FORTY
EMERALD
MICHIGAN
MARCH
The snow is finally starting to melt.
It's been a long winter, to say the least. There’s a gentle snow falling outside, even though it’s Spring next week. This is the longest the frost has held onto Ann Arbor that I can remember.
Ruby and I used to love the snow when we were little—building snowmen with Dad, tromping through the woods, skating the old lake once January made it safe enough to trust.
I used to love it all.
Now I'm not such a fan of the snow.
Or maybe I just need some space from it, because space is good. Space lets you miss things.
And right now, I miss my husband.
Pushing off the couch, I walk to the kitchen to start preparing lunch, two little monsters nipping at my heels, meowing like they didn't just eat three hours ago.
"Greedy boys," I mutter, smiling as I toss treats to the floor.
Merry and Pippin start purring loudly as they eat, making my smile widen. These two make me so happy. More than that, they remind me that my husband does listen to me—to my dreams, my thoughts, all the little things.
I forgot that for a while.
I think he did too .
This time last year, we were in Boston, and I was already miserable.
I felt guilty for that then because Hayden had been so excited, and I didn’t want to snuff out his happiness.
Marriage is all about compromise; that’s what my parents always told me.
My Dad used to joke that he let my mother decorate the house like the Land of Oz, and in return, she smiled and paid in kisses.
So, I thought that Boston was a compromise, and we wouldn’t be there forever.
And I tried to look at the positives—four million dollars, an exciting new city, a new team, and new friends.
A new life.
I just didn't know Boston would come with Rick Fox and the near destruction of our marriage. It feels like a million lifetimes since then. I don't feel like the same Emerald, and when I look in the mirror, I don't see the same Emerald.
I see a survivor.
When I woke in the hospital, I was terrified, dizzy, and confused. The doctors' faces blurred together, and the only thing I could see was that jersey. The man who wore it and hurt me, the man I love, the man who hurt me with his words, the man who saved me.
They all blended together, and it took time—and speaking to Dr. Flores—to untangle that.
“Name it to tame it,” she told me when I expressed how Hayden’s jersey gave me flashbacks. So, I would name the trauma and then focus on separating the two.
My husband was not my attacker. My attacker was not my husband.
And Hayden’s actions—immediately quitting hockey, something he loved—showed me he wanted to change. He wanted to make things better. He didn’t just offer pretty words; he sacrificed for me .
And that meant everything.
Maybe some people would say it should not have taken almost losing me to get him there. Maybe they'd be right. But life is messy, and trauma is even messier.
That's something I'm still untangling with my therapist here.
Especially after speaking to Hayden—his motivations, his reasoning, and especially after knowing the man who raised him. He should have untangled Hal from himself a long time ago, but again, you don't know how your trauma will shape you until it happens.
I trust my husband again. I've always trusted him to be faithful.
Boston caused that faith to fracture, but not break.
I think of what would happen if Britney were to show me that evidence. Because from the looks of her photos, it would be believable. She was in the apartment, wearing my things, pretending to live my life.
It looked real.
And so did those messages in Hayden's DMs from those other women.
And so did Hayden's berating of me in that video.
But half a story can look like the whole thing if someone hands it to you at the right angle.
Perception is dangerous like that.
People have been doing it to me my whole life—mistaking softness for stupidity, optimism for weakness, kindness for naivety. But I like the way I'm made. That's how my mother shaped me. I believe there is good in people, even when there's plenty of proof that bad exists too.
And Hayden—despite everything that bled into him from Hal Sawyer—has always had so much good in him .
Choosing to forgive Hayden was something I agonized over. At first, if I am honest, part of it was survival.
I needed him.
But now that I don't need him, I want him.
Because I believe people can change.
Because I believe that love is infinite, and my love for Hayden grows every day.
Because I love my husband, and he loves me.
And that's enough.
The door opens, and I blink, surprised.
Has that much time passed already?
All I've been doing is getting lost in my memories, staring at the raw chicken on the cutting board.
"Sorry, honey,” I sigh. “Lunch will be a little late."
"Oh, that's okay, sweetheart, " a mocking voice calls back.
I freeze, blood running cold.
That's not my husband.
The lock on the front door clicks.
