25. Anouk
Anouk
Idon’t expect him to show up. I also don’t want him to. I’m not doing great. I’m not ready for him. But he’s here whether I like it or not.
We just got back from Kezar, and I’m having my nightly chamomile when there’s a knock on our apartment door.
Finn walks to the door and looks through the keyhole. He turns to me and wiggles his eyebrows. “You know who it is.”
I drink some tea. Take my time.
“You want me to let him in?” Finn drawls.
“I d-don’t kn-know.”
Just like that, my stutter is manifesting. Damn Luther!
“You gotta deal with him, Annie.” He looks through the keyhole again. “Also, he looks like shit.”
I scoff at that. “B-big d-deal. I f-feel like sh-shit.”
A part of me is glad he’s here—that he wants to apologize. Fragments of me also want very much to rewind to the day before yesterday, when I had a boyfriend and a job I loved. But the Anouk from a few days ago believed in fairytales.
I now know better.
Because the real me—the one shaped by reality, by consequences—knows that there is no rewinding this. No undoing it. Luther didn’t just make a bad decision. He told me that my disability—something I struggle with every day—was a liability to him.
And I don’t know how you forgive someone for seeing you that way.
I motion for Finn to step away, and he does.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
Finn’s right. Luther doesn’t look any better than I do. His eyes seem just as trashed as mine.
Has he been crying, too?
I doubt it. Rich trust fund babies like him don’t cry.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“W-what?” I snap. So, I’m being petty. Deal with it.
“Annie.” I hear Finn from behind me. He puts an arm around my waist and moves me away from the door. “Luther. Come in.”
I glare at my friend. How is this any of his business?
Luther closes the door behind him and stands, awkwardly, hands in jeans pockets. “Thanks.”
Finn gives me a pointed, warning look. I don’t stick my tongue out at him, but it’s close.
Easy for him to say, talk to the guy, he’s not the one who had his whole heart blown up into itty-bitty pieces.
Speaking of my heart, I hate that it’s so stupidly giddy to see Luther.
Stupid being the operative word!
Eventually, I’ll stop loving him, right? Because this feeling of joy mixed with so much pain is not sustainable.
“I have a phone call to make,” Finn lies, steps close to Luther, and gets in his face. “You have about ten minutes. And if you make her cry again, I’m going to hurt you.”
Okay, now he’s just being an ass!
“Alright,” Luther agrees.
We wait for Finn to leave. As soon as his bedroom door clicks shut, Luther takes a step toward me.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, like the words were burning him from the inside. “I know that doesn’t fix a damn thing, but I need you to hear it. What I did to you was wrong. I was wrong.”
I don’t invite him to sit. I don’t soften my posture.
I cross my arms and stand, back rigid.
I try to wear the armor of anger, but I’m in too much pain for that.
I love him. I look at him, and I want to hug him, hold him. I don’t like that he’s hurting, too. I can see the anguish plain on his face.
I also wish, from the bottom of my heart, that I’d stayed away from Luther Grant, never given him this kind of power over me.
So many people taught me not to trust, and I still did it.
Love is stupid and blind. I don’t have to be.
“I-I’m glad you kn-know you were w-wrong.”
It isn’t what he’s expecting. I can see the shock on his face. I wonder what he thought my response would be.
“I made a bad decision, Anouk.”
I shake my head. Nuh-uh, he doesn’t get to make this some leadership executive choice he walked into. “You didn’t just m-make a bad decision. You m-made a value judgment.”
His face contorts into a map of suffering. “I know.”
“O-okay. I-is that it?”
Now, I want him to leave because one stupid, dumb apology out of him, and I’m already melting. I’m ready to say, ”Fine, just don’t do it again.“ That’s how desperate I am—and it reminds me of the little Anouk who so eagerly wanted to believe that people can change.
“It’s okay, Mama. I know you didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay, Daddy, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.”
“I’m okay, officer, just don’t hurt my mother.”
He’s about to come closer, but I hold my hand up. He stops.
There are only a few steps between us. There’s also a chasm.
“I fucked up. I’m so sorry I hurt you.” He’s sincere, I have to give him that. But apologies are a dime a dozen. I know it better than anyone else.
“I’m so sorry, Anouk, Mama will never hit you again.”
“I’m sorry, baby, Daddy is going to keep you safe.”
“I’m so sorry, Anouk, the system failed you, but it’s going to be better from now on.”
