Chapter 13
Thirteen
Lou
“Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.”
Randy Pausch
They’re not pursuing charges.
Suzanne called me this morning to tell me.
She assumes he relied on connections and bribes to have the case dropped.
My only option now is a civil case, if I choose to go that route.
She warned me that it would be a difficult process.
That Pierre would hire a PR team of his own to drag me through the mud.
It could become a spectacle, sensationalized and viral.
She also said she’s not afraid of anything he could potentially throw at us.
Us. She said us because she sees my fight as her own. We’re a team, and I didn’t know how badly I needed that.
Still, I’m unsure of what course to take. With a civil suit, the only thing I can ask for is monetary damages. I don’t want his money. I want him to never be able to do this to someone else.
But how can I possibly stop that? Even if he’d been sentenced to prison, it wouldn’t be for long. He’d have gotten out and found someone new to control. It will be the same, even if I make the biggest spectacle in a civil case.
There will always be a woman who will ignore the signs, the red flags, and me screaming at the top of my lungs. We see it all the time. I can’t count how many celebrities, especially men, who have shown abhorrent behavior toward a partner, only to be dating someone new shortly after.
If I can’t stop it, is it worth prolonging my own healing? Is it worth reliving every trauma? Not only reliving but sharing it all with the world to be judged, to be side-eyed, to be called names. For the rest of my life, any photo I post to Instagram will have comments calling me a liar or worse.
I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to deal with that.
And I hate myself for not being strong enough for that. I’ve added it to the long mental list of things to be upset at myself for. It’s grown ridiculously long and I fear it’s not finished, yet.
The weight of it all is heavier than an anvil. If my warning stops even one vulnerable woman from being caught in his web, it should be worth it.
If only I could find the strength I need.
Juliet promises to be by my side no matter what I decide.
She’ll be leaving soon, though. Back to Portland, then New York and Paris, before too long.
My parents are of no help. Mom has been emailing almost daily to berate me for being a poor excuse for a daughter and an even worse girlfriend.
She’ll never take my side, so my father never will either.
My brother has never taken an interest in me except to say I’m no better than a whore selling her body.
If I do this, go public and fight him, I do it with little more than the support of the people I pay to be on my side. I’m not sure that’s enough. No matter how strong I want to believe I can be.
Yesterday was a nearly perfect day. I’d woken up to my new bank account full of money.
Juliet and I spent a small portion setting me up with everything I would need to get me back to work.
Luggage, apparel, cosmetics, and skincare.
Nothing fancy, because I’m determined to skip every party, every dinner, every invitation that isn’t paying me for a photograph.
Designer brands were not my priority. I bought Levi’s jeans and basic tank tops from Gap.
Simple, but comfortable, Adidas tennis shoes, although, four different pairs because I couldn’t choose the color I liked best.
The luggage was quality, as were the cosmetics and skincare. I learned quickly in this industry what my skin can and can’t handle.
The truck was a definite splurge. It’s cute as hell, though, and the color is my favorite. I’m in a town with few sidewalks and no public transit, an hour outside of the city, so a vehicle is a must.
And fun.
Then, there was Grady to end it in the most unexpected way. A date. One that I probably should have declined. My mental state is hard enough for me to live with; I shouldn’t be laying that on anyone else. He’s sweet, though. Charming and capable.
What he said to me the other night will live rent-free in my head forever.
“I’ll be your safety.”
It’s easy to believe. He’s easy to believe. And believe in.
I wanted to say yes. Considering how long it’s been since I’ve been able to make all the decisions in my own life, I did what I wanted. I’ll just have to ignore the brain worm telling me I did wrong.
He invited me over to meet his parents last night. I only briefly stopped by, saying hello to both of them and Paige before I returned home and gave them time to catch up with Juliet. I know she’s missed them; she spoke of them often while we were out.
Instead of intruding on their time, I snuck home and fantasized about how tonight might go. Sleep brought dreams of Grady, and I woke up happy.
Until the real world barged through my thinly constructed walls and trampled over my fragile peace.
They’re not pursuing charges.
Two steps forward, one step back. Or is it one step forward, two steps back? Some days, it’s hard to tell.
