by Blair, E. K.
“I don’t want to talk,” she states.
“I know, but we’re going to.” She throws me a harsh look, and I can’t hide the smirk it causes me to have. “You can give me that nasty eye all you want, but I’m serious. It bothers me that you have that picture.”
“Why?”
“Because that guy was an asshole to you.”
She shakes her head as if I’m full of shit, and it ticks me off, but I force myself to stay calm and not be too aggressive.
“If I’m wrong to think that, I need you to tell me why.”
“You hated him from the start,” she snaps.
“Then explain to me why I shouldn’t have, because I can’t figure out how you and I see him in entirely different ways.”
She leans back and sulks into the cushions, and it’s written all over her face how much she doesn’t want to be doing this. But she’s never going to get past this if she’s still hung up on him.
Shifting to face her, I let her know, “I want to be able to understand.”
“I fell in love with him.” Her voice comes out weak—almost sad, and to hear her say it sends another current through my ribs that can’t be ignored. “He never meant to hurt me.”
“What does that even mean?” I try so hard to keep my voice soft and nonjudgmental.
“I know you want to paint him with one broad stroke as the bad guy, but he wasn’t.” She won’t even look at me as she talks. She just keeps her chin down as she picks nervously at her nails.
“He put his hands on you. I don’t know how that doesn’t make him the bad guy here.”
Silence stretches before she says, “It was my fault.”
I run an angry hand down the side of my face and around the back of my neck to keep my temper in check. I can’t believe she would think she had anything to do with what he did. But at the same time, I don’t want to diminish her reasoning and make her feel stupid, so I choose my words wisely.
“I need you to explain this to me, because, I’m sorry, I can’t begin to understand how this could possibly be your fault.”
She isn’t quick to respond, so I sit and wait while she finds whatever strength she needs to speak again. When words fail her and a small tear slips down her face, I start questioning if I’m doing the right thing by forcing this conversation on her.
She doesn’t bother to wipe it away, and my only guess is that I’ve made her so uncomfortable that she’s too nervous to make a movement as she sits next to me—frozen.
Reaching over, I drag my thumb along her cheek.
With her eyes downcast, she admits, “I was always disappointing him. He would only get mad when I did something I knew I shouldn’t have. He never did anything that I didn’t provoke.”
The fact that she actually believes this shit is her fault is so far beyond fucked up that I’m about to boil over with anger. Clenching my fists, I do everything I can not to lose my shit.
“I’m so fucking mad right now,” I let her know, and when she still refuses to acknowledge me, I touch her chin. “I need you to look at me.” And when she does, I’m fervent in my tone when I tell her, “You can’t understand how pissed I am right now. There is no way in hell I could ever lay a hand on a woman, no matter how angry she made me.”
“You don’t understand—”
“There isn’t anything you could possibly do or say that would ever make it okay for anyone to hurt you.”
Her eyes fall shut and more tears break free. “I wasn’t good enough,” she whispers. “I knew it wasn’t okay, but . . .” She then looks at me as her face turns splotchy and says, “I just kept trying to be better.”
At that, I pull her over to me and hold on to her tightly, as if my strength alone could be enough to keep her together. “It wasn’t your fault, Kate.”
“Truth is the truth though. If I didn’t upset him, he wouldn’t have lost control. It was my fault.”
I drop my head on top of hers as she continues to talk. I want to shut her up from all the nonsense, but I bite my tongue because she’s finally talking. Bullshit or not, at least she’s talking.
“I did everything I could to make him happy, but it was never enough—I was never enough.”
In her mind, everything bad that came out of that relationship was her fault. It kills me to know that this is what she believes and that Caleb’s the one who probably convinced her of it. For years, she’s been thinking she holds all the blame.
With my arms around her, she cries, and it’s so hard for me to listen to. But I hold her and allow her time to just release it because all I want to do in this moment is help her get rid of all the shit she’s been bottling up inside. It’s so clear she isn’t over what happened, not that it’s something easy to just put aside.
Her tears dampen my shirt, and the heaviness that’s pressing against my ribs is a pain I’ve never encountered before. This is the shit I’m always trying to avoid, yet here I am, seeking it out with her. Fuck if it’s not playing with my heart right now.
The urge to protect her is fierce, but the urge to ensure that bastard never gets the chance to come near her again is even more so. He left so much of her in shambles, tore her down, burned bridges, and damned her self-esteem to the point she actually believes she was deserving of the shit he put her through. Unfortunately, destruction is easy; it’s the rebuilding that’s the hard part, but I want to do whatever I can to help her get there, starting with me letting her know, “He manipulated you.”
Against my chest, she denies my words as she shakes her head.
“He took advantage of your feelings and fucked with your head, Kate.”
Before she can refute what I’m saying, I take her face in my hands and angle her to look at me when I tell her sternly, “He manipulated you to make you believe you were the cause. You weren’t. There isn’t anything you can tell me or anyone else that will ever change that. He filled your head with lies.”
