Page 12 of Brutal for It
But I’ve learned to choose. I choose him. I choose coffee in the morning, sweat on job sites, fireflies in the yard. I choose laughter when he burns dinner. I choose folding laundry badly and hearing him redo it under his breath.
I choose to keep breathing free from the chains of my past.
Tonight, I sit on the porch with a glass of sweet tea, watching fireflies blink across the yard. Tommy’s inside finishing paperwork. My hands smell of bleach and lemon cleaner from the day. My back aches from hauling drywall scraps.
The screen door creaks, and Tommy steps out with two bowls of icecream with one glass bottle of Cheerwine, his favorite soda. He sets one by me, opens the bottle and pours the cherry soda over the vanilla cream, and then settles into the chair next to mine with his bowl now in hand.
We both begin eating our nightly dessert. “You’re quiet,” he remarks.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” He bumps my knee with his.
I laugh, soft. “Do you ever worry this is too good? That we’re… tempting fate?”
He studies me, eyes steady. “Every damn day. But you know what I figured out?”
“What?”
“Life’s brutal and beautiful. Both. We don’t get to pick. We just hold on to the good when it comes.” He leans in, kisses me slow, steady. “And baby, we hold on tight.”
I close my eyes. For once, I let myself believe him.
After our sweet treat, we get ready for bed side by side, face washing, teeth brushing, like two old married people comfortable together.
Three years ago, I was bleeding out in my sister’s arms, thinking maybe I’d never get free. Now I’m here. Clean. Alive. Loved.
Life’s still messy. Still scary sometimes. But it’s mine. And I’m not running anymore. With those thoughts, I drift into a sleep, one that I know won’t last hours, but I’ll let this peace win for as long as I can.
It’s Friday evening when Tommy walks into the kitchen with that look.
I know that look.
It’s the same one he had the night he decided we were going to ride four hours just to eat at a barbecue joint in Greensboro. The same look he wore when he dragged me to the beach in the middle of February just because he wanted me to see the waves roll in with no one else around.
Trouble. That’s the look. Trouble because every time he makes that face, I fall more in love with the man and I worry about the day he realizes he can do better than me.
“Go shower, Tiny,” he says, leaning against the doorway with a grin that makes my heart skip like a scratched CD. “And do your hair. Paint your face if you want.”
I raise a brow. “Paint my face?”
He chuckles. “You know what I mean. Dress up. I’m taking you out.”
I cross my arms, suspicious. “Out where?”
“Not telling.” He pushes off the door and sets a big white box on the table in front of me. “But I got you covered.”
I stare at the box like it’s going to explode. “Tommy, what did you do?”
He just smirks. “Open it.”
I lift the lid, and my breath catches. Inside is a dress. Not just any dress. A deep ruby red slip of satin that looks like it belongs on someone who knows what she’s doing. Someone who doesn’t spend her days scrubbing paint off windows and sweeping sawdust into piles. Someone who could walk into a fancy restaurant and not immediately wonder if she’s about to be asked to leave.
Placed neatly beside it is a pair of black heels—strappy, elegant, definitely not steel-toed boots. There’s even a little clutch bag and a box with jewelry: delicate silver hoops and a necklace so simple it’s perfect.
“Tommy…” My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” He steps behind me, rests his chin on my shoulder, his hands sliding over my hips. “I take care of you every day, Jami. Bills, cars, groceries. That’s easy. But sometimes I want to remind you I see you as more than the girl with bleach on her hands and dust in her hair. You deserve to be spoiled too.”
