14. Chapter 14 #2
I sink into the water until only my nose and upper head are above the surface.
I blow a few bubbles as a way of expelling all the misguided hope I felt before my date.
I think I'm done with dating. At least attempting to date strangers I meet online.
I'm clearly not ready. Maybe I'll never be ready, regardless of how lonely and sexually frustrated I am.
I still long for reclamation, to take back my life and body as my own, but there are these stubborn bits of my trauma refusing to let go.
That was the reason I decided to take a break from therapy last year.
My therapist was so amazing and helped me process so much, but then I hit a major internal wall and decided to go about my life and see how things evolved.
Life actually started to feel neutral, with less crying and less triggers. The idea of dating felt good.
Then the whole coffee shop incident happened and I've felt like I've been falling ever since.
No more dating. I should focus on other things right now, anyway, like whether or not I have a stalker. If I have one, I'll need to pack up my life again, so what's the point of trying to meet guys? I might need to flee the city tomorrow.
If I ever try to date again—a massive 'if'—it needs to be different. Maybe a speed dating event where other people are around. Or I need to actually make some female friends in the city who could join me. Double dates. Public spaces only. Daylight hours.
I can't be alone with a man unless I know, with absolute certainty, that I can trust him.
Like Sean.
I trust him now more than ever because he didn't hesitate. He didn't question. He just saw I needed help and acted.
He even broke Marcus's finger! I should be horrified, but it actually makes me grin. That jerk won't be grabbing anyone else anytime soon.
***
I'M CURLED ON THE COUCH, freshly bathed and wrapped in the soft cocoon of my oversized sleep shirt and PJ bottoms. The old window AC is rattling from across the living room, but I'm so used to it I can mostly tune it out.
My book for book club sits in my lap, but the words blur and dance every time I try to focus on them. Quantum consciousness feels too hard to grasp when my own consciousness keeps splitting into before-and-after pieces of my earlier date.
I flip another page, not absorbing a damn word.
But, Sean said reading even one sentence was fine, and I've actually managed to get through chapter one.
At least I'll have something to talk about, then I think I'll pick a more approachable book.
Something with pictures. A cookbook or maybe one of those self-help books that promises to change your life in thirty days.
Yeah, if only.
A gentle knock at the door sends my heart straight into my throat.
Three soft taps. Deliberate. Patient.
Somehow, I know it's him before he tells me.
"It's Sean."
His voice carries through the wood and a fresh wave of backstage butterflies fill my gut. We need to talk about my freak out earlier; I bet that's why he's here. But where do I even start without telling him about my past?
I move to the door, hesitating with my hand on the first deadbolt as I try to force my face into something resembling composure.
One deadbolt. Two. Three. The chain slides free with a soft metallic scape.
When I open the door, my eyes automatically drop to the floor. Sean isn't wearing his combat boots. Just black socks that reveal the strong curves of his feet. Wow, even his feet look capable and sturdy. I have the absurd thought that he could kill a man with his little toe if he wanted to.
"Can we talk?" His voice is low and gentle in a way that makes me exhale. He doesn't sound annoyed. That's a good sign.
I step aside, making room for him to enter. "Yeah. I think we should."
He moves past, careful to maintain distance. How can someone so physically imposing move in such a controlled way? Like a panther padding through a crowded room of crystal vases, never disturbing a single one.
I close the door behind him and turn each lock slowly to buy myself some extra seconds to gather my thoughts.
When I turn around, Sean has positioned himself on my desk chair, as far from the couch as the small living room allows.
It's sweet that he's trying to give me space and make me feel comfortable.
I settle on the couch, tucking my feet beneath me, and pat the cushion. "You can sit here. It's okay."
He hesitates, searching my face for confirmation before moving to the couch. He sits at the opposite end, leaving a small canyon between us. I fidget with the pages of my book and the dry scratch of paper against paper is the only sound around us.
I can't look at his face; it's not the resemblance this time but pure mortification.
I completely fell apart in front of him.
Let him see the raw, ragged edges of my trauma.
He must have so many questions, yet I don't think I'm ready to answer any of them.
We do need to talk, though. Somehow, I have to explain what happened.
The silence stretches until it threatens to snap, and then…
"I'm sorry."
His words are so unexpected that I glance up, meeting his brown eyes. They're glistening with remorse.
"Why?" I ask. He did the right thing, so no apology is needed.
His body becomes a half-moon and he rests his elbows on his knees.
His sigh is like all his crowded thoughts rushing out at once.
"I scared you. I shouldn't have reacted so aggressively.
When he touched you, I just…" He clenches his jaw, the muscles rippling beneath tan skin.
After a beat, he adds, "I should've just told him to back off. So I'm sorry."
