8. Lillah
CHAPTER EIGHT
LILLAH
The Henderson project was finally coming together.
I'd spent the morning sourcing a custom shelving unit and then the afternoon building a mood board that pulled together the shelving unit with iron hardware, a wool-blend area rug in charcoal and a paint color I'd spent the last three days obsessing over.
My therapist would say I was burying myself in work instead of dealing with what was bothering me, and while I didn't care, I knew it was the truth.
When I was deep into a project like this, everything else went quiet. The voices in my head stopped, and everything went to the back of the line. Design was like meditation to me.
It had been over a week since that kiss on his porch.
I hadn't seen Marshall except from a distance.
I'd seen him leave in the morning, most days before seven.
I'd seen him return at odd hours, most nights late enough that I was already in bed, and I'd only hear the engine of his truck and the door shut.
He was gone often, probably at away games.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with fabric swatches spread out in front of me, trying to decide which was going to be best for throw pillows when I heard a car in the driveway next door. I looked out the kitchen window when a memory of Brett popped into my mind.
A team dinner in Dallas. He'd pulled into the driveway and I'd run out of the door so he didn't have to wait.
When we got to the restaurant, he'd placed his hand on my lower back as he guided me to my seat.
His grip was tight, his fingers pressing into my spine through the thin fabric of the dress he'd picked out for me.
I could feel each one of his fingers, five points of pressure, each one screaming that he owned me.
Everyone at the table saw a couple in love, but no one saw how I was feeling.
No one was going to see the fingerprints he'd leave on me.
The dress he'd picked out was tight and low-cut in burgundy, a color and cut I'd never have chosen because the openness of it made me uncomfortable.
He'd laid it out on the bed the afternoon he'd purchased it and said, "You'll wear this to the dinner.
" Not a suggestion or a request. A command he delivered while scrolling through his phone.
I looked at the dress and then walked over to my closet and looked over the dresses I'd chosen for myself.
They were dresses I felt comfortable in, and not one of them resembled this one.
Yet I still put on the dress because I knew the alternative was worse.
The silence I'd get from him if I didn't wear what he'd gotten for me would last for days.
Throughout dinner, I was quiet when his teammates talked about their season and stats, about their contract negotiations, and I never once spoke unless I was spoken to.
I only laughed when he laughed, and I never once volunteered an opinion.
I could still remember the one time I did, and Brett had waited until we were in the car to tell me I'd talked too much and I'd embarrassed him.
So instead of having any sort of opinion or conversation with anyone, I became a decoration.
That evening, on the drive home, something inside me cracked.
"I don't like being told what to wear." I whispered as I looked out the passenger window.
Brett looked at me, his expression worse than anger, causing me to think twice about what I'd said.
"You're with me," he said calmly."You represent me. When you look good, I look good. When you look like shit, it reflects on me. So yeah, I'm going to tell you what to wear, because apparently you can't figure it out for yourself."
That night I stopped arguing. Not because he was right, but because every disagreement became a negotiation, and I already knew these negotiations were something I would never win.
Not only that, but each time I lost, the price I'd pay went up.
It started with the silent treatment for a day.
The next time it would span two days. The last time it was an entire week of living in a condo with a man who looked through me like I was glass.
So for me, it was easier to stop, which forced me to become the version of me he wanted, and the real version of me shrank smaller each day until I could barely remember her.
My therapist has told me that abusive relationships don't break you at the moment. That was something no one understood unless they'd been through it. Sometimes they erased you, slowly, line by line, until the person you used to be was nothing more than a draft that someone had edited.
The slam of a car door brought me out of the memory, and I sat there staring at the swatches on the table. I looked over at the couch; Cooper was sound asleep, his back legs twitching. I pressed my palms flat on the table and took a deep breath, the way Dr. Chen had taught me.
"You're in your kitchen in Boston, working on a project that you chose. You're wearing clothes you picked, and no one is telling you what to do." I whispered, and felt the calm settle over me.
