Page 1 of After the Rain
Prologue
Rain
The first time my boyfriend hit me, I swore it would be the last time. Spoiler alert: I was wrong. In my defence,healso swore it would be the last time. I guess he was wrong, too. Now, three years later, I’m lying next to him in bed, barely able to breathe from the searing pain in my ribs. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. My left eye is swollen shut, and my right is halfway there. My lip is split, my nose is still bleeding, and I feel like my body is one big bruise, courtesy of his boots. And the pain in my – nope. Still not thinking about that.
I never thought I would be this person. I thought I was the type of person who would walk away at the first sign of trouble and never let my partner sweet-talk me into believing he could change, that it would never happen again, blah blah blah. The problem is that, sometimes, even abad place is better than no place at all and being with a bad person is better than being alone.
He’s been vicious in the past. But tonight? Tonight, I genuinely thought he was going to kill me. His eyes were different. Empty. And yet, somehow, full of rage directed at me. My crime? Doing my job. The jobheforced me into.
I always loved to dance. Even as a kid in my mum’s council house in London. After Dad fucked off when I was two years old, she’d come home at six in the morning from her job waitressing at an all-night, greasy spoon café and wake me by turning up the volume on her rock and power ballads playlist. Mornings rocking out to Meatloaf, Creedence, and Bon Jovi with my mum were some of the most fun times I can remember. Countless memories of holding both her hands as we headbanged and spun in circles until we were dizzy, ending up breathless and lying flat on the floor, with huge grins on our faces. Those mornings with her were when I fell in love with movement and realised how dance can be a way to both process bad emotions and enhance good ones. As I got older and joined a dance class at the community centre – which I managed to get for free in exchange for helping in the office – I discovered the pole. Pole dance has all kinds of somewhat questionable connotations, but to me, it’s an expression of artistry, athleticism,acrobatics, and strength.
At least, that’s what it used to be until Dan, the arsehole lying next to me, saw me perform in a showcase at the dance studio I attended when I was nineteen. He swept me off my feet. He was so loving and affectionate.
“You’re so gorgeous, Rain. I love to watch you dance.”
“You do?” I asked shyly. His dark gaze penetrated me until I felt warm and fizzy inside. He stepped even closer to me, the backs of his fingers brushing mine before he took my smaller hand in his and squeezed.
“I do,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, “and I hope you’ll let me take you out for dinner. I would love to get to know the real you, as well as the you I see up on that stage.”
I can’t believe this gorgeous man is speaking to me. I’m just some kid, compared to him, with nothing except a nice arse to recommend me. “I, um,” I hesitate, “I’d love to.” It was at that moment that I realised I didn’t know this man’s name. I’d seen him hovering at the back of the class for several weeks, and he clearly knew me, but I had never spoken to him before. He smiled down at me, clearly recognising the confusion on my face.
“Dan. Dan Montgomery,” he said, his voice a smooth tenor, sliding over me.
He told me all these sweet things I had only ever read in my beloved romance novels, and he swore I was the only one for him. The hopeless romantic in me craved that kind of affection. He was my first boyfriend, and he showed me all the things my favourite authors had taught me to believe I should have in a relationship. In hindsight, I can recognise the love-bombing and manipulation for what it was.
I was twenty when Mum was diagnosed with cancer, and Dan and I had been together just shy of a year. Almost as soon as she got sick, he changed. Or rather, he stopped pretending. He became like two different people – sweet and loving one minute, then distant and mean the next.
I check my make-up in the mirror in the bathroom one last time before I head into Mum’s room. The bruises around my eye from Dan’s slaps last night are thankfully not too bad, and this concealer seems to be doing the job. Nodding at my reflection, as satisfied as I can be that Mum won’t be able to see them, I unlock the door and walk down the hall to Mum’s bedroom. I knock gently and enter when I hear her quiet voice telling me to come in.
“Hi, Mum,” I say with a sad smile. The same sad smile I wear every time I see her now. She’s beenon end-of-life care for a few weeks now, and every day, she’s a little weaker, a little less herself. She’s quiet, watching me with a blank expression on her face as I approach her and sit gingerly on the edge of her bed. “You feeling OK?” I ask.
She sighs softly, her gaze shrewd and assessing. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Well, apart from the whole dying of cancer thing, but you know. How are you?” Her right eyebrow lifts in that ‘don’t you dare lie to me, I will know if you do’ way she has always nailed.
“I’m great,” I lie. I’m really not great.
I don’t understand what happened last night. Things were fine. We were cooking dinner – well, I was cooking, he was sitting at the island, scrutinising every move I made – and he had suggested I put some paprika into the chilli I was making. I’d said it didn’t need it, and that I was sure he’d like it, just like he had every time I’d made it the same way before. I’d giggled, and before I knew it, he had me pinned back against the hot stove, narrowly avoiding burning me. He’d gripped my arm so tight I had winced while he’d shouted in my face.
“You think you’re so fucking clever? Huh? You think you know what I like better than I do? You know nothing. You are nothing. Just a stupid little bitch who needs to learn how to do what he’s fucking told.”
“You don’t seem ‘great’,” she says, skepticism dripping in her tone. She looks at me like she can see right through me. Who am I kidding? She can. She’s always been able to.
“Honestly, Mum. I’m good. It’s just,” I huff out a breath, releasing the tension in my shoulders. “Dan and I had a bit of an argument last night. I think he’s just been under a lot of stress. His dad wants him to step up at work, but he wants to work on the business with his brother. I think it all just got a bit much for him last night. I need to do better at supporting him while he’s under so much stress. I don’t have anywhere near that amount of stress.”
Mum scoffed, the sound wet, and then fell into a coughing fit. Breast cancer is all well and good, but the pneumonia is no fucking joke. I passed her a glass of water when she settled down again. “Oh yeah,” she said wryly. “No fucking stress at all. Just the only parent you have dying from cancer. No biggie.” She looked at me, that penetrating gaze seeing all my shit laid bare. The corners of her lips twitched slightly, and I followed suit, both of us falling into laughter.
When the laughter subsided, she reached up to me and placed her hands on either side of my face. I winced when she squeezed me, like she always did, and it pressed on the bruises. I don’t think she noticed, though.
“Rain, I want you to really hear me when I say this. Relationships are two-sided, OK. Dan maywell be under a lot of stress with work, but you have an awful lot going on as well. And while you’re here worrying about whether you’re supporting him enough, can you say, in all honesty, that he’s doing the same?”
Her words hit like a tonne of bricks. No. I absolutely hate the truth of it, but no. I know he isn’t. But, still, he’s going to be all I have when… Fuck. My stomach flips, and tears spring to my eyes instantly at the thought of her not being here anymore.
“Sweetheart, I’m not trying to upset you, but I’m not long for this world, and I want to make sure that you are with someone who really understands you. Someone who respects you and respects what you love in life. Someone who bends over backwards to do something nice for you, just because he can. Someone who feels safe. Secure. Like home. Is that person Dan?”
“I…” Words failed me. “I…” The lump in my throat felt like a boulder.
“Just think about it OK, sweetheart? I’m worried about you.”
She’d looked at me differently after that. Always with a hint of concern, and I hate that when she died, I was still stubbornly clinging onto the idea that Dan was just under pressure and would go back to who he had been whenwe first got together, eventually. He never did. And she died knowing that I was in a toxic relationship. I can only hope that I did a good enough job of hiding the marks he left on my face and body.
