Page 60 of The Scars I Bare
“But then I see her excitement over the littlest things—from learning how moon phases affect the tides to teaching herself how to play the piano. Learning is what she does. I can’t keep her from it.”
Placing her tea down on the table beside us, her hand slid out to meet mine in the space that separated us. Just the tips of our fingers touched but I felt it. That connection. I’d felt it all those years ago; I knew I had. And, now, I was positive of it. Now, I just had to convince her of it.
“This isn’t easy for me,” she said, taking my hand now fully in hers and pulling it into her lap. “Not just the touching, but also the opening up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I do,” she replied. “I said I’d explain, and I will. It’s just hard.”
Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, I replied, “And, like I said, I’m not going anywhere.”
“You see, I used to read about women who suffered abuse and think,I’ll never end up like that. I’d never be so stupid.” She let out a strangled laugh. “Like there was some sort of IQ level that went along with it.
“In books and movies, the men who beat women are always lowlife scumbags. The moment you see them walk on camera or the minute you read about them, you know. But, when I met Blake, there was no flashing sign above his head. Nothing that stood out in the back of my mind. Not even now.
“Looking back, it was a simple love story, just like any other. I fell in love. The first time he hit me felt like some sort of dream. Surely, I was going to wake up and realize none of it had really happened because my husband was not the type.”
She took a deep breath.
“There is no type when it comes to abusers. They’re just shitty men with shitty tempers. Just shitty, shitty men. And that’s what makes them so dangerous because, if I can fall in love with one—”
“Who’s to say you can’t fall in love with another,” I said, finishing her sentence as a single tear fell down her cheek.
She nodded.
“I’m not one of those men,” I promised as I watched more tears fall from her eyes.
“I want to believe you,” she said. “I do. I just…I don’t know how.”
“What if we leveled the playing field?” The words sprang from my mouth before I even had a chance to think it through.
“What?” Her eyebrows shot up in a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Okay, hear me out,” I said, letting go of her hand to raise both of mine out in front of me in a show of mercy. “You fear me sometimes, right?”
Guilt washed over her. “Yes, but like I explained, it’s not you specifically; it’s just—”
“It’s a trust issue. Your trust was broken by someone you loved. He”—I did my best to control the anger I felt whenever I mentioned her ex—“asserted his dominance over you when you’d trusted he wouldn’t, and now, you don’t know who you can and cannot trust.”
She gave a quick nod. “Yes.”
“So, we’ll level the odds.”
She crossed her arms in front of her as a look of puzzlement splashed across her features. “I don’t understand.”
“You asked me a while ago if I trusted people, and I answered yes. Without a doubt, yes. Do you remember?”
She nodded as I let out a ragged breath.
“Well, that was a lie. A lie I tell everyone. Even myself. The truth is, I lost my trust in a lot of things the night I lost my arm. The ocean. People. God.”
She swallowed hard as I continued, “I do my best to carry on like none of it bothers me, but, like you, I don’t trust much of anything anymore. I don’t trust the ocean will keep me safe. I don’t trust people will accept me with this contraption on my arm, and I’m not sure God is even up there, listening to me anymore.”
“Dean,” she whispered.
“So,” I continued, trying to keep my voice steady, “how about I do one scary thing in exchange for one of yours?
I sat up as she watched with interest, and the moment my fingers touched the neoprene fabric, my stomach started began to lurch in protest. “I’ve never done this in front of another person—outside of rehab, that is.”
