Page 22 of Hush Money
“Oh, Genevieve,” she whispers on the other end, and I close my eyes. “What happened? Where are you?”
I would rather tell her every intimate detail of the downfall of my marriage than give her even the slightest clue as to where I am right now. My parentslovedtelling people that I was friends with an Everett when I was a teenager. So much so that we pretended we drifted apart at one point. I would tell them I was with other friends when I was going to be with Keaton so they wouldn’t try to snap a photo or impose. They were grown adults ogling after my friend because of his last name. It always felt so icky. I was so protective of him when we were kids, and judging by the way my body is physically resisting giving any information on him, I guess I still am.
“In the city,” I say.
“What happened, Genevieve?”
Ugh. That name.
“He had a lot to drink. We had a big fight. I left,” I say.
“Well, are you going back?” she asks. Not,Are you okay?orDo you need anything?She just wants to know when I’m going back so she’s not at risk for having to explain where I am to therest of the Long Island socialites that she so desperately wants to be a part of.
I feel my blood start to boil inside my veins.
She’s never put me first, now included.
“No, Mom. I’m not,” I say. I hear a sigh on the other end of the line then a whimper.
“Oh, Genevieve,” she says again. “I just…I can’t believe this. Are you sure? I mean, can’t you?—”
“He threw a glass bowl at my feet and held me hostage in my own home. He held my arm so tight that it left a bruise. I’m not going back, Mom. And I’d appreciate some space while I figure out what’s next. I’ll call when I’m ready,” I say, and without another word, I end the call.
And then I feel it. I can’t hold them back any longer. And they’re not just tears. They are loud, aggressive, visceral sobs. Sobs for the woman who was stuck in that house with that man. Stuck in thatmarriage.Who didn’t feel worthy of leaving until right now.
I lower my head down to the couch cushions and let the tears fall, rolling off and soaking into the gray fabric. My phone dings again, and I hold my breath. I almost don’t look at it, but it dings again. And when I finally look down, I see it’s Keaton.
Todd says it sounds like you’re crying? Are you alright?
Todd. That traitor. I sniff and wipe my face, typing back furiously.
I’m all good. You know I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.
I send a laughing emoji, but I grow more anxious when he doesn’t answer. So I finally put my phone back and lie back down again. I let the tears flow but, this time, quietly. Fuckin’ Todd.
But in a few minutes, I jump up when I hear the front door open and shut. I try desperately to wipe the tears from mysoaked cheeks, but I’m not fast enough. He walks into the living room, shimmying his coat off and kicking off his shoes. He walks toward me with a brown paper bag and sets it on the coffee table. I stare up at him, but all seeing him does is let the tears come hotter and heavier. He sinks down onto the couch and wraps his arms around me, lying back so that I’m practically on his lap. And then I just let myself cry. I soak his shirt while I cling to the only human who has ever made me feel like my tears mattered.
I cry for the little girl who wanted to change the world but became the woman who smiled even when she was unhappy.
I cry for the girl who thought it would get better when all it got was worse.
I cry for the girl who just wanted the people who were supposed to love her to give a shit.
We’re completely horizontal on the couch now, my head on his chest as he strokes my hair. Finally, I feel like I’ve gotten it all out—at least, for now.
“You hungry?” he whispers when my sobs have subsided. I nod and force out a laugh.
“Crying burns a lot of calories, ya know,” I say. He sits us upright, ignoring my quip and reaching for the bag.
“They may be cold, but I grabbed some cinnamon rolls,” he says. I look at him and smile. I know I look different than I did when we were kids…than I did when he last saw me. Tanner used to make comments whenever I’d grab something sweet. Keaton is bringing them home to me.
Home.
I really shouldn’t be using that term lightly.
This isnothome. I don’t know where home is. But this isn’t it.
This isn’t evenhishome. This is just a stop on his quest to be back out west.