The absurdity of the situation hits me. How could he be apologizing when he protected me? I should be the one saying sorry. I'm the one whose brain couldn't separate savior from attacker.
"I like that you broke his finger."
Sean's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. There's a brief spark of amusement as the corners crinkle. "I only dislocated it. He'll be fine. A doctor can pop it back in."
"Well, that's a shame."
We stare at each other for a moment, our mouths both on the verge of curving up yet we're unsure if this is appropriate. Sean breaks first, letting his teeth peek out as he laughs and dips his head. I join in next, giggling at the absurdity of what we're discussing.
"Noted," he says. "My client prefers broken bones."
"'Client' sounds so formal. But yes, your client wants you to break the fingers of men who touch without permission. It'll teach them not to do that."
His laugh deepens and he runs a hand through his hair. The heavy energy between us finally retreats. I'm happy. We were both being too serious, so this feels much better.
I'm expecting this lightness to last, but his expression suddenly drops. The lines in his face are back to standing out as he's etched with a remorse that seems to run bone-deep.
Without thinking, I reach out, gently touching the back of his hand. The contact is electric; his skin is warm beneath my fingertips as it pulses through the subtle ridge of veins.
This is the second time I've wanted to touch a man in six years. Both times it's been Sean. I guess it shows how comfortable I am around him, despite my brain's attempts to deter me.
"I'm happy you intervened," I say softly. "Thank you. I'm really happy you were there and I wasn't by myself."
His fingers twitch beneath mine, like he wants to turn his hand over. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Either way, the moment passes, and I return my hand to my lap.
"You were terrified of me," he says. "You can understand why I think I acted too aggressively and scared you.
I've also noticed you have some level of unease around me.
If I'm going to protect you, I need to know why.
Your past is your past, and I'm not trying to dig into it.
I only need a better understanding so I can do my job. "
I swallow hard, knowing he's right, though I wish he wasn't. The truth sits heavy on my tongue—the full, ugly reality of what happened to me. But I can't speak it. Not ever. Not to anyone. Instead, I search for a version that's true enough without leaving me exposed.
"You, um…" I begin, then falter. I start again.
"You remind me of someone from my past. A man who was…
verbally abusive." The lie tastes bitter because it diminishes what actually happened, but it's all I can offer.
"There's no rational explanation, but I see his face when I look at you.
It's not your fault. It's me. Just my brain playing tricks. "
"How so?"
I gesture vaguely toward his head. "It's the way you style your hair, I think.
Something about your cheeks, your jaw, but mostly hair.
The man from my past isn't Asian, there's just…
a resemblance." I let out a brittle, deflated laugh.
"Or my brain is crazy and seeing things.
Probably the latter." I look down at my hands like they have a better explanation.
They don't. "I'm really sorry. You haven't done anything wrong. I mean that, and I still trust you."
The silence that follows stretches uncomfortably thin. I can feel Sean's gaze on me, that uncanny sense that he's reading between the lines, seeing the paragraphs I've tried to delete. It's like he knows that the man from my past did more than just verbally abuse me.
He doesn't try to dig into the full truth. Instead, he asks, "So my hair is the same?"
"Yeah. The same cut, color, the way you style it. It's mostly that I think. Just reminds me of Alan, or—" Damnit. I bite my tongue. I never wanted to say his name out loud. Saying his name gives him too much humanity when all he'll ever be is a devil.
Sean stands, the movement fluid despite the tension I can see coiled in his muscular back. "Thanks for explaining it," he says. "And if I did scare you, I'm really sorry."
"You didn't. I liked that you—"
"Get some rest. Goodnight."
Before I can say anything else, he's gone, the door closing behind him with finality.
I hear each lock turn from the outside because he and Mike have their own set of keys in case they need to rush in for a rescue.
They're my security guards, so it makes perfect sense.
But the thought of someone else being able to enter ignites a momentary flash of scene-stealing panic.
Then I remind myself it's Sean. Just Sean.
He's a gentleman and only dislocates fingers, while I'm the barbarian ready to break them.
I sink back into the couch, replaying our conversation. I tried to explain myself, but I worry he still thinks he did something wrong. In reality, my heart is touched by how quickly he appeared and handled Marcus. I loved his protectiveness.
For years, I've been my own sentinel, my own guard. Tonight showed me there's another possibility, one where I'm not completely alone in watching for threats.
I run my fingers over my book, determined to get another chapter finished because tomorrow night is our book club meeting.
Tomorrow will be awkward. I'll need to find a way to make Sean truly understand that his intervention wasn't the problem.
My reaction was. Beneath the panic and the flashbacks, I was grateful.
He needs to know I like having him near.