Chapter 2
Two
Lou
“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.”
Ambrose Redmoon
Waking up is as hard as falling asleep. Every horrible detail comes back to life. Constant familiarity. Persistent reminders.
No escape. No respite.
I wear my bad decisions like a shroud. All my missteps are like a trail I’ve left behind for others to follow.
I hope they don’t.
When Jules offered me her deceased grandmother’s house in Stowaway, Oregon, I could have laughed.
Maybe I would have if it didn’t hurt to do so.
The town name fits my situation. It’s what I did.
I stowed away in a borrowed car, wearing borrowed clothes, to a borrowed home, all in the hopes of finding myself somewhere new. Or the next version of me, anyway.
I’ve been many things before.
Now, I guess I’m a victim.
Well, I’ve been that for years now. I didn’t know it.
Didn’t see it, at first. I’m sure no woman does.
The subtle signs well hidden behind charisma and charm.
It’s the lure. The draw. You don’t know you’re walking into a web.
You don’t know you’re sleeping with a monster.
If I had seen it, I like to think I’d have run the other way.
I’m sorry. I love you.
It was always the same words. Repeated over and over.
Lies and lies and lies.
I’m sorry. I love you.
And you believe it. The first time. Then, the second. Third, fourth, fifth. By the fiftieth, you wonder how you still convince yourself. But you do.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I’m sorry. I love you.
It’s okay. I love you, too, you say without depth.
Lies and lies and more fucking lies.
Waking up is as hard as falling asleep. Because I know my nightmares aren’t real.
Rolling over to see the time on my phone, I can already tell it’s well into morning by the sunlight streaming through the transom windows.
It’s why I picked this room to sleep in; it feels safer knowing nobody could stand outside and peer in.
Not unless they’re twelve feet tall. I’d have bigger issues if a twelve-foot man showed up.
I guess I am in Bigfoot territory, now, though. I’d take him over a man, at this point.
There are several text notifications waiting for me. If it was my old phone, I’d be surprised that there are so few. This isn’t my old phone. This is a new one. For the new version of me. For Lou. Not Louisa. She left her old phone so it couldn’t be tracked.
Lou has to be smarter than Louisa ever was.
There are two from Jules checking in on me. I slept late.
Me:
I’m good. Just woke up. Grandma Irma has a comfortable bed.
Juliet:
Glad you got some rest. Plans for the day?
Me:
My plans include the couch and the extensive DVD collection.
Juliet:
You have fun with that, but be warned, Irma never knew a love story that she didn’t love.
Me:
Ewww, love.
Juliet:
Exactly.
Me:
Thanks again, Jules. For everything.
Juliet:
Anything you need. Anytime.
The other text is from the neighbor. Juliet had given me his number in case I needed any help. Grady Steele. His name sounds like a cowboy from a John Wayne movie. She promised me he’s safe.
She doesn’t know that they all have someone who says they’re safe.
I’m glad she doesn’t know. I wish I didn’t have to know.
Last night, late, well after the house next door had gone dark, I sent two words.
Thank you.
My fingers shook as I did it. Like I was unchaining the locked door. Removing the first layer of security.
Except, I have to keep trust somewhere. If not, I’ll lose everything. It’s a hard place to be afraid of everyone while also being afraid of being alone.
It’s why it’s easy to believe the lies and lies and lies.
I’m sorry. I love you.
Grady:
You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more, happy to doorstep deliver.
Small towns are foreign. I’ve traveled the world, one big city to the next. New York, Paris, Milan, Tokyo. This is my first small town. The first time I’ve traveled to hide when I’m accustomed to being seen.
The new me.
Lou, who can’t walk on her own but runs as fast as her feet will take her.
I make a pot of coffee, smiling at the contraption that is surely older than I am. It sits on a pea-green vinyl countertop that matches the color of the appliances. Juliet called the house dated. It’s the good kind of dated. Lived in. Cared for. Loved.
Worn, not broken.
