by Marni Mann
Without moving the rest of my body, I slide my hand toward Brooks’s side of the bed, and the further I slide my palm without contact, the more relieved I become. The sheets are cool to the touch, and once I’m positive I’m alone, I finally allow myself to roll onto my back.
Even though my bladder is screaming at me, I’m afraid to leave the bedroom, for fear that Brooks is waiting for me on the other side of the door, half-drunk or pissed that he has to look at me with a messed up face. Because it’s easier to avoid him than deal with another confrontation, I cross my legs underneath the covers and bite my lip. I can hold it longer if I have to.
It’s not so bad.
Only it is because I’m in so much pain.
Whatever this is with Brooks, it’s never been love. It kills me that he thinks it is. That beating me up and knocking me around is okay as long as I get back up in the morning and pretend like it never happened. And that’s exactly what he does. He never addresses it, never apologizes or asks if I’m okay.
If he loved me as much as he said he did, his anger would never punch me in the face or slam my head against a wall. I would feel like a queen in his castle, and I’d want to occupy every inch of his kingdom.
As things stand now, I’ll always be beneath him. And I’ll never be worthy of his love, no matter how hard I try.
I’m forced to wait out another painful hour in bed, and when there’s still no sign of Brooks, I slide out from under the sheets and scamper into the bathroom in the hallway.
In as little as sixty seconds, I can use the bathroom, wash my hands and my face, and get back in bed. I know this because I’ve timed it. And I always try to beat my record to keep myself safe.
After one look at my face, I can tell I won’t be breaking any records today. There’s more smeared blood on my cheek than I realized. More than there’s ever been, and I can’t wash it away fast enough with the freezing cold water. I tried to wait for warm water once, but that added an extra sixty seconds. A full minute I never have the luxury to waste.
Not wanting to risk staining one of the pristine white towels lining the rod next to the sink, I use the end of my shirt and dab at the cuts. They’ll need to be cleaned, and they could probably use a bandage, but it’ll have to wait until I have more time to dig a couple out of the closet. I never let Brooks see the first aid kit or let him know how many times I’ve had to use it. I can’t risk him basing the number of blows he’s given me on the amount of supplies I have waiting.
“Andi? Where are you?”
Pushing the bathroom door open, I keep my eyes on the hardwood and move toward the sound of his voice. He’s watching me, no doubt wanting to see how many bruises I’ll have to figure out how to cover up this week.
As far as I can tell, he likes to mark me in places other people can possibly see because he knows I’ll be too self-conscious to get too comfortable. Nobody else will ever want me, and I’ll be forced to stay his. I guess, in some twisted way, my bruises are his security blanket.
Before I can squeeze by him to get to my side of the bed, he reaches out and pulls me against his chest.
First, his lips linger over my cheek, and then he nuzzles his nose back and forth against my skin. “You make me so crazy, Andi,” he whispers, like it’s my fault he can’t control himself.
I say nothing in response. I’ve learned to never address him after a fight until I’m told.
His hands slide under my shirt, and he pauses when he feels the damp fabric beneath his fingers. Bracing myself for more questions, I’m surprised when he stays quiet and simply pulls the shirt up and over my head.
I feel dirty for not stopping him.
Pathetic for letting him touch me after he just hurt me.
And naive for holding out hope that it could ever end.
“Get in bed, baby.”
I hate when he calls me that. I’m not his baby or his girl. And I refuse to be his plaything.
But, as we get back in bed, together this time, I take comfort in knowing I’ll never be this close to Brooks again. I’ll never have to wonder what he does or where he goes when I’m knocked out.
Freedom is hours away, and with the way my head is throbbing against my temples, I’m more determined than ever to take this next step toward finding it.
“Tell me you love me,” he says as he wraps his arm around my stomach from behind.
“I love you, Brooks.” It’s mechanical, and there’s no emotion behind it. Nothing even close to resembling actual affection.
Still, it’s enough to appease him. His breathing evens out, and his grip loosens enough that my ribs stop aching.
For the next six hours, I stare at the window as little droplets of water roll down the glass. I think about what the rain smells like in Philadelphia, compared to New York. I debate on how to order my first cheesesteak and which place I’ll get it from. Because, much like my face after a fight, I have to make sure I get it right if I want to blend in.
My eyes are still open at five o’clock when Brooks kisses my shoulder, disappears into the bathroom to shower, and leaves without bothering to say good-bye.
Despite my entire body shaking at what I’m about to do, I breathe my first sigh of relief.
Brooks’s lips will never touch my body again. His personality won’t play mind games with me anymore, and most importantly, I’ll never have to dance back and forth between love and hate.
Now that I’m confident he’s gone for the day, I climb out of bed, shower, and change.
After doing the best I can with my face, I have to accept the fact that I won’t be able to cover up all the bruising with the little bit of makeup I have in my purse. Camille already has my best products in the suitcase.
This is really it.
I take one last look around, making sure I have the few things that mean the most to me tucked away in my purse. When I’m sure I do, I lock the door behind me and throw the key in the trash can in the hallway.
