My body feels weak and exhausted. I wash down some pain pills with water before I pad to my bedroom and shut the door. I move beneath the blankets, curling up on myself for warmth. I need to rest. Before I can do or think about anything else, I have to rest.
The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of the unexplainable, the strange, and the random. Five minutes of peace and quiet to myself would work wonders on my aching mind and body. As I drift off, I wish that Connor were lying beside me, holding me again.
I wake up, but I’m not at home. I’m on a blue sofa. Wiping my eyes, I glance around. There’s a small TV in front of me playing a rerun of some movie I’ve probably seen a thousand times, but don’t know the name of it. Where am I?
Pushing myself up, I walk through the house. Touching the walls, touching every surface, I seem to remember bits and pieces, but it’s like looking through a camera and the screen is dusty. I walk into a kitchen, and I remember.
I’m not home. I’m at a place that I have never and will never consider home for as long as I live. The small refrigerator that barely runs, the two-person table that’s lean and bare and covered with a mismatched table cloth, the light blue decorations and meaningless scenery pictures are all from a distant time, a distant memory.
A door opens in the room I just left. I know it’s the front door, and I know who’s walking through it. Ducking beneath the table, I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I pray that he’s in a good mood.
“Katie!”
The way he shouts my name tells me I’m not in luck. My body begins to tremble; I feel sick to my stomach. I press a hand over the growing ball of my belly. It’s still early, very early, but there’s a life growing there.
“Katie!”
The voice is closer. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t scream. So I pray. I clasp my hands in front of me and pray fervently. Not just to God, but to every deity I’ve ever heard of, because if God is busy someone has to hear me.
The sound of heavy work boots comes closer. Now I can see them. Heavy, dirty, caked with mud and dirt. The refrigerator opens, and the tell-tale sound of a beer lid being wrenched off quickly follows. I watch as the lid falls to the floor, spins, falls.
“If I have to call you again, we’re going to have a problem!” the man shouts.
We always have a problem. Even now, I’m wearing the delicate pink dress that flows to my ankles, the one that he picked out before he went off to work. My hair is braided modestly, and it flows down my back because he won’t let me cut it.
I hear the sound of the boots walking away only to hear them going up the stairs a short while later. He’ll realize that I’m not up there and be back down soon to add bruises to the ones that already cover my pale flesh.
I forgot to make dinner. Falling asleep on the couch hadn’t been a part of my plan, but it had happened. The pregnancy is wearing on me; staying up all night until he falls asleep is wearing on me. How could I sleep while he’s home, though?
Hiding will only make it worse, I’m aware of that, but I can’t face him. I bury my head into my knees and silently choke down tears. My heart beats in terror and sweat trickles down my forehead, down the deep groove of my spine.
The boots are coming back. He knows. He knows. He knows! Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he walks over to the table and he throws up the red and white checkered tablecloth. There’s a scowl three miles wide on his face.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Nathan screams into my face.
He’s been drinking before he even got home. I can smell the beer and bourbon on his breath intermingling into an atrocious concoction. His hands wrap around my throat, and I can’t breathe. My fingers claw at his. He laughs in my face. It’s funny to watch me struggle, and I know one day, to him, it will be funny to watch me die.
My vision begins to swim, twist, grow dark. “The baby,” I manage to squeak out.
Nathan drops me. I writhe on the floor, choking, sputtering, gasping. The only reason he doesn’t plant the boot in my belly is because of the baby, because the only thing he wants more than keeping me prisoner is to have a child of his own.
“You’re lucky,” he spits, reaching into the refrigerator for another beer. “Just remember, one day you won’t be pregnant. Get your lazy ass up and start dinner.”
I nod, because that’s what he wants. An act of submission, a white flag waved in his face, something to tell him that he’s won and I’ve died a little more on the inside. I watch him leave as I slowly pick myself up, still wheezing, my throat still tight and sore from where he choked me.
When he’s sitting on the couch, my eyes burn. It’s strange being able to see myself, but I can, and my eyes blaze with a fire I was sure had died out sometime after we first met. Tomorrow is the day. I’ve found a way to get out, to get away, and I will never come back to this place.
I wrap my arms around my belly protectively. “I promise.”
The room grows smaller and smaller. Once more I’m choking and hot. I toss and turn and—
I wake up to Mary shaking me hard. There’s sweat over every inch of my body, and I’m trembling. Mary’s stroking my hair, shushing me as I look around my room wildly. Yes, my room. I’m back in my room, in my home, not trapped in that never ending nightmare. My breathing steadies bit by bit as Mary dabs at my eyes, my cheeks, my forehead.
“Are you okay?” she whispers quietly.
I shake my head. “No.”
How often have I lied to that question? Too many times. I’ve slammed on a smile, glued it in place, and worn it for years, but I’m nearing the end of my rope, and the world is becoming scary again, overwhelming. Mary holds me tightly in her arms, holding me to her chest like my mother used to do. I hold onto her for dear life until I feel safe enough to pull away.
“Where’s Kyle?”
“He’s out back playing. I heard you screaming while I was putting away the groceries.”
