Page 91 of Lace 'em Up

I shiver, and I know he sees it because he loosens his grip on the steering wheel for a second, covers my hand with his own.

But it’s a fleeting touch, there and gone in an instant before he’s back focusing on the road, back clenching the steering wheel with both hands, back not looking at me.

He was there, and he’d stepped in.

He had my back. Just like before with Phillip. But, based on the tautness of his jaw, his grip on the steering wheel, the fury emanating from his frame, he’s not going to be receptive to that sentiment, to me trying to convince him exactly how thankful I am for him.

How deep he’s woven himself into my soul.

So deep that only Chrissy exists there. And Jean-Michel. And my pups.

And Rome.

And…now King.

Before Jean-Michel and Chrissy, no one else in my life had stepped in like that—not after my dad had died.

No one protected me, looked after me for no reason except that I’m a living being and worthy of love and protection and kindness, just like every other person and animal on this planet.

But King did.

And I know exactly how precious the gift that he’s given me is.

The least I can do is look after him in turn.

To make him understand.

To give him this part of me…and hope that, at some point, he’ll see I’m a safe place to seek solace in return.

Be brave and kind.

“Phillip wasn’t mean in the beginning.”

The steering wheel protests again, but I keep going.

“He never handled me roughly or hit me, not until the day of the wedding and he saw me in the dress and…” I close my eyes. “He wasn’t happy. I’d gone against his and his mom’s wishes in choosing my dress, by choosing the style I wanted.”

One of the “many ways I disobeyed them.”

A tiny victory on a war of attrition I didn’t even know I was fighting.

Losing myself.

Losing what was important to me—my pups, my rescue, even pulling back from Chrissy and Jean-Michel.

And lying to myself that it was happening at all.

“I don’t know if it was the stress of the day that pushed him over the edge,” I say, hating that I have to admit the next, “but I do know it was inevitable that we got there. He was always going to hit me. Because there were red flags from the beginning that I ignored—stupid stuff like not splitting responsibilities even though he promised, him flying off the handle when I tried to hold him to those promises, becoming unreasonably angry and giving me the silent treatment for days when I broke down and did the chores anyway. Because he was going to get to them. Because I undermined him.” I sigh. “And I ignored it all because I loved him.”

“Princess—”

“I know,” I whisper, squeezing his thigh again. “I was dumb. I didn’t recognize that it didn’t matter how I changed, how I tried to make myself smaller, how much I tried to cater to him, it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t ever going to be enough. And I—” I swallow hard. “Truthfully, I didn’t think I deserved anything better. Didn’t think I deserved someone who was happy that I found joy in things like a TV show or book or—worse—my rescue. I thought it was normal for my partner to make fun of me for”—I do finger quotes—“being emotional because I cried when a dog I loved was adopted out. I thought not being willing to share the house with any rescue dogs was a boundary I needed to respect, no matter that it destroyed a part of me to not be able to help them, no matter how dire their circumstances were, or how much guilt I had when I needed to rely on my fellow volunteers more than I felt like I should.”

Red flags.

So many of them.

And I was blind to it all.

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