“He loved me.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did,” she presses.
“What he did to you . . . I know that isn’t your idea of love.”
“There were so many other moments though—good ones.”
“That’s how he manipulated you, by giving you those moments. They might have meant something to you, but I promise, they didn’t mean the same thing to him.”
She pulls back, away from my touch and the truths I’m giving her, and turns her head. I know she’s thinking about what I just said. I only hope it’s getting through to her, but if not, I take another step when I add, “Think about it. If I asked you, right here and now, if you would be okay having a boyfriend—anyone other than Caleb—who threw you into walls and hit you, what would you say? Would you even consider that love?” Her chin starts quivering, but I don’t stop there. I need her to see the truth through all the lies he clouded her with. “Turn it on me. What would you think if I had a girlfriend who I hit? If I hurt her so badly that her entire body was covered in bruises? Would there be any way you could rationalize or excuse what I had done?”
The moment she lets go of a wretched sob, I know, for the first time, she’s seeing Caleb for who he really is. It’s the hardest thing to know I’m the one that’s igniting all her tears, but I also know that she needs to have this clarity so she’ll stop blaming herself.
“But I really loved him.” She cries into her palms.
Tucking her back against me, I hold her tightly. “You didn’t fall in love with him; you fell in love with his betrayal.”
“I don’t even know what to think.”
“I just need you to believe me when I say that none of this was ever your fault.”
“I’m . . . I don’t know anything right now. It’s all so confusing.”
It can’t be easy to think that everything you thought you knew was nothing but a lie. She’s going to have a lot of shit to sort through to figure it all out for herself, but at least I know that she won’t have to do it alone. I’ll always
be here for her. In this moment, I want to tell her that, but I’m not sure how. I just hope that she can feel everything I’m unable to say. There has never been a person in my life who I’ve been so drawn to like I’m drawn to her. All I know is there is no place I would rather be right now than here with her—tears and all.
KATE
These past two weeks haven’t been the best. There’s so much I’ve been examining, including myself. Talking to Trent hurt—it hurt so much—and hearing his perspective wasn’t easy. It was what I needed though. After I was able to talk about it, I felt lighter—minimally lighter, but still lighter, as if the walls were no longer closing in on me. Since then, I’ve been trying to figure out the part I played in my relationship with Caleb and what that says about me. I keep questioning how I could’ve let someone do what he did to me. How could I have been so blind and foolish?
When Trent asked me how I would feel if he had done to a girl what Caleb was doing to me, my answer was clear: There would be no excuse that would make his behavior okay. So, why was it okay for Caleb? Why couldn’t I see what was happening to me?
The questions don’t stop there. Day by day, more come to surface, confusing me even further, but they also help me understand better. It’s weird how that happens—clarity birthing perplexity and vice versa.
Trent has been there, a silent support, this whole time, and I don’t think he knows how much I needed that. So, when summer break rolled around and he invited me to Tampa with him, I jumped on board. Micah and Ady would be there to attend his mother’s fiftieth birthday party, so she suggested I stay with her at her mom’s place.
Ady and Micah left early this morning and had already made it to Tampa before Trent and I hit the road. The four of us won’t be hanging out until tomorrow because they’re busy with Micah’s parents.
As Trent drives over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, my tummy growls. “I’m getting hungry.”
“We’re almost there; about another thirty minutes.”
When Trent talked to his mother earlier, she mentioned already having plans for tonight, but I’ll still be able to meet her before she leaves. I’ve been so interested to meet the woman who raised a guy like Trent. His sense of humor is something I thought would fade over the years, but it’s who he is, and although he has changed in other ways, the crudeness is most likely here to stay.
It’s creeping up on seven o’clock when he pulls into the drive of the lavish, two-story, Mediterranean-style home with an impeccably manicured lawn. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
“Is this the house you grew up in?”
“Yeah,” he responds before parking under a large palm tree that glows above the in-ground lights.
He leaves my suitcase in the Jeep for when I go to Ady’s later but grabs his own before leading me up the brick drive toward the extravagant arched doorway. I snicker.
“What’s so funny?”
“I just had no idea you grew up so fancy,” I tease.
Trent is the furthest thing from fancy. I don’t think I can recall ever seeing him in anything other than flip-flops and surf-branded T-shirts.
“Half your pantry is filled with your shoes because you have too many to fit in your closet,” he points out before adding, “You’re so fancy, I bet you call blow jobs fellatio.”
“Gross,” I scold, slapping his arm as he laughs. “I’m not that fancy,” I defend, holding out my arms to accentuate the fact that I’m wearing flip-flops, running shorts, and an old UM T-shirt.
“Whatever you say.” He then opens the door. “Mom,” he calls out, and his voice echoes through the home that boasts an impressive foyer. To the left is a large, winding staircase with wrought iron features, but my focus shifts when his mother walks in.
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she says, and I smile as the two of them hug. When she pulls back, she rustles her fingers through his long hair. “Are you ever going to cut this?”