“Good,” I say, wiping my face with my arm. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Mary stays a while longer until she’s sure that I’m okay. I assure her that I’m better, or as good as I’m going to be at the moment, before she wanders back out of my room. Quickly, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and black t-shirt. I find my phone hiding beneath the sheets and dial Zoey.
“What’s the name of that psychologist you recommended?”
“Dr. Pearson,” she says quickly. “What’s wrong?”
“I think I’ll go see him.”
The line is silent for a moment. “Are you okay? Is there anything that I can do?”
“No, I’ll be okay. It’s just time.”
Zoey heaves a sigh of relief. “Good. I’ll text you his number, and I’ll call ahead. I’ll make sure he can squeeze you in tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Zoey.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to help.”
The next day can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Nineteen
I stand outside of an imposing, tall building that seems to disappear out of sight as it stretches higher and higher. I find Dr. Pearson’s name on a black board, his name in gold, block letters.
Taking the elevator up to floor seven, I emerge into a neat waiting room. Everything is done in soft earth tones, browns, greens, and creams. I approach the receptionist, and she gives me a broad smile. I try to return it, but fail. She looks too much like Connor’s blond, and I’m in no mood to smile.
“Please, fill out these papers,” she says, passing me a stack of intake forms. “I know it’s a lot, but I swear it’s the last time you’ll have to do this. Have a seat, and I’ll call you when the doctor is ready.”
I nod, take the tall stack of papers, and settle into a seat. The question goes from the typical to the deep, and I find myself squirming uncomfortably in my chair. Do I really want a stranger to know this much about me? The thought seems absurd. I’ve locked certain things away for so long, I’m not even sure
if I can tell anyone what was going on with me.
“Angela,” the receptionist calls a few minutes later. “You can go back now.”
I carry the forms with me as I walk into his office. It’s bigger than I expected, with big, wide windows letting in the morning sunlight. A man stands up from behind his desk. He has soft, chestnut eyes, wavy gray hair, and a soft smile. He’s wearing a plain button-up shirt, black slacks, and no tie or shoes. Walking over, he extends his hand to me.
“You must be Zoey’s friend. I’m Dr. Pearson.”
“You look comfortable.”
“You can get as comfortable as you want as well. It can help keep the process light.”
I eye him with suspicion. “I don’t even know if I should be here. There’s nothing you can do for me,” I say as I turn to go.
“Bullshit,” he calls.
I turn on my heel, my brow arching. “I’m pretty sure you can’t say that.”
“Private practice. I can say what I like. Therefore, I’m going to say bullshit.” He sinks his hands into his pockets and strolls over casually. “You’re here because you want to change. You want help. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t ready to make a difference in your life.”
I shrug. “I’m sure I could do it on my own.”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“Bullshit?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
I sigh. “Zoey said you were a pain.”
The doctor grins. “Zoey knows me well.”
“She’s your patient, right? You’re helping her.”
“She was my patient,” he says with a chuckle. “Until she started dating my son. Conflict of interest. Besides, Zoey doesn’t need me anymore. She’s changed.”
So that’s why Zoey has been acting so differently. She hadn’t just matured; she’d been going through therapy. How could I not have seen that? Probably because I was wallowing in my own sea of personal self-pity instead of paying attention to the people around me. I feel a stab of guilt in my stomach. I’ll make it up to her no matter what.
I give up on trying to leave, and instead I sit on the black leather chaise that’s beside the doctor. He pulls up a chair, crosses a leg over his knee, and waits. I hand him my papers, but the room stays silent for a long time. He doesn’t push me, doesn’t prod me.
“I don’t know where to start,” I mumble.
“Start at the beginning. Or the end. Start wherever you most feel that you need to. We’ll make heads or tails of it later.”
I release a breath, take another one in, and close my eyes. After a few more minutes of getting comfortable, forcing some of my walls down, I begin.
“It started when I was very young. I thought that I was in love…”
By the time the session is over, I’ve cried more than I ever thought possible. I wipe my eyes with a tissue he hands me and drink down some water. When I stand up, I laugh.
“Can you tell me why I’m crying so much lately?”
“Crying is incredibly cathartic. You’ve been holding in a lot over the years. You deserve to let it all go. That being said, no one ever said it would be an easy release. Just give yourself time.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Doctor Pearson laughs. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re just getting started.”
I smile. “I know you’ll be good for me.”
He chuckles. “I’m happy to hear it. Same time next week? I think we should take it slow for now, give it time.”
I nod. “I agree with you. See you next week.”
“Hey,” he calls as I’m about to leave his office. “Happy early birthday.”
Grinning, I thank him before I leave the office. He and Zoey were right: I feel better. I’m also more clearheaded than I’ve been in a long time. I ride the elevator back down. As soon as I step outside, my phone rings.
“Jesus, Zoey,” I mumble with a smile on my face.
Picking up my phone, I look at the screen. It’s not Zoey.
“Yes?” I ask, my tone clipped. “How can I help you?”
A sigh comes through the phone. “Are you really going to be like that?”
