by Fiona Cole
She didn’t need me, but somehow, she still wanted me to be the man to stand by her side. I just didn’t know if I could be that man.
I’d already proven I couldn’t.
“It doesn’t matter. I already fucked up.”
Kent’s booming laugh pulled the attention of more than a few people, not that he cared. By the time he pulled himself together, everyone had stopped staring except me, trying to figure out what the hell was so funny.
“Of course, you fucked up.”
“Wow, Kent. Thanks for that pep talk,” I deadpanned.
“We all fuck it up. Ask Olivia.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Listen, Daniel. You’re going to fuck up, and it’s okay. If she loves you, and you don’t fuck it up beyond repair, she’ll forgive you the small stuff. We all get a learning curve.”
“I called her Sabrina.”
Amber liquid sprayed out of Kent’s mouth onto the bar, where he bent over in a coughing fit. “Fuck, Daniel,” he gasped, directing wide eyes my way.
“Yup.”
“That’s a little bit more than fucking up. Calling her by your ex’s name—especially your only ex from twenty years ago—that’s bad, man.”
“Fucking yup.” I downed my drink and signaled for another.
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, right now, the plan is to drink until I forget how much I hate myself.” The bartender sat my drink down, and I latched on, lifting in a salute to Kent before downing it.
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?” he deadpanned.
“Not great.”
“So, what are you going to do to get her back?”
“Did you miss the part about fucking up beyond repair?”
Kent winced as if imagining the whole scenario all over again. Rubbing a hand down his face, he wiped it away and pulled his shoulders back like he was about to do battle royale with me. Fuck, I hated when he got all self-righteous. Mainly because all I wanted to do was drink until I passed out, and he was about to ruin that for me.
“She loves you.” I scoffed, and he continued like he didn’t hear it. “Do you love her?”
Panic gripped my chest like a familiar friend. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” he assured without missing a beat. “Hell, I know the answer, and it’s not even me.”
I remembered Hanna the first night at Voyeur—not the way I found her crying in the hallway, but the way she laughed on my couch. I remembered the first time she let me touch her and her fascination. I remembered all her math puns and the sense of humor that only popped out when she was comfortable. I remembered the pride stretching her face when she took me to the mats the first time in self-defense. I remembered the way she held my hand and screamed off a mountain with me. I remembered how brave she was when she asked me to make love to her. I remembered her waking up in my bed. I remembered her crying in my arms and still finding the bravery to tell me she loved me.
Kent was right…it was obvious.
“Yeah, I do. I love her.”
“Then go tell her.”
“It’s not that simple, Kent,” I growled.
“Actually, it is.”
I kind of wanted to punch the smile off his face, like he just discovered the answer to world peace. Maybe a fight with Kent would help.
His smile softened as he watched me. “It really is that easy to tell someone you love them if you want them to know. You just say it.”
I dug my hands through my hair again and tugged the strands. Kent and I were always there for each other, but these last few years, life had us talking about our feelings more and more. It didn’t make it any easier.
Through a clenched jaw, I admitted what worried me the most. “What if she doesn’t believe me? What if she doesn’t want to hear it, or it’s too late, and she doesn’t care?”
His bark of laughter was not the comfort I was expecting. “What are you, twenty? You’re a grown man, Daniel. We don’t hide behind lack of conversation. We’re getting older, we don’t have time to wait around for conversations to just happen or for luck to keep throwing us opportunities and hoping for the best. You have to act. Buck up and at least give her the opportunity to decide that. Grovel like the baby you’re acting like.”
“You’re really sucking at pep-talks tonight.”
He shrugged.
“Now I’m going to ask you again…Do you love her? Love her enough to chance her kicking you in the balls and telling you to fuck off? Love her enough to let her kick you in the balls even if she does accept your sorry ass so she can feel better?”
I didn’t even have to think. “Yeah. I love her. So fucking much.”
“Good,” another voice said behind me. I turned to find Ian and Erik glaring, arms across their chests, legs braced like they were hitmen there to finish me off.
Erik leaned closer. “Now go fucking fix her before we kick your ass, right here, in your own club.”
“Hold on, boys,” Kent stepped in. “I agree, he’s a dumbass—”
“Thanks, friend.”
“—but let’s all calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when I see Hanna smiling again,” Erik growled.
The thought of Hanna not smiling pierced my chest, an ache blooming like blood spreading across a shirt. I hated that I’d hurt her. I hated that I hadn’t just told her I loved her when she said it to me.
“All right, boys,” Kent said. “Let’s take this somewhere less crowded so we can talk.”
We got up, and Kent led us to one of the sitting areas tucked away in the corner.
I sunk into the leather chair, digging my fingers into my eyes. “She won’t talk to me.”
“Have you tried?” Erik asked.
“Not since she kicked me out of the office.”