Instinctively, I move, quickly scooping up Merry and Pippin as I hear heavy bootsteps approaching. I put them in the pantry to keep them safe, and then turn back to face him.
Rick.
Rick is in the house.
And he's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blocking the only exit.
He looks haggard. His dark hair is greasy, a brassy blonde from a bad box-dye job.
His usual clean-shaven face is now thick with a dark beard, a mismatch with his blonde hair.
He's not dressed in his usual pressed suits, but in a thick gray hoodie, jeans, and boots.
There's a Yankees baseball cap on his head, pulled down to shadow his eyes.
But it doesn't disguise how unhinged they look in them as he smiles at me.
Rick was always polished in a way that unnerved me.
His smile was too wide, his laugh too loud, like he was trying to be the center of attention, his eyes too.
.. leery. I would look around at the people who seemed charmed by him and wonder if I was not seeing things clearly, or if they were just blinded by the shiny veneer.
But now I know—I saw him from the start.
And this is him, as he truly is.
A monster.
"What's for lunch?"
My body shakes violently.
Growing up in a house full of women made Tim Osgood very protective. And he always instilled in us the idea of fighting our way out if someone corners us. Using anything we can as a weapon, to not give up, to keep fighting and fighting, inch by inch.
I have always prided myself on being kind in a hard world that isn't kind to women.
But men like Doyle, who took me off guard, are the exception.
This man is in my house; he almost ruined my marriage, used and manipulated my husband, and wanted to profit from my death.
No way in hell is he taking me.
I eye the knife block, but Rick is bigger and stronger than I am. Grabbing the raw chicken breast off the cutting board with one hand, I rush at Rick. As I lunge, he steps forward, and I shove the raw chicken breast into his face, knocking his hat off. I aim for his mouth but hit his nose instead .
He makes a gagging noise, and I, as my father instructed, jam my knee up and hit his groin.
"Fuck!" he gasps, bending over at the waist, the air knocked out of him.
The adrenaline spikes and makes me dizzy as I stumble to the front door. My mind screams that I'm leaving my kittens, but I know they're safe in the pantry, and I need to get away from this psychopath first.
Unfortunately, Rick recovers quickly. I hear him get up and chase after me.
I make it to the front door and pull, but the deadbolt is locked, and the chain is secured.
My shaking fingers, slippery with chicken juice, fumble to unlock the bolt and reach for the chain—just as Rick slams into my back, pinning me against the door.
"You fucking bitch!" he snarls into my ear.
My dad, in my head, tells me to snap my head back, and I do, making contact with his face enough that he loosens his grip. I lift my sock-covered foot to slam it down on his feet, but it ends up hurting me more because of the heavy boots he's wearing.
Scream, Emerald.
"Let go of me!" I shriek, my voice shrill. I scream louder, hoping someone—anyone—outside can hear me. Unfortunately, it's the middle of the day on a weekday, and the neighborhood we're in values personal space, with houses set far apart. "Help! Help me!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Rick growls.
The back of my hair is gripped, and my face is slammed into the door, causing stars to bloom in my eyes. Dazed, I slide down to the floor, my temple throbbing where it made contact with the hardwood.
When my vision clears, I see Rick in the same shape as me, blinking to clear his vision from my headbutt and still holding his groin.
"Goddamn fucking cunt," he coughs, spitting the raw chicken chunks from his mouth. Around it is still coated, and a little satisfaction bleeds through me at that as I try to stop the world from tilting.
Probably another concussion.
At least it's not my teeth or jaw again.
Rick spits at me, and I feel it hit my chest.
"You ruined my fucking life, you little bitch.
You and your pathetic husband," he snarls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hoodie sleeve.
My anger spikes, and I growl, trying to breathe through the nausea.
He smiles, "Mmm... yeah, you're real pretty when you're angry.
Let's see how you look with your brains outside your head. "
He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and produces a black object that’s shape is unmistakable.
“No...” I whimper. My heart slams against my ribcage. And I move again, kicking my foot up and aiming for his groin. He's more aware, so he blocks most of it, but I follow by ramming my head right into his stomach. It hurts my neck, but at least I made contact.
Fight, Emerald, fight!
"Fuck," he says, coughing, gasping for breath.