Page 55 of If You Give a Grump a Christmas Tree Farm
“Exactly.”
“Then I’m glad you found that,” she whispers.
“Tell me about your marriage. Did David do to you the same shit he did to me? I hope not, because I know exactly what that was like.”
“I’ve never talked about my marriage. Not to your parents, not to mine, not even to my sister.”
“Babe, I’m the one person who knows what David was like. The one person who won’t doubt a thing you tell me. I see through your pain, and I know, because I’ve been there.”
She nods, but stays quiet.
I nudge her. “Becca, talk to me.”
She draws a deep breath, then begins. “He treated me the same as some of what you described. Everything was his way. Everything was what he wanted. He never listened to my dreams. It was never about me. Not once. Except when we were in front of your parents. Then he acted the part of a devoted husband, but it never lasted longer than the ride home.”
“Did my parents know?”
She shakes her head. “I never let on, because, like you said, they thought he was perfect.” She blows out a breath. “It feels good to let all that out. Like a weight has lifted.”
“I get that. It’s hard to share the un-shareable.” I sip my wine. “I’m glad you told me, though. I suspected most of it.” I swallow. “There’s one thing I’ve got to ask you, Becca.”
“What’s that?”
“Did he ever hurt you? I mean physically. Did he ever lay a hand on you?” Everything inside me stills and tenses, waiting for her answer. I hate that she went through even a portion of what I did, and fury surges through me. My hand tightens into a fist.
“The type of pain David inflicted was all emotional.”
I feel the tension seep out of my body slowly. “I hate that he put you through that, but I’m glad he never did worse.” I flex my fist. “If he had, and he were still alive, I’d beat him bloody for you.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I want.”
“It’s the way the club takes care of guys like him. Brother or not.”
Rebecca’s phone goes off, and she reads the incoming text.
“Unbelievable,” she whispers.
“What is it?”
“Your mother is asking if I’m coming for Thanksgiving.” She taps out a reply and puts her phone down.
I stare at her. I don’t want to pressure her to tell me or appear to judge her either way, but I can’t help it and the words spill out. “You goin’?”
“Of course not. Not after the other day. I’m done with them.”
“Rebecca, you don’t have to be done with them on my account. Just because I don’t get along with them doesn’t mean you can’t still have a relationship with them if that’s what you want. You don’t need my permission.”
“I know I don’t. But after what was said, I have no desire to go over there. Maybe that will change with time. Maybe at some point we can get past it, but not by Thursday.”
“I get that.” The corner of my mouth pulls up. “The clubhouse always does a big Thanksgiving. You want to go there?” I make the offer, but even I am not feeling it this year.
“Not really. Is it okay if we just hang out here? Especially with opening day the following morning. The last thing I feel like doing is driving all that way home Thursday night. We’d both be exhausted.”
“You’re right. Hanging out here, just the two of us—that actually sounds really good.” I waggle my brows. “Can we watch football?”
She laughs. “I wouldn’t dare stand between a man and his turkey day football games.”
When Thursday rolls around, we get out the takeout dinners the diner was offering for Thanksgiving and heat them in the oven. We even picked up a pumpkin pie and whipped cream.