He lunged to the edge of his seat and bared his teeth. “Then get off your lazy ass and do something.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, tossing my arms out in frustration.
“Fucking apologize.”
“I did, dammit.”
“No. You need to apologize when emotions aren’t high, so she at least knows you tried, and then you need to apologize again when she’s calmed down,” Erik explained.
“And then a few million times after that, too,” Kent added.
“The point is, if you love her, then you don’t give up on one try,” Erik deadpanned before getting serious. “You make her listen, and after she hears you—really hears you, then you can make your decision on what to do next. But most of the time, they just want to be reassured you want them, that they are important enough to fight for. Show her she’s important enough to fight for. Unless she isn’t, then I’ll be happy to beat the shit out of you,” he added.
“Of course, she is.”
“Then why are you here drinking?”
“Because he’s scared,” Kent taunted.
My legs flexed, getting ready to jump across the space and pummel my best friend, but Erik’s hand on my shoulder, pinned me down.
“Listen, if you push too hard, I’ll kill you. But if you don’t try at all, I’ll have to kill you still.”
Resting my elbows on my knees, I held my head in my hands. “Jesus,” I breathed. Why was this so hard? I was almost forty, and here I sat with three men almost as emotionally stunted as I was, giving me advice on how to win a girl back. I’d never had to work for a woman, they always flocked to me.
But Hanna wasn’t just any other woman. She was special. She radiated confidence, strength, and beauty, and women like that didn’t flock to anyone. I needed to shove any insecurities aside and talk to her.
“How is she?” I asked softly.
“She’s running,” Erik said.
My face screwed up. “Hanna hates running.”
“Exactly. She doesn’t leave her office much, and she runs in the morning like she’s trying to make herself feel as bad physically as she does emotionally.”
Another sharp pierce, and my lungs constricted. I fought the urge to get up and go to her right then. I wanted to comfort her and make the pain go away. I just hoped she’d let me.
But hope wasn’t a strategy, and if I wanted to win her back, I needed a strategy.
I slowly lifted my head to Erik, who lounged back like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was going to sting to ask him for help, but my pride could join my insecurities in a dark pit. Preparing for him to gloat, I took a deep breath and sat tall.
“I need your help.”
“It’s a good thing I have an idea. But I may want to kick you in the balls before I tell you.”
“Whatever it takes.”
27
Hanna
“Are you sure?” Erik asked for the thousandth time.
I looked through the glass of the French doors at the small group of women on the other side, huddled on the couches surrounding the single chair saved for me. The pressure in my chest eased a fraction when I noticed only a few showed up. We had thirteen women housed at Haven right now, and my confidence waned when I imagined each set of eyes glued to me. I could handle the five in there.
I think.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Erik brushed my shoulder and turned me to face him. “You don’t have to do this. You do plenty for this place as it is.”
I gave him the most reassuring smile I could muster past the nerves. “I know, but I want to. I want to use what happened to me for good. I want to control it. And I’m not only doing it for them. Maybe I need it, too.”
Just like Daniel had suggested.
Sabrina. Sabrina. Sabrina.
Each time I thought of him, her name trailed behind it like a haunting echo I couldn’t escape. Each time I thought of her name, I wanted to scream, rage—I wanted to crumble.
I’d been reduced to replaying every moment we spent together and analyzing the way he looked at me, the things he said to me, the things he did to me. Was he picturing her the whole time? Had he seen me in the past few months at all? I hated it. One small slip and everything came crashing apart. It was like taking the most bottom right piece of the Jenga game first. Of course, it was going to fall.
I overthought every single second, slowly going insane. The thoughts would keep me from sleeping, and I’d lie in bed at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, starting from beginning to end all over again.
I’d gotten so frustrated one morning, I ran. Ran like I could outrun the thoughts running rampant over my heart. Self-doubt crept in, and I ran from that too. I hated running.
I still hated it, but I’d learned to use it. I popped my earbuds in and listened to music, drowning out the world, and processing it all. When processing became too much, I went back to the music and the thud of my feet on the pavement—the sharp knives in my lungs.
Anything was better than the worst-case scenario. Anything was better than him imagining her instead of me from the beginning.
Each morning I convinced myself a little more, that it really was an accident—a slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. How many times had I called Ian by Erik’s name, and vice versa? Everyone did it. It could be explained away so easily.
Except, I couldn’t let it go that easily. What if it hadn’t been an excuse? What if I gave in and believed him, only to find out later I was wrong? It wasn’t like he’d admit it if it was true. Who did that? Who admitted they’d done something so terrible without being cornered? No one.
That doubt had kept me from calling him—from seeking him out for an explanation. Because I knew how much I wanted to believe him, and he wouldn’t even have to try before I begged for him to hold me again.
