou has already checked into.
We need to leave for the theater that the awards are being held at in about thirty minutes.
Jules dressed us on the plane. Luckily, everything fit.
Paige has been twirling around in her frilly white dress singing about being gnarly. She, too, stills and stares at Lou in awe. Their dresses match. Paige’s is a much more age-appropriate version of the ethereal white dress that falls off one shoulder and trails behind her.
“You look like the cake from cousin Bobby’s wedding,” Paige tells her.
“Do I? Does that mean you look like a cupcake?” Lou squats in front of her, twining one of Paige’s curls around her finger as she nods. “Should I take a bite?”
“No.” Paige giggles.
“I missed you,” Lou tells her.
“I missed you, too,” she parrots, before holding her hands around her mouth and whispering, “So did Daddy.”
“I missed him, too,” Lou whispers, looking up to me. “And thank you, Grady. You look pretty damn good yourself.”
Holding a hand out, I help her stand, pulling her closer. Her scent overtakes me, some new perfume she hadn’t used before.
“What do you smell like?”
“Ferns and figs,” she says, flinching as my nose tickles the bare skin of her shoulder.
“Never wear another scent.” I inhale as much of her as I can. “It smells…like you.”
Sweet and natural. Sexy and real.
God damn, she makes me lose my mind.
“Thank you,” she says. “And thank you for coming.”
“We wouldn’t be anywhere else, Lou.”
“Are you ready for a taste of my world?”
“We’re ready for whatever you throw our way,” I say, as Paige grabs one of each of our hands.
A couple of hours later, Luke escorts Lou onstage as the first ad for House of Moreno plays on the wall-sized screen behind her.
Images of her in dress after dress after dress, all showcasing the wounds from her battle with Pierre in front of our houses.
She didn’t cover any of it. Every shot has a bruise, a gash, or a scar prominently highlighted.
A strange woman voiceovers the images, talking about the cause, describing the help the charity hopes to give.
I can’t focus on them, though. All I see is Lou.
On the screen and standing tall on the stage as she looks at me.
I give her an encouraging smile and mouth the words, “I am so fucking proud of you.” She smiles back, her eyes shining, not with tears but with something soft. Love, I think. Then, she walks to the microphone.
“I am not a victim,” she starts. “I was abused. Controlled. Manipulated. Gaslit, for years. I was beaten when no one was looking. Humiliated when they were. But I am not a victim. I fell for a charming, accomplished man who love-bombed me until I was hooked. Until I was alone in the world with nobody but him by my side. Nobody else was good enough to be in my life, he’d said.
They drag you down, he said. Hold you back.
With me, you’ll soar. He failed to mention that he meant through a wall, or a window, or down a flight of stairs,” she says to a chorus of shocked gasps and sympathetic cries.
“But I am not a victim. In the minute I’ve been speaking, twenty-four more people, in this country alone, have fallen victim to rape, physical abuse, or stalking by an intimate partner.
Twelve million people a year report such atrocities from their partners.
Nearly half of all women and men will experience psychological aggression from their intimate partner in their lifetime.
Children witness violence by a domestic partner in nearly one in four cases filed in court.
House of Moreno aims to lower every one of those statistics.
I am Louisa Moreno, and I am not a victim. I am a survivor.”
She lets a lone tear fall, and I hate that I can’t be up there to wipe it away when the crowd stands and applauds. No one with more enthusiasm than the eight-year-old beside me.
“But survivors have a new set of issues when they escape their horrific situation. They are three times more likely to self-harm. Three times more likely to develop PTSD. They are twice as likely to develop depression and six times more likely to have a substance use disorder.
“For now, my abuser is behind bars. People will tell you I’m lucky.
That I’m lucky I survived. When what statistics really show is that the abusers are the lucky ones.
They rarely see the punishment they deserve.
My abuser will be lucky because he’ll get out.
Probably sooner rather than later. He’ll be lucky because people, some maybe in this room, right now, will want to work with him.
They’ll hire him. One of you may even date him.
Me being here, my bruises on full display, doesn’t make me lucky.
It makes me brave. It makes me strong. Stronger than him.
“Strong enough to build a coalition of safe houses around the country where survivors can seek shelter, safety, education, career training, daycare services, and therapy. A place to start fresh, free of the tethers of their tormentors. With the help of the fashion industry, House of Moreno will be there to support survivors like myself, because I couldn’t have done it without help, and I want to offer that same helping hand to others. ”
There’s another round of applause and I take the time to hone in on the voices around me.
She’s so brave. I can’t believe he did that to her. I can. Pierre was always an asshole.
Mostly, they’re in support or sympathy. But there are a few people with lackluster clapping and disbelieving looks.
I make eye contact with one of the men who peers up at the stage as if he’d like to do the same to her as Pierre did.
I stare the motherfucker down until his neck reddens and he looks at his feet.
She’ll never escape it. In every crowded room, she’ll face at least one naysayer. At least one predator hiding behind a well-tailored suit and expensive tie. They’re everywhere. But from here on out, she’ll have me watching her back as she walks forward in life.
“There’s something I want to do in Los Angeles,” she tells me later that evening.
After she answered all the press questions that awaited her outside the theater.
After her impromptu photo shoot with Paige in their matching dresses, which my daughter loved, saying she felt like she was a movie star.
After Lou removed her impossibly high heels and I massaged the tension out of her feet.
“Anything.”
“Since he’s still in jail,” she says, “I want to go to his house and pick up some of my stuff. Will you go with me? I don’t want to walk in there by myself.”
That’s exactly what we do. Juliet and Paige had a pool day at the hotel in Disneyland, while I drove Lou to pick up the possessions she’d left behind. I was surprised that he hadn’t changed the security codes on the door or the alarm.
“He wouldn’t,” she’d said. “He’d leave a way for me to fly back into my cage.”
She was right. On the drive, she’d said there were only a handful of things that she really cared about. I encouraged her to not limit herself. Even if they weren’t items she wanted to keep, they still had value. Maybe not to her, but to her cause.
We ended up filling the back of the SUV. The smile didn’t leave her lips the entire drive back to Anaheim.
Lou has found purpose. She’s found herself.
I’ve found the love of my life.