If I’m starting fresh, a key to the condo will only remind me that I can still go back. And I don’t want to have any remaining ties to Brooks.
As Camille promised, a cab is waiting for me at the curb, already aware of my destination. Thanks to her quick thinking, I don’t have to bother with small talk or uncomfortable chatter. All I have to do is sit back and watch the rest of New York City trudge through another early morning commute.
I’m doing this.
I’m really doing this.
My stomach flip-flops when the cab pulls into Grand Central Terminal, and after tossing a couple of bills at the driver, I’m out of the cab before he can even thank me.
Camille’s waiting in the exact spot she said she would be with my suitcase at her side and papers in her hand.
“Your face,” she says as I get closer. “We were too late.”
Shaking my head, I tell her, “I’m okay. I promise.”
“You always say that, Andi, but you’re not okay. You wouldn’t be leaving if you were okay.”
She’s right about that, so I don’t bother trying to feed her another bullshit excuse. As of this morning, I’m done with excuses and lies. “Do you have my ticket?”
“It’s right here,” she tells me as she hands me an envelope.
My fingers shake as I open it. “One way to Philadelphia.”
“One way,” she repeats. “You can still change your mind, Andi. My place is always yours.”
“No. After last night, I’m positive. Thank you for everything, Camille. I mean it. I owe you the world for doing this.”
“You owe me nothing. I only wish I could do more.”
“Just make sure you’re not alone tonight.”
The worst hasn’t even begun for her yet. Once Brooks realizes I’m not coming home from work today, his first stop will be her house. And it won’t be pretty when she tells him I’m gone.
“Hey,” she says, pulling me out of my own head, “have you forgotten that I’m one of the most powerful attorneys in th
e city? Brooks is stupid, but even he isn’t stupid enough to fuck around with me.”
Part of me believes her job and contacts are the only reasons she’s been comfortable enough to set this plan in motion for me. Nobody in their right mind would want to deal with someone else’s abusive ex-boyfriend. But, in my heart, I know Camille would do it even if she were unemployed. That’s just the kind of person she is.
“Thank you,” I tell her again because it’ll never be enough.
“Go be amazing before you miss your train.”
I take one last deep breath, look my best friend in the face, and pray I’ll see her again someday. My fingers wrap around the handle of my suitcase, and I pull the few things I own behind me until I’m on the last platform at the back of the train.
I want to be able to see the city disappear as we pull away from the station.
Because this is my final good-bye.
Clay
I saw her for the first time when I went to the restroom. She was sitting one row behind me on the opposite side of the train, scrunched down with her knees bent, tucked into the pocket of the seat. She didn’t want me to see her. Her thumbs were pressed underneath her chin, her hands fanning her jawline like a wall she’d built between us. But her hands weren’t big enough to block her whole face, and the wall had cracks in between each finger. Nothing, not even turning her head to look in the other direction, could hide the bruise that spanned the whole width of her cheek.
The dark purple handprint stays in my mind the whole time I’m in the restroom, and the side of the bruise stares at me while I walk back to my seat.
What really gets to me is the look in her light-blue eyes. A look of complete terror. You don’t get that from tripping over a cord and nailing your face against the corner of an end table. You get it when someone you trust has whipped his fucking hand across your face.
I’ve seen it before. I’ve stopped it.
And, now, I see it in her.
I don’t want her to see me, probably as much as she doesn’t want me to see her.
But, for some goddamn reason, I need to help her.
So, when I get back to my seat, I reach inside the duffel and take out my hat. It’s navy, and it has the Yankees logo on the front. I usually wear it on my way to work, so I can hide more of my face. Even in an anonymous city, you can never be too careful. When I get to Philly, I’ll buy another, but right now, she needs it more than me.
I turn around, locking eyes on her hand and just a sliver of her face. I don’t have to whisper. The only person sharing the car with us is an elderly man, and he’s several rows in front of us.
I hold the hat out and say, “Here.”
She looks past her pinkie, our eyes finally connecting. “What’s that?” She doesn’t look down before speaking. She keeps her eyes on me, like any victim would.
“My hat.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“Whichever stop you get off at, you’ll have too much shit to carry.” I nod toward her purse and suitcase sitting next to her on the seat. “The hat will do what your hands can’t.”
I didn’t know purple could turn red, but it does. She’s embarrassed of her face.
No one understands that more than me.
“I don’t want it,” she says.
“You do.”
“How do you know what I want?” Her voice stays so quiet. It’s her body that changes. She shrinks more into the seat, like she wants it to swallow her.
That’s my fault. Fuck. I should have been softer, less dominant. I should have put the hat on the seat and turned back around instead of telling her what she wanted.
Maybe hearing the truth will help.
And maybe it will help me.
“Because,” I start, the pounding beginning to erupt in my chest, “there have been times over the last few months when I wished someone would have given me a hat.”
Not a Santa hat that would draw attention.
A hat that could deflect it.
There’s more honesty in those words than anything I’ve said during the whole time I’ve lived in New York, and I’ve said them to a stranger.