“Are you ready?” Erik asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I shook out my arms, rolling my head around my neck, and breathed as deep as my lungs could expand. One thing Daniel had given me that he couldn’t take away was the confidence that I could own my past. Not just accept it but own it. And I fully intended to.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
He squeezed my hand and rounded the corner to a smaller seating area. He hadn’t wanted to be in the room to hear everything, and I didn’t want him to know all that had happened either. It would only weigh on him more than it already did. He also stayed away from the women as much as possible to help them feel comfortable in their readjustment.
I closed the doors behind me and smiled at the women as I made my way to the empty seat. Some smiled back. Some didn’t. Some looked healthy and almost at the end of their stay in Haven while others looked battered and on the brink of destruction at any moment.
“Hi, guys. I’m Hanna Brandt. My brother and I started Haven together.”
“You help run the charity thing,” one of the girls says. She had been one to share her story at the gala, and I envied her bravery, talking about her survival in front of hundreds to bring awareness.
“Yeah. I, uh, I’m also the catalyst for Haven. Me and my sister, Sofia.” A few met my eyes while others stared at their fidgeting hands, and I struggled to swallow past the lump in my throat. “She died when we were taken as teens.”
At that confession, everyone’s eyes snapped to mine, and I struggled to meet theirs. I took off my bracelets, setting them on the coffee table and laid my hands on my knees, not hiding the faint pink scars.
“I was shackled to a bed for almost the entire four months. And I fought like hell to break free for the first couple of weeks,” I said, explaining the marks. “Four months we survived—if you can call it that—until Sofia didn’t. I was rescued the next day.” Wetness leaked unbidden down my cheek, and I swiped it away.
“How?” one of them asked.
“Drug overdose.”
“Why are you telling us this?” another asked.
I laughed, not one-hundred percent sure I had a good answer. “Because I think I forgot how important it is to talk about it. Because sometimes it’s good to share with people who get it. Sometimes it’s good to feel not so alone. Because sometimes it feels good to know that you can. Even nine years later. Of course, we have top therapists and doctors here. But they don’t know for sure when they say you’ll make it through this. They will do their best and believe in you every step of the way, but even then, it’s a hope. They don’t understand the doubt, hurt, and anger because they didn’t feel it. They don’t understand the hope that lingers that maybe you won’t have to make it through this,” I whispered.
Some eyes dropped away, and I knew it was true. I’d hit that point a million times, hoping that if it just all ended, I wouldn’t have to feel the pain and shame anymore. Not everyone got that.
“They don’t understand that you did everything right. You didn’t leave a drink unattended. You never went anywhere alone. And yet, somehow, it still happened. They don’t understand the fear of waking back up in the hell we escaped.”
A few head nods encouraged me to keep going. “I guess I’m here because I found myself needing to talk about it. Because I realized that even though I handled it and accepted the past, shame and anger still had a tight hold of me. I think I just needed to be around people who really understood.
“I wanted to share with you that this place was founded by someone who does understand. Coming here at first feels great. You’re free—physically. But mentally, the battle has just begun. When I first talked about my captivity, I didn’t know how to explain to my therapist that there were days when men wouldn’t come to my bed, and I’d cry, almost wanting them to. Because if they came, then they still needed me. If they came, then I wasn’t trash that needed to be taken out. If they came, I was still useful and got another day with my sister.
“There were also days when I hoped that they would just come in and kill me. Probably more of those than the others. But Sofia always bitched at me to never say that again.” I wiped my eyes and laughed. “She was the strong one. The brave one. The positive one. She w
as the one that should have lived. Even nine years later, no one can convince me that fate made the wrong choice.”
“I made a friend,” one of the girls interjected. “She was my brave one. And she died. How—How do you handle it? How do you live with yourself knowing you lived when you didn’t even want to?” she asked, tears clogging her throat, choking the question off.
“You just do. I wish I had a better answer. A step-by-step guide to getting through it, but I don’t. You just hang in there and go to therapy and live each day and each hour or even each minute. You live it enough for them. You live a life they’d be proud of. You embrace the feeling of guilt and regret. You absorb it and feel every painful ache. And slowly, you dissolve it with each step you take forward. It’s been almost ten years, and mine still lives within me, but it’s minuscule compared to what it was.”
Motion at the glass doors caught my eyes, and I looked up and froze. Blond hair, ice-blue eyes made even brighter by the light blue shirt tucked into black jeans. His head dipped with a small smile, hitting me right in my heart. When had he got here? How much had he heard?
Not that it mattered, it was Daniel. He knew everything and never treated me differently. He never treated me as a fragile thing on the brink of collapse. He pushed me and demanded I be strong for myself in ways I hadn’t known I needed to be.
“Eventually, there comes a moment—or a person— that helps you want to be more,” I said, looking right at him. “We cover our darkest parts and hide it under a pretty blanket we worked so hard to make with therapy and time. We pretend it’s not there until we’re ready to face it. And I can tell you that one day you will be able to face it—even if it’s only bits and pieces at a time.”