Page 31 of HoHoHo for You

“I’m going to take a shower then go for a walk on the beach,” she said quietly as I reached for the journal.

“Okay.”

She started to turn, but I caught her hand and pulled her back. “Bridget, it’s going to be okay. I promise,” I said quietly, then tugged her closer for a soft kiss.

She took a long, slow breath as I kissed her, but she didn’t meet my eyes as she turned away and walked into the bathroom. I gave her that vulnerability and sat back against the headboard of the bed, praying as I opened that terrifying book that I could find the way through this that wouldn’t scare her further. Then, just as the pathetic shower turned on in the little bathroom, I started reading, and the first line gutted me so much I was glad she wasn’t there to see the way I had to swallow tears.

Why didn’t my mother love me enough to leave my father and keep us both safe?

Why wasn’t I worth that?

I had often had similar thoughts about my mother, though for very different reasons. I couldn’t imagine looking back from a child’s perspective and seeing what she saw.

If only her mom had found the courage to leave.

If only she’d cared more about protecting her daughter than staying with a man who terrified her. But I also knew men like Gordon Reynolds, Bridget’s father. The chances were that her mother tried to leave. Probably more than once. And that fucker didn’t let her.

When I talked to her dad, I’d made the observation that the anger of his actions told me that Bridget’s mother had probably cheated—or at least, Gordonthoughtshe had.

Gordon never responded to that query, but his eyes had gone very cold.

I hated that Bridget felt like that about her mom, but I understood it too.

I kept reading… and what I found made me ill.

A few minutes later, while I was still reeling, Bridget walked out of the bathroom and to the front door. She met my eyes and squeezed out a tiny smile, but she obviously didn’t want to talk, so I nodded and let her go while I went back to reading. When the screen banged behind her, it startled me because I’d just read about her parent’s fight from the eyes of seven-year-old Bridget, watching in horror as her father pulled a gun and put it to her mother’s head.

That poor, little girl watched her mother’s head explode—that’s how she described it. Except, it was the side of her head. She watched her mother’s eyes roll back and her face turn into a really scary expression, but there was blood and black pieceseverywhere.

And the only comfort the adult Bridget had when she remembered that moment was that her mother didn’t have time to feel herself die. It was instantaneous. She twitched, and slumped, and twitched again, hanging from Gordon’s grip on her hair… then that bastard let her crumple to the floor while Bridget stared and screamed. And wet her pants.

As a child, she was fixated on that point for years.

Her mother died, and she wet her pants. A mortifying embarrassment for a seven-year-old who was too big a girl to be doing that.

That’s what her cunt of a father told her.She was too big for that shit.

I’d felt anger towards the man before this, but the rage that coursed through me when I read that… I was glad Bridget wasn’t there to see it, because it would scare her. I had to get out of the bed and pace because if I didn’t move, I’d end up breaking something.

Half an hour later, Bridget returned from her walk and I was still pacing the bedroom, still reading. She looked alarmed when she saw me. I realized I was gripping tight and clenching my teeth, and generally lookingangry.I fought for a moment, struggling to access the tenderness she needed. Ineededto react to this story, but I couldn’t scare her.

For a moment I felt trapped.

Help me not to make this worse, God. Because I want to go do some murder myself right now.

Good thing Gordon was already dead. And yet, a part of me wasfuriousthat he’d died earlier this year. I wanted to get my hands on his throat and watchhiseyes roll back in his head—

I shoved those thoughts away and cleared my throat, focusing on the very alarmed looking Bridget who was standing next to the dining table watching me like I was a prowling lion.

I took a deep breath and stopped moving. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m angry athim,”I said gruffly, then walked to her and took her in my arms. “I’m so, so sorry for what you’ve been through.”

“Sam, I—”

She was stiff in my arms, and I remembered she didn’t want me to talk about it until I was done. So I released her immediately and stepped back nodding. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll let you go. I just wanted you to know—I’m moving to keep myself calm. But I’m fine.”

She nodded, but looked uneasy and I cursed myself for not thinking. I let her go make herself some coffee and I went back to the journal. But fear and rage were crackling down my spine.

I’d been eager to get into this, to see into her mind and understand the demons she fought every day. But the more I read, the more I prayed I could get through it without hurting her further.

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