A stranger with a face that has been beaten.
“Why would you need a hat?” Her hand drops from the side of her cheek. The bruise spreads to almost the bridge of her nose. “I don’t see any cuts on you. No bruises. You don’t even have a cold sore.”
“I’ve got reasons.”
Her eyelids narrow, and she wraps her arms around her bent knees. “Why do you look so familiar?”
I’m tempted to lift the collar of my shirt and shake my hair so that it falls further into my face. But I don’t want to make it obvious that I want to hide from her.
So, I drop the hat onto her lap and turn as far away from her as I can get. “I don’t look familiar to you at all.” Then, I rotate the rest of my body toward the front of the car.
Our conversation is over, yet she’s the best part of this whole trip.
“Excuse me, Hat Boy.”
Her softness causes me to close my eyes, and I force myself not to turn around. “Keep the hat.”
I could say more. I could tell her not to go back to him. I could tell her to continue running—if that’s what she’s doing. But it isn’t my place to say any of that.
I’ve done enough damage to our conversation.
To everything I touch.
“You never answered my question,” she says.
“I did when I told you that you didn’t know who I was.”
“No.” She pauses, like she’s waiting for me to turn around. “You never told me why you needed a hat.”
“I’m not going to now either.”
“Will you at least tell me your name?” Her voice changes. It’s stronger. It doesn’t shake or tremor. It’s even louder than a whisper.
It deserves a glance.
When I look back over my shoulder, she has the hat on. Her brown hair hangs in gentle curls around the side of her face. The eye color that stares back is of a summer sky.
“What do you need my name for?”
“So I can thank you.”
I shake my head. Not at her words. But at the way her smile makes me feel. “You just did.”
Andi
My heart skips a beat every time the door at the front of the car opens. No matter how hard I try to convince myself that he’s not going to, I keep expecting Brooks to walk through it.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that leaving was the easy part. It’s the waiting game that’s going to eat me alive.
Waiting for Brooks to figure out I’m gone.
Waiting for this paranoia to turn into a full-blown panic attack.
And, if my plan fails, waiting to be dragged back to hell.
For all I know, Hat Boy was sent by Brooks to make sure I never make it off this train. After all, he noticed my bruises and didn’t ask a single question about how I’d gotten them.
Who does that?
Especially when they’re an even uglier shade of purple than when I woke up. I’m used to it though. Like all the other marks that have graced my body, the pissed off blues and purples will eventually morph into a more serene yellow and green.
It’s like my face is art class, and I’m five years old again, trying to figure out how to blend basic primary colors to create new bolder combinations. But I don’t want to be bold. I want to sit here and melt into this uncomfortable leather seat and remain unseen by the rest of the world.
A world full of hatred, fighting, and chaos. The exact opposite of how I imagined heaven would be if Brooks ever went too far and the white light accepted me.
Before I escaped, heaven was the only place I wanted to go because freedom would be so quiet there, you’d forget you ever existed. And, if I never existed, I wouldn’t want to die anymore.
Until today, heaven was my only shot at happiness.
The train shifts unexpectedly as we go around a bend, and it’s en
ough of a jolt that I have to hold on to the seat to steady myself. Hat Boy glances over his shoulder, like he’s trying to see if I’m okay.
From what I could tell, he had enough of his own problems to worry about. I’m the queen of avoidance, and he was doing a good job of keeping up with me.
When he got close to my seat, I was too scared to look at him at first. Mostly because my face is so messed up. The last thing I wanted was for him to judge me, especially considering we’re stuck in this tin can for the next couple of hours. But I had to chance a peek, regardless of the judgment that would follow.
Only he didn’t judge me at all, and his hazel eyes weren’t cold or hard. They were warm, almost inviting, and had little specks around the edges. They were like looking into a pot of gold.
It makes me smile because I ate a bowl of Lucky Charms yesterday morning. If I wasn’t on the run, I’d have eaten another bowl today.
I expected the hat to smell like his shampoo or maybe even his cologne. When he tossed it on my lap, all I got was a strange whiff of chemicals. The stench almost made me hand it back to him, but as weird as the fabric smells, it’s still safer than walking around, looking like a punching bag.
Plus, Brooks was a Mets fan, and he’d lose his mind if he saw me wearing pinstripe blue. That alone brings me so much satisfaction, I take a minute to close my eyes and rest my swollen cheek against the cool glass. I’ve only soaked up a couple of seconds of relief before the paranoia returns, and I open them up. When I do, he’s back. And he’s a little too close for comfort.
“Do you want me to get you some ice?”
“No,” I tell him a little too loudly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He’s right; I’m not. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of saying so.
Instead, I work harder at pretending as we pull into the next station. “Is this your stop?”
“No. It’ll be a while before I get off.” He looks toward the door when an elderly woman steps onto the train.
Like me, he’s watching every detail around him. I wish I knew why.
Once the new passenger is seated, he turns back around. “I’m gonna grab a drink. Do you want coffee or something?”