“I met him when I was nineteen. I’d had other boyfriends before, puppy love or the type of high school guy that gets jealous. At first, you think it’s cute. To be wanted that much that it makes a man crazy. I’d never experienced a dangerous type of control, but looking back, I tended to pick men who bordered on ridiculous jealousy. And then I met him. From the start, it was intense. He always wanted to be with me, always seemed interested in what I was doing. When you’re nineteen, that’s what you dream about in a situation. I was madly in love with him and thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. But then, it started to spiral. He’d tell me what I could and couldn’t do. Told me what I could and couldn’t wear. At first, I fought back against it, but that would only land me with a shove or a tap. Nothing too violent in the beginning. I forgave him, because he swore he wouldn’t do it again. God, is that not the most cliché thing you’ve ever heard?”
A couple people chuckle, not out of humor or to belittle me, but because everyone in this room has probably had that phrase thrust in their face.
“Then it was keeping me from my family, pinching me hard enough under the table at a group meal that my skin would be purple for a week. He’d drink to the point that he couldn’t even form a sentence, and then he’d …”
I break off, because this is the toughest part. The one I hate admitting, because so many people probably think I could have just left.
“He’d force himself on me. Not that there weren’t times where we’d … be intimate as a couple and I enjoyed it. That’s the thing about being a victim of domestic violence, you stay because the good times are so good. Almost great enough that they outweigh the bad. But eventually … the bad becomes dangerous. It becomes life or death. That’s how it was for me, anyway. One night, I came home from work … I work construction, so I’m always dirty or dusty. My hair was a mess, I’d just gotten through with a day of pulling up tile from a kitchen floor. He accused me of cheating on him. I was so exhausted that I let my carefully constructed tiptoeing around him drop for just a second. I talked back, and to this day I don’t even remember the few words I uttered. That’s when he punched me. So hard in the cheek, I saw stars and swore my jawbone was broken. Before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me, crushing my windpipe. I …”
Again I break off, because I can see it … my eyes flashing before me as I struggled on his grungy apartment floor.
“I thought I was going to die. I probably would have. If I didn’t fight back, if I went along as I had for the last five years of our relationship, letting him control me and abuse me, I would have. I wouldn’t be here today. But the woman deep within me finally picked her head up and decided enough was enough. That day, I decided to live. For me.”
My throat is clogged with emotion. It was the most powerful and devastating moment of my life. I won’t tell these people about the year after Jacob, my ex-boyfriend, tried to kill me. How I had to grapple with the loss of him, that I still loved him deeply despite everything he did to me.
“He’s been in prison for almost three years now. Every day I feel stronger. But there is still that victim inside me, the one who fears she’ll fall under someone else’s spell. That’s why I come here. Thank you for listening.”
Reciting this story is never easy. But admitting the disgusting, hard truth in front of people, holding myself accountable to never go back to a relationship like that … it’s what keeps me healthy. It’s how I breathe, how I get through the day.
“Thank you for sharing that, Brennan. Your strength is an inspiration to us all.” The organizer pats my shoulder as she tries to move the meeting along.
The room claps for me, and I take a moment to collect myself.
Blinking back the tears that always threaten to fall when I do this, both from shame and hurt, but also from relief, I raise my head.
And meet a pair of intense eyes so molten brown, they almost look black.
6
Parker
When I first joined this group, I was anonymous.
I’m sure there are people in here who know my name, who know what I do, but this is a support group and once we leave this basement, we’re unknowns to each other.
Except now, I have to see her. Brennan, the woman working to repair the wall I splintered into half a million pieces, just stood up in front of my victim support group and recounted the story of how her ex-boyfriend almost killed her.
The moment our eyes meet, those green-brown eyes reminding me of a dense and complex jungle, I know I’ve been outed.
Fuck. I never want to see anyone. Most days, it’s tough for me to even get out of the house. But I come because I have to, or I’ll drown in the grief and blame I pour over myself. Just like my home, she’s infiltrated this space.
As the meeting ends, I linger in the back by the measly refreshments table. Brennan chats with some of the other members of the group as she passes them, but it’s an unspoken agreement that she’ll meet me back here. We can’t not acknowledge that we saw each other, as much as I’d like that.
“I … did you follow me here?” She tips her head to the side as she reaches me, as if she doesn’t quite understand how I could be here.
All of those pretty caramel locks are spun up on top of her head today, and I want to unwind them. I want them to spill over my shoulders again as I pound into her, I want …
Jesus, get a grip, Avery.
“Yes. I followed you from my multi-million-dollar home in the woods to this dingy basement to hear you spill your guts about abuse. Me, the guy who closely resembles a recluse,” I deadpan, because how naïve can she be? “Are you that self-absorbed?”
To her credit, Parker tries to look unperturbed by my cruel rudeness, but I see the flicker of hurt I cause. I instantly regret being that harsh, especially after she just got down off that podium.
It just … rattled me to see her here.
“Well, gee, glad to know this is a supportive, safe space.” She rolls her eyes and goes to walk past me.