Juliet is as upset as me when I share the news with her over coffee. Maggie, Grady’s mother, knocks on the back door during Juliet’s angry rant. I let her in with a sad smile for a hello.
“Is this a bad time? Grady hasn’t replaced the coffeepot, evidently. I’m not enough of a morning person to start the day without caffeine.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I got some bad news, and Jules is letting the universe know she’s not happy about it.”
“Oh no, nothing too horrible, I hope,” she says.
“It’s very fucking horrible,” Juliet says. “Excuse my language, Maggie.”
“You’ve never had to censor yourself around me before,” she says.
Maggie is a pretty woman, frail, probably from the cancer treatments, but still quite youthful looking.
There are only slight signs of crow’s feet and graying at the temples of her stylish pixie cut. “Don’t you dare fucking start now.”
“I like you,” I tell her.
“Well, good. Then maybe you’ll take pity on me with a cup of coffee. And perhaps tell me what this trouble is. I might be able to help.”
Grady must get this part of his personality from Maggie, because, like him, I want to tell her the things I’ve hidden from others. All three of us take our mugs and move outside to drink it with the sea as our backdrop. I start from the beginning.
Or the beginning of Pierre and me, anyway.
While I don’t give her all the worst details or every horrible thing he did to me, I do relay the most important points. How he love-bombed me at the start and slowly let his monster show.
An hour and many tears later, we’re at the part of how I ended up in Stowaway.
“I don’t know why he stopped when he did. He must have realized how close I was,” I say. “Maybe it scared him. I can’t say. But he took his hands from my neck and walked outside. I was able to call 911.”
I saw death that night. A darkness settled upon my vision, quickly bleeding in around the edges.
There was no light at the end of a tunnel, only Pierre’s face, red with rage, spittle flying as he yelled words I couldn’t hear.
Everything went silent, quiet as a grave six feet deep.
Whoever says peace comes at death, has never come close to it.
“She called me from the hospital,” Juliet says. “I was ready to get on the next flight from Milan, but she’s stubborn as hell.”
“I needed a place to hide out, not a hand to hold,” I say in weak defense.
“Sounds like you needed both, dear,” Maggie says, reaching over and patting my hand. “I’m glad you had Juliet to support you through it. And Irma would love that you’re here healing, though it must have been terrifying moving to a strange place with only a strange man as a neighbor.”
“Grady lost his scariness quickly,” I tell her.
“He’s a good man. Protective and proud.”
“He’s a pain in the ass,” Juliet says.
“That too,” Maggie agrees with a laugh.
After refilling our mugs, we talk more. Maggie is inquisitive in a motherly way. I never get the impression of judgment, just concern. For me. A woman she only just met. My own mother doesn’t show this much care for me.
Is that why I never expected it from Pierre? Strange that we become so accustomed to less, we don’t even know how to recognize more. And funny what you learn about yourself when you’re left with nothing else but time to dissect every decision you’ve ever made.
I’ve blamed myself the most. Then, Pierre, never analyzing how my childhood groomed me to be his perfect victim.
Victim.
Victim?
Victim.
No matter the way I taste it, the word is sour.
Is that me? Is that what I am? Reducing it down to only that doesn’t seem fair. Or accurate. Because I’ve seen myself as a willing contributor. I stayed. I kept going back and back and back again.
At times, I provoked. I taunted. I fought back knowing what the result would be.
I can’t reconcile it. Not today. Maybe not ever.
The mood turns lighter. I think Maggie senses I need it too, her hand patting mine again. I’ve never felt more seen.
She begins to tell stories of Grady and Juliet as children.
Like the time they strung a pulley system between the two houses so they could pass food to each other without having to cross the yard.
And the time they dressed like the other for Halloween.
They picked outfits for each other, Juliet making Grady wear the shortest mini skirt she could fit him in.
Irma donated a wig to the cause. But Grady took it all in stride, enjoying the attention he got all day, much to Juliet’s disappointment.
My mood shifts rapidly the more we laugh. I wonder what it might have been like to grow up with someone so close. Someone the same age with the same zest for life. With parents that let their child live.
I wonder if Grady wanted that for Paige, before his marriage fell apart.
“Is it okay that I’m going on a date with Grady tonight?” It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask all morning, but I wait for a lull in conversation to do so.