Page 7 of Perfect
“Hi, pumpkin,” I coo, pitching my voice a little higher to hide how shaky it is. He doesn’t say anything as I look back down at the avocado I’m halving, trying to push down the anxiety and ignore my churning thoughts. He walks towards me, looming over me and looking down at the salad I’m throwing together.
“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t like avocados, Alice?” Danny’s voice is low and menacing. I stare down into the salad, realizing that in my panic, I started making something I usually only make for myself.
“Oh, god, Danny, I’m so sorry,” I say quietly, and I set the knife down and start picking the chunks of avocado out of the salad greens with trembling hands. He’s either going to explode now or save it for later, and I’m not sure which is worse. He scoffs and walks towards the fridge, pulling out a beer.
“Jesus, Bunny, you’re so stupid,” he mutters, heading out of the kitchen and leaving me standing there, my hands shaking with anger and fear. My eyes lift from my hands to the recently repaired drywall in the kitchen from when Danny threw me into the wall almost two months ago.
Looking at it now, you’d never even know it had been damaged.
Something inside me that was already broken beyond repair finally shatters, and all I feel is bitter, horrible resentment. I grab another bottle of wine from the fridge and drink directly from it, fury and contempt roiling in my stomach.
Fuck this.
Fuck him.
I dump all the avocado chunks back into the salad, hastily cutting open another, roughly slicing it, and dumping it in before I grab another, draining the bottle of wine as I go. I’m furious and shitfaced by the time Danny comes in for another beer, asking me where the fuck dinner is.
FRIDAY, JUNE 2
I lay on the yoga mat in savasana, breathing deeply and trying to clear my mind. I don’t want to let the memory bother me, but it won’t stop replaying in my mind. I dream about that night all the time, how he threw the salad and the wine bottle at me, how I got too drunk and made the mistake of telling him everything I thought about him and our relationship and all the things he’d done to me, how I had to run in the middle of the night with no plan, no preparation, and no fucking idea what I was doing.
It’s working out okay so far, though.
I get changed after yoga in the rec center locker room and hurry back to the office, pressing my lips into a thin line as I focus on drafting billing emails for Catherine and Suzie. Despite my best efforts to keep the past in the past, it’s not working that well. Between waking up from another nightmare about Danny, seeing a large blond man at the coffee shop this morning, and fighting off that memory in yoga, I’ve been a bundle of nerves all day.
I do my best to hide it, to smile and act normal, but I think the women at work are starting to be able to tell when I’m having a hard day.
I hate it.
I walk home quickly after work and open a bottle of wine, setting up paints and a canvas on my coffee table. I search online until I find the video Gabrielle sent me back in March, and I play it on repeat in the background while I paint a peony on a small square canvas, focusing on detailing it with a fine brush. Like exercising, painting helps me manage the constant, nagging fear that I’ll lose control of my life again.
I breathe deeply as I paint, practicing the affirmations Gabrielle asks me to repeat, letting her familiar voice comfort me.
I love myself.
I love who I am becoming.
I am doing the best I can.
I am stronger than I think.
I am grateful for my freedom.
I am worthy of love and respect.
I deserve to feel good about myself.
I deserve to be happy.
I repeat the affirmations to myself over and over until I’m grounded in the truths and almost believe the lies.
***
I go to Portland the next morning and focus on burying my feelings under an avalanche of brunch and shopping. I walk away from the restaurant, drunk off mimosas, following my phone’s map and peering into the large glass windows as I walk past the shops. I pause when I come to a shop with frosted windows and discrete signage, slipping my phone into my bag asI step inside. I’m immediately overwhelmed by the brightly lit, well-organized shelves full of things I’m unfamiliar with.
I’ve never been in a sex shop before.
“Can I help you?” I glance at the tall, androgynous person behind the counter and shake my head quickly.