“Sorry, I … I don’t love that someone knows me here.” I shrug, trying to explain in as few words possible.
“Everyone here knows who you are, Parker.” She says my name, and I instantly want her to say it again. “They just choose to give you the space to be a victim as well.”
Blinking, her words stun me. I … guess she’s right. Every one of these people know who I am, you’d have to live under a rock in the Philly area not to. That’s not bragging, it’s just a simple fact. I hadn’t realized in the months I decided to start coming here that the members of this support group give me the room to be anonymous in this shithole basement.
Have I seen Brennan at these meetings before? Have I realized that the woman who would break my years’ long streak of celibacy is just as damaged as I am?
“Isn’t easy getting up there,” I say, my voice neutral.
In reality, I wanted to storm out of the room as she recounted the story of her fuckbag ex and what he’d done to her. Part of me wants to hunt him down, end him. Another part of me can’t bear to hear how abused she’d been, because she doesn’t fit my idea of a victim.
I’m shocked, because I’ve met a lot of people here and Brennan does not seem like someone who would give up power and control in a relationship. Brennan is strong, witty, and seems to take command of a room. Since Summer died, I’ve been sullen, withdrawn, and downright mean. That’s how dark my soul is now, and it’s surprising to see someone who has gone through much worse physical pain than I have and come out to be so … bright.
Brennan is shiny and positive and funny. She doesn’t seem afraid of anything, and I’ve been cowering in the woods for five years.
“That sounds oddly like a compliment. If you ever want to talk about why you come to these meetings, I’m always here to listen,” Brennan speaks and all I can do is focus on her plump, peach-colored lips.
She isn’t prying or asking me to share. Nothing about Brennan is pushy or calculat
ed, and I’ve encountered one too many jersey chasers who want nothing more than to suck my dick for publicity. Maybe that’s why I dry humped her in my hallway, because she’s so genuine it’s disarming.
And disarming is dangerous. Because when someone is this nice and honest, it may just knock down all the walls I’ve built.
“Are you almost done with my wall?” My voice is unforgiving.
It’s been a week since she started working, and each day I return home, aside from the two-game road trip to DC, the wall looks better and better.
“Just about. Although, now the woodwork won’t match the other ones in your living room. I tried to get it as close as possible—”
“So fix the other ones.”
Those words come out before I can stop them. Brennan just admitted that she’s almost done, and now I’m asking her to stay longer? To extend the job? I hate people. We’ve barely spoken two words to each other since I fucked her against my destroyed wall a week ago. But … I like smelling her perfume when I come home, even if she isn’t there. Vanilla mixed with something that smells exactly like the sand on the Fourth of July weekend.
And, I kind of like hearing her hum old Maroon 5 songs when she’s working and I am home. They’re off-key, but she puts so much heart into it.
Then seeing her here? In the place that reveals my kryptonite and seems to show her cards too? Hearing her share her story of abuse, it only makes me want to keep her close.
“You want more work done? Those walls are perfectly fine, though.” Brennan seems taken aback.
“Just get them done.” My voice leaves no room for argument.
I’m both relieved that she’ll be sticking around and mentally kicking myself for needing her to.
Without a goodbye, I leave Brennan in the rec center basement, along with the lonely man I thought I had to live out my life as.
7
Brennan
I’m working on patching a section of the wall, installing sheetrock and some reinforcement in case someone flies off the handle again, when two guys just walk through the open front door.
Immediately, my defenses go up. I brace myself, almost prepping my arms for an attack. From the number of defense classes I’ve taken, I could probably murder these guys. But what self-defense classes don’t teach are the panic wire in your brain to stop tripping. Once you’ve been attacked by a man who appears more strong and powerful than you, alarm bells will ring every single time you’re in the situation, dangerous or not, again.
Funny, one of the only times that hasn’t happened in three years was when I met Parker.
“Can I help you?” I hold my hammer up, showing I mean business.
The taller of the two, a lean, wiry guy with shaggy blond hair and a Thor beard, holds his hands up. “Hey, we’re cool. Just looking for Avery.”
“We’re old friends of his. Owen and Miles, nice to meet you.” the all-American guy, who looks like he was pulled from some Abercrombie ad, says.
Realization dawns on me as I lower the hammer. These are two of the biggest baseball players in the world right now. Owen Axel and Miles Farriston are American royalty when it comes to sports, and they’re standing right in front of me.
“Holy crap,” I blurt out.
Goddammit, I really need to adopt more chill.
“I mean … I’m sorry, I just didn’t realize you all knew Parker. And you’re, I mean, Owen Axel and Miles Farriston.” My voice is shaky as my hands make grand swooping gestures.
I’m such a nerd. My stepfather and brothers are huge baseball fans, and not just of our hometown team but the sport in general. We all went to the Philly vs. California game last year and watched Owen lay a beat down on our guys.
“Yep, I believe we just introduced ourselves.” Miles grins in a douchey manner.
I laugh along with him, because I’m being an idiot. “Right. Well, I’m Brennan, I’m working on the house. Parker is … well, I think he’s upstairs last time I checked.”