I roll my eyes. “Connor, I’ve been calling you for days. Where have you been, huh?”
There’s silence on his end. “I was pissed off.”
“No shit.”
“And I needed time to not be pissed off.”
“I was trying to apologize.”
“Just because you were ready to apologize doesn’t mean that I was ready to hear it.”
I desperately want to throw it in his face that I saw him with a woman the other day. Why is he trying to act like he’s so innocent? I grit my teeth in frustration, but I say nothing. I want to see if he would admit it first.
“What are you doing?” he asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“Walking. Why?”
“I wanted to take you somewhere. Get away. Make up,” he says, his voice softer than usual.
“Actually, I’m busy,” I say tightly, trying to keep my temper calm.
“Busy?” Connor echoes. “You’ve been calling me, begging me to talk—”
“I never begged!” So much for not losing my temper.
“And now you don’t want to see me? What’s wrong with you?”
Sighing, I rub my fingertips into my temple. He is without a doubt the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. I want to tell him exactly where he can jump, but instead I clear my throat.
“I don’t want to fight right now. For the first time in a while, I’m in a really good mood, and I’m moving to a better place.”
“That sounds like you’re dying.”
“Connor,” I say slowly, “I will talk to you when I’m good and ready. Not a minute before.”
“Now you’re angry at me?” he asks in disbelief. “What the hell did I do?”
“You know what you did!”
I hang up the phone before he can say another word. He has a lot of nerve, pretending that he’s innocent and doesn’t deserve my wrath. After a while, when I can call him on it, calm, I will tell him about seeing that woman on his arm. For now, there are better things to do.
I drive out of the city, back to home. The back door is open, a breeze rushing through the house when I step inside. Grabbing the mail out of the bin we hung on the wall, I sort through it. Bill, bill, junk. Nothing interesting ever comes in the mail anymore.
“Mary? Kyle?”
“We’re out back!” Kyle calls loudly.
I drop my keys into the glass bowl and kick off my shoes. The grass is soft, but cool to my feet. I pad over to Mary, who’s elbow deep in dirt, a spade in her hand.
“Isn’t it too cold to plant anything?”
“Maybe,” Mary says with a shrug, “but I’m just pulling weeds.” She dusts off her hands. “I had to get outside, get some fresh air,” she says with a smile.
I nod. “I know the feeling.”
I sit down beside Mary, leaning my head against the tree. It’s a perfect day. Why can’t I calm my thoughts down, though? I really wish I hadn’t quit smoking.
“Hey, your birthday is coming up soon. Right?” Mary asks.
“Hmm? Oh yes, November 15th.”
“What do you want?”
“A quiet day at home, followed by a few drinks with Zoey. I’ll be twenty-nine, so I’m holding off on doing anything big. I’m dreading thirty.”
Mary shakes her head with a laugh. “You won’t die.”
I watch her push herself up from the ground. She slips off her gardening gloves before calling to Kyle. Sitting his book down, he jogs over to us.
“Let’s go get something for dinner. We were going to surprise you by cooking for you.”
I smile. “I would never object to that. You two are amazing in the kitchen.”
I wave them off before settling back against the tree once more. My thoughts wander, but I still hear when they pull out of the driveway and head down the road.
I start
dozing off, but a few minutes later I hear the car pull back in. If something were wrong, Mary would have called me immediately. They must have forgotten something. I push myself up, dust off my hands, and head inside.
“What did you guys forget?” I glance up at the door, and my heart drops into the pit of my stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“I tried to play nicely.” Nathan glares at me. “I’m done being nice.”
“Don’t touch me,” I say, backing up as I speak.
“Why not? Who’s going to hear you if you object? I guess that’s the price you pay for privacy.”
I run. It doesn’t do much good, and I don’t get far before he jumps onto my back. Nathan wrestles me down to the ground as I bite at his arms, claw at his face. My nails make contact with his skin, and when it breaks, it’s the most satisfying feeling I’ve ever experienced.
That’s when I decide, right at that moment: I’m done running. I kick out with my bare feet, my heel making contact with his mouth. The pain that echoes through me from his teeth is nothing compared to the way he reels back in pain. Clutching his mouth, I watch him pull away.
He’s too stunned to do anything but clutch his mouth. Good. I crawl over to the drawers, my knees screaming from where they made contact with the ground. Digging inside, I pull out the biggest knife I can find.
By the time I turn around, Nathan is gone. I push my back against the counter, my eyes scanning the living room wildly. The front door is still closed; he hasn’t left.
Slowly, I notice the drops of dark crimson blood dotting the floor. My eyes follow the trail before I push myself up. Limping, I follow it slowly. He’s in my room. Nathan is in my room, waiting, planning.
I want to run, but he would hear me. The moment I turned my back, he would know. And then what? I keep running? Keep letting him control my life? No. I want to end this.
Stepping forward slowly, my hand grips the door knob. I take a deep breath and in one fluid motion throw it back as far as it will go. Nathan comes rushing out, flying at me like a wild man as he tries to grab me.
BOUGHT: A Standalone Romance Page 17