He ducks his head away from her and smooths his hair before gesturing to me. “This is Kate, Mom.”
The smile on her face grows, and it resembles Trent’s. She wears her long hair in soft curls, making her appear younger than what she is. She’s stunning even in her casual long black maxi dress and sandals.
“It’s good to meet you,” I say before she gives me a welcoming hug.
“It’s good to meet you too.” She takes a step back. “You can call me Laura.”
With a polite nod, I follow her and Trent through the house and back to the kitchen, which opens to the large living room and an amazing view of their pristine backyard.
“How was the drive?”
I take a seat next to Trent on the sofa as she sits across from us.
“Boring,” he responds. “Kate was worthless entertainment. She slept for most of the way.”
“It was your idea for us to go clubbing in South Beach last night,” I defend. “I was tired.”
“I managed to stay awake.”
“You were driving.”
“Just ignore him,” his mother says. “It’s what I have to do about ninety percent of the time.”
“Good to know, Mom.”
“So, are you hungry, Kate?”
“Yeah. Trent wouldn’t stop at the McDonald’s when we passed it.”
“I’m not eating there. That shit is nasty,” he says. “Hell, I’d rather eat a wooden dick.”
My eyes shift to his mom, who only rolls her eyes. At least I know that Trent is exactly who he is no matter who he’s around.
“I think there’s some leftover fajitas in the fridge.”
“You didn’t cook it, did you?”
His mother narrows her eyes. “And if I did?”
“Then we’d definitely be eating out.”
“Trent,” I reprimand.
“Dude, trust me.”
“I’m not that bad of a cook,” she defends.
“You are so rude.”
He smiles at me. “She knows I’m just bustin’ her balls.”
“In his defense,” she says, “I’ve had my fair share of tragedies in the kitchen, but I’m getting better.”
“See, even she knows it’s true. But seriously, I’m starving,” he tells me. “What do you want?”
“What’s around?”
“Everything.” He then stands and looks at me. “You coming?”
With an exhausting sigh, I hold out my hand for him to pull me up, but then his mother suggests, “Why don’t you stay and visit before I have to run off?”
“Do you mind?” I ask him. “I’m really sick of being in the car.”
“It’s cool.”
“Just pick up whatever you want. I’ll eat anything.”
When I sit back on the couch, he takes a few steps backward and points to his mother, saying, “Don’t be talking any shit about me.”
“Go get this girl some food and leave us alone.”
I laugh under my breath when he turns and heads out of the house.
“I don’t know how you got through that drive without slapping him silly.”
“I’m not easily offended,” I tell her.
“Well, that’s good. You seem like a sweet girl; I’d hate for him to scare you away.” She then comes to sit next to me, which puts me a little more at ease since she’s no longer talking to me from across the room. “Forgive me, but I don’t know anything about you other than you’re Trent’s friend. He isn’t much for talking about himself.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know. I feel like I have to pull information out of him at times.”
“The two of you go to college together?”
I nod and then tell her about how I met her son, what I think of school, and what I’m majoring in. She asks about where I grew up and she tells me that she’s a born and raised Florida girl too, who surprisingly has never stepped foot on a board.
“So, who taught Trent how to surf?”
“He taught himself,” she says. “Trent went through
a phase in middle school where he didn’t come home very much and surfing sort of became a place of healing for him.”
I nod, not having a clue as to what she’s talking about. Never has he mentioned anything like that to me, but like she said, he isn’t one who talks about himself very much. In fact, I don’t know a whole lot about his past other than he felt as if this house was a never-ending revolving door of men coming in and out of his life. I can only assume what she is hinting at has something to do with that.
“Grub time!” Trent announces, cutting our conversation short.
Laura places a hand on my knee. “I should probably get going. It was really nice meeting you.”
“Same here.”
When she walks into the kitchen, she grabs her purse and kisses Trent on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, we’ll be in and out for the next few days.”
After she leaves, I go into the kitchen and take a seat at the oversized island. “What did you get?”
He slides a flat box from the large brown bag. “Donuts.” Then he practically salivates when he lifts the lid, revealing a dozen chocolate covered donuts.
“How is this dinner?”
“Hey, you said you’d eat anything.”
“Yeah, anything of nutritional value.”
“This shit’s on the food pyramid,” he defends before shoving half a donut into his mouth.
“That’s not even a thing anymore,” I tell him as I walk over to the fridge.
“It isn’t?”
Opening the door, I go in search of the fajitas. “I think it’s, like, a food plate thing now.” I find a takeout box with the fajitas inside and pull it out.
“You’re seriously not going to eat the donuts?”
“Yes, but I’m going to have this too.”
“Don’t hog it all,” he says. “I want some.”
The two of us hang out while we eat fajitas and donuts, and when we’re stuffed, he shows me around the house, eventually taking me upstairs to his bedroom.
“You have a lot of skimboards.” A lot is an understatement since there are tons of them stacked against the wall.