The two of them give me a long look, and I realize I sound flippant. Nonchalant. Like I check on Parker upstairs all the time. Crap.
“I didn’t, um … well, you guys are free to look around.” And now I’ve invited strangers, who I didn’t realize were Parker’s friends, into his house.
Vaguely, I remember something about the three of them being college roommates, so maybe they are friends.
About ten minutes later, I’m walking through Parker’s massive first floor to ask him a question about paints when I hear arguing.
“Come on, man. Don’t be like this. We said we were sorry. Truly, I apologize for losing touch. But it’s not like you said much of a goodbye when we graduated. You never wanted much to do with us in the first place.”
I think that’s Owen talking, though I don’t see them from where I’m eavesdropping around the corner.
“Says the golden boy who was always concerned with himself and got a girlfriend two days into college. Give me a break, Axel. You never cared if I was your friend or not.”
“That’s not true.” Owen sounds hurt.
“Which is why you’ve contacted me in five years, right?” Parker’s voice is a pissed off, angry thing.
“Our lives went different ways, I have a wife and a baby. I tried to reach out at first, but you never returned my calls. For like a year, we included you in those group texts. No response, man,” Owen explains.
“And I tried to see you after every game I played in Philly. I only live an hour and a half from you, and you’ve never made the effort either, man. What happened to you? You seem like more of a surly motherfucker than you did back at Grover.”
Miles seems to be the one most on Parker’s level. They remind me of each other, in the stories I’ve read about the superstar Miles Farriston.
“All three of you, including Clint, never really gave a shit about me. I was your entertainment, the guy who scored you girls until you found ones you wanted to keep. Who cares about the state of our friendship now? I’m fine. Over it.”
Parker sounds anything but over it, and my heart breaks for him. He seems so … lonely. I know exactly what that feels like. Turning the corner, I just want to hold him in my line of vision for a second.
We haven’t spoken about the groundbreaking sex we had. Nor the victim’s support group we both attend. If no one talks about it, neither of us have to deal. But something is there, between us, and I … care about him. No matter how surly of a motherfucker he is.
My shoe makes a scuffing noise as I turn to go, and all three heads whip in my direction.
My heart drops into my shoes. “I don’t mean to interrupt, just had a question about paint. It can wait!”
“We were actually going to grab some dinner, so if you’re all finished …” Owen throws me a hint.
Ah, apparently this is a conversation that random construction workers shouldn’t be privy too. “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Avery.”
Mr. Avery? Jesus, Brennan, could you be any more of a dork? Embarrassment swamps the back of my neck and heats up to my cheeks.
“No. Stay,” Parker speaks quickly.
When I turn to look into those dark, typically guarded eyes, he looks shocked, almost like he hadn’t meant to say that. Owen and Miles look equally as confused, but I see Owen smirk at his World Series-winning friend.
“I … uh, I owe you dinner for all the hard work you’ve done today.” His excuse is lame and doesn’t make sense, as he’s paying me, but he clearly doesn’t want to be alone with them.
“Sure. Let me know what kind of takeout you guys want and I can order it while you talk. I hate to cook, so my phone ordering skills are top-notch.”
And though I just saved his ass, while also accepting what feels like a friend hangout invitation as if he’s contemplating seeing me again, Parker shoots me a frustrated glance. My God, is this man complicated and angsty.
* * *
“So, then, Parker dumps his beer over the top of the guy�
��s head, and we all split like the fucking cops are about to come for us.”
Owen cracks up, takes a sip of his beer and then pops the last piece of General Tso’s chicken into his mouth. “You’re going to have to give me the name of this place, my wife is six months pregnant and I have a feeling we’ll be regulars in no time.”
I nod, chuckling at his recounting of a college party they got thrown out of as freshman. “Sure thing. This isn’t your first, right?”
“Nope. We have a son, Nathan, who is two. And then we’re having another come October. Minka, my wife, is thrilled to share the house with another boy. If I don’t give her a girl soon, I think she’s going to cut my balls off.”
“At least she and Chloe will have them together this time, so she’ll be able to get all the frilly, girly things when my daughter arrives,” Miles tells him. “Chloe isn’t even four months pregnant yet, and we’ve already got an entire ballet wardrobe.”
From what I’ve gathered from the conversation, Miles and Owen’s wives are childhood best friends, and then the other of the hometown trio is married to their fourth college roommate, Clint, who lives in Virginia. Chloe, Miles’ wife, I actually recognize from the pictures he’s showed me throughout dinner. She’s a famous ballerina in New York, where they live. Minka Axel was a nurse up until she got pregnant, and now, with another kid on the way, took on the role of a baseball wife. I don’t blame her, I can’t imagine caring for anyone other than myself and simultaneously being a functioning human being.
Owen and Miles fill Parker in on Clint and Kelsey, the couple who live close to the college they all attended, and they’re apparently running an animal sanctuary or something that sounds exotic and amazing. Not that Parker is listening, or at least he’s trying to look as uninterested as possible.
Over the Fence Box Set Page 62