I keep my arms crossed.
I need Finn to come back.
My cues are all screwed up. I need someone to tell me what’s going on because I can’t see it through the anxiety that’s building.
I’m afraid that whatever Luther and I had has died.
I’m afraid that I’m going to be foolish and weak and accept his apology.
I’m afraid. Period.
“Baby, Anouk—”
“Y-you m-made me f-feel sm-small.”
I hate that I’m stuttering when I want to be eloquent and articulate—show him how well I can speak.
But that’s not who I am.
I’m damaged. I accept that about myself. I wish Luther could have.
“I—"
“You said that h-how I speak makes me a r-risk to your career,” I continue.
“That’s not—”
“Y-you kn-know why I st-stutter. You know my speech doesn’t work on command. When it hits, it hits—whether I’m prepared or not.” I interrupt him again, this time, my voice wobbles with unshed tears, “And y-you s-still….”
I am shaking a little now. It’s grief. My mind is starting to realize that my love story with Luther, the one that I never thought I’d have with anyone, is ending—or maybe it was never real.
I thought I could trust him. I thought he loved me.
But you don’t treat people you love the way Luther treated me.
He swallows hard. “I was afraid.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Y-you w-were afraid?”
He nods slowly.
“F-fear doesn’t ex-excuse t-taking someone’s work…h-handing it to her because th-they sound b-better.”
His eyes shine. “I didn’t mean to steal from you.”
“B-but you did,” I protest. “You c-cr-credited Erin with my work. You e-erased me. And you did it kn-knowing how hard it is for m-me to take space.”
I think he’d have looked less stricken if I’d slapped him.
No mercy, Anouk. If you let him in again, he’ll crush you. You’re not that strong.
“I love you, Anouk.” His voice is a whisper, not seductive but fraught.
I move back, push against the wall.
How long have I waited for someone besides Finn to say those words to me? Forever. And I thought I would never hear them. No one would love me like Finn. No one.
But then I met Luther, and I thought…dreamed.
He’s saying the words now, but they’re hollow.
Finally, rage replaces pain.
“You don’t get to say you love me when you kicked me out,” I shout. “If you can’t accept all of me at work, you don’t get me in private.”
There’s something about the edge of fury that makes the stutter vanish. Hallelujah!
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m asking you to…give me a chance to make it right.”
Heat surges up my spine. “You want me to give you a chance? When you didn’t do me that decency?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you,” I yell. “Why should I?”
“Because you’re a better person than me.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity until Finn’s amused voice breaks through. “Well, she isn’t crying, but she’s angry as all get out.”
I send him a withering look and then shoot that same spark Luther’s way. He deserves it.
“I have zero faith in you as a man and a leader,” I throw at him.
He closes his eyes and then opens them.
They’re haunted. I refuse to feel bad.
“I’m going to work very hard to be better at both, Anouk. But…please don’t quit and don’t—”
I jab his chest with a finger. “Quit? I’m not quitting.” Okay, so my voice is now really high and not in that squeaky way. It’s more fire and brimstone. “I like my job. I’m good at it. I won’t let you run me off.”
He grabs my finger, holds it. “I want you to stay”—he squeezes my finger before letting go—“forever.”
The nerve!
I flip him off. “Go f-fuck y-yourself, L-luther G-grant.”
Damn it! I’m less angry now, so I’m tripping over my words.
Luther’s about to say something when Finn comes to stand next to me, his arm wraps around me. “Time’s up, bud.”
A ghost of a smile touches Luther’s lips—the ones that have kissed me, loved me, oh so tenderly.
How will I go through my life without ever feeling them again?
I slump against Finn, emotionally drained.
“I do love you, Anouk. So very much,” Luther says, desperation in his voice.
“L-love without re-respect is just noise,” I tell him.
The softly spoken words hit him harder than my shouting does.
His shoulders slump. I’ve never seen him look this defeated. But I can’t help him feel better about himself. I can barely help myself right now.
“I won’t b-build my life around someone who thinks I need f-fixing,” I tell him as I snuggle into Finn, wanting his warmth and solid security.
“I understand,” I hear him say, because my eyes are now closed, my face burrowed into my friend.
After he leaves, Finn helps me into bed.
When he asks me, like he always does, to tell him one good thing that happened today, I tell him the truth.
“Luther apologized.” He’s the only person who’s ever felt guilty enough to mean it.