I closed my eyes and took another deep breath as my phone buzzed. I reached for it, seeing Mila's name on my screen, and smiled.
Mila: Don't forget about Saturday night. Drinks. I am picking you up at 7. No excuses, lady.
I'd agreed to girls' night during our last phone call and until this moment had forgotten about it.
Lillah: I'll be ready.
Mila: Great! Okay, don't be mad.
I rolled my eyes as my stomach sank. This was never a good way for her to start a conversation.
Lillah: What did you do?
Mila: I set you up on a blind date next week. Now, before you kill me, just hear me out.
My stomach clenched.
Lillah: Mila, No.
Mila: Just hear me out. He's a financial advisor. His name is Hank, and he is nice, stable, and boring, but in the best way possible. He isn't an athlete or an artist, so I should get points there. He is a normal guy with a normal job who would like to take a woman to dinner.
I stared at my screen, my mind racing through a million scenarios of how this was going to go.
Lillah: Fine, but if he ends up being boring, I am leaving.
Mila: Fair enough. If that happens, you leave and I'll meet you somewhere, and we will go out and eat tacos.
Lillah: I swear, I hate you plus you know I won't turn down tacos.
Mila: Love you too.
Saturday came faster than I'd expected. I had spent most of the day finishing up the Henderson's mood board.
I added final touches, swapped out a couple of hardware options that weren't working, and made my presentation notes.
Early Saturday morning I took Cooper for a long walk through some of the community trails.
The paths wound behind the houses, in a small patch of preserved woodland, and Cooper adored walking through them.
Once we were back from our walk, I started getting ready.
I took a long, hot shower, letting the bathroom fill with steam.
I shaved my legs, even though no one would see them, which was something Dr. Chen had encouraged me to do.
I needed to do more small acts of self-care, to build my confidence and to learn that not everything needed to be done for someone else's pleasure.
I stood in my closet wrapped in a towel as water dripped from my hair, trying to figure out what to wear.
This was the part I feared the most. I'd stand in front of a closet and mirror for hours wondering what he would want.
What's safe? What won't start a conversation that will end in a fight?
It had been close to a year, and I was still learning how to dress myself.
I settled on a simple, sleeveless black dress that hit above the knee. Nothing flashy or sexy. Enough to make me feel like the person I was trying to be, confident and independent.
I sat at my vanity, curling the last section of my hair. It was always the same piece that never cooperated and fell flat no matter what I did to it when I glanced out the window.
Marshall was in his driveway, leaning against his truck.
He wore dark jeans and a fitted shirt that did nothing to hide the width of his shoulders or the way his chest filled out the fabric.
He likely had returned from practice, and he stood there, phone in one hand, the other in the pocket of his jeans.
His hair was still damp, and his gym bag was on the ground by the rear tire when he looked up from his phone.
For a moment I was sure he was looking at the sky, then I realized he was looking at my bedroom window.
I leaned back, my heart hammering. There was no way he was looking at me, I thought. He was probably checking the weather, or admiring a tree, or doing something else that a person does when they stand in their driveway on a Saturday evening.
I leaned forward and looked out again and noticed his eyes were still on my window.
I backed away and looked out again, my skin prickling when I caught the look on his face.
He stood there, steady and unhurried, his body relaxed as if he had all the time in the world.
That was when I realized he wanted me to notice him watching.
My heart thudded. I closed the blinds and finished getting ready without another thought to Marshall. I put on concealer, mascara, and swiped on a lip color that Mila had given me.
Mila picked me up a little past seven looking gorgeous as usual. She wore a red dress, strappy heels, and her dark, curly hair bounced around her shoulders. She took one look at me and smiled, "You look hot, let's go out tonight and make some bad decisions."
I giggled.
"I'm making no decisions tonight. Good or bad. I'm drinking a couple of glasses of wine and coming home."
"We'll see about that." She winked, patting Cooper on the head as we left the house.