I watch every drip into the pot until it’s full. I’ve nothing better to do. The distraction of counting each drop is nice until the drops turn into a stream. When they slow to a drop again, I restart my count.
The mug I choose from the cupboard has a lamb on it. It wears a baby blue bow tied neatly around her neck. Why decorate your lamb?
I grab an Afghan blanket off the back of the floral sofa and slip my feet into the mule-style slippers that I left by the back door.
They aren’t mine. I found them here, like I hope to find other things.
Things more important than shoes. The sea breeze is chilly on the back deck, so I wrap the blanket tighter and hold my cute lamb mug between both hands.
The waves break like rolling thunder. They say water is healing. If I walked into the ocean, would it spit me back out clean or just swallow me whole?
Near death experiences make me quite morose.
Unbidden tears fall with every sip. Memories will fade with time, I suppose. Right now, they feel like his hands that were around my neck just days ago.
The first time we met, he made me feel like I was the only woman in the room. Like I wasn’t one of a hundred beautiful models. No, I was the fairest of them all. The most enticing. The most intriguing. The only one he had eyes for.
Lies and lies and lies.
A month later, he flew me to Mallorca. We spent the week naked and drunk. I loved every minute of it.
Six months later, it had started to change. He couldn’t hide his habits as well. His disdain for my flaws festered. My list of offenses was long, in his opinion. He wanted perfection. No, he demanded it. I could never live up. I did everything wrong.
The first sign should have been when I started to panic that he was home.
His opening the front door was the sound of my prison cell shutting me in.
If…when I analyze it all, the first signs happened even before that.
He hated the music I liked and would relentlessly make fun of it until I didn’t play it around him at all and then stopped listening to it altogether.
He did the same with the food I liked, the movies I watched, the friends I hung out with most.
I was isolated despite spending my life swirling through crowds of people.
Now, I’m alone. Lone. Loner. Lonely?
Stunted.
That’s what I feel most. My forward motion in life has stalled. The career I was building took a backseat to my efforts to hide his indiscretions. To keep his secrets. To bury my own shame.
Success meant no one could know. His success, not mine. I had no value.
Do I now?
Will I ever?
Who can say. Eventually, I’ll have to try to rebuild my career.
Or begin a new one, though I have no other experience or talent in any other industry.
Worth doesn’t come from work, it comes from somewhere inside of me, I know that.
Right now, my life has no substance, and work will have to be the first block laid in my new foundation.
After I heal, anyhow. Physically, I mean. I don’t know how to heal emotionally, but I imagine it’s going to take much longer.
When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I flinch and wonder if that will go away. That nervous energy I carry with me at all times.
Grady:
I’ll be working all day. Feel free to text if you need anything. Check your doorstep for breakfast.
Before I have the first message read, another one comes through.
Grady:
Sorry. I’m not aiming for intrusive. I promised Juliet I’d keep an eye out and I keep my word. You can tell me if it’s too much. I’ll listen.
An engine starts and I hear when he pulls away from his house.
A chill runs down my spine. I’ve never been this alone, this geographically isolated.
Besides the Steele house next door, the closest neighbor can’t be seen.
If I screamed, I wouldn’t be heard. Especially with the ocean waves creating a constant soundtrack.
I wait a couple more minutes before I search out this breakfast. I was too quick yesterday and startled both of us. In my defense, I hadn’t eaten all day. And before that, I’d been in the hospital with a diet that consisted of mostly broth and Jell-O to let my windpipe heal.
He saw me. The parts of me I want to hide. The bruises, the breaks. Visible evidence of my worst choice. The choice to stay. Did I choose? I can’t recall. Though I didn’t leave.
I’m sorry. I love you.
This morning’s plate, neatly covered in foil like the salmon burger from last night, includes a heaping portion of scrambled eggs, potatoes O’Brien, and five strips of crispy bacon. A girl could get used to this. Being spoiled by a handsome man.
A girl has. Look where that got her!