Page 16 of Concealed

“Awesome.”

He pours us each a glass and then somehow manages to open the patio door without spilling any, gesturing for me to go first.

After setting down the heaping plates of chicken shawarma, tabbouleh, falafel, and garden salad, I start to sit down at the wrought iron bistro table.

Wyatt sets his hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. “I need to sit facing out.”

I laugh, and the sound is rusty and unfamiliar. “Of course, you do. Need to have all the points of entry and exit visible, huh?”

He grins. “Guilty.” Noticing the food for the first time, his eyes widen. “Holy shit. This looks incredible. Where did you… I mean, sorry, I haven’t been this excited about dinner in a long time. Thank you, and please stay as long as you want. Forever even.”

I can’t help it – another laugh escapes. He’s being careful not to ask me any questions, but I don’t want the entire evening to be awkward. I either need to try trusting him and acting normal or just spend the rest of my life hiding from anyone who pushes my limits.

And, at the moment, that’s basically everyone.

He pulls my chair out, and the sweet gesture almost makes me cry. When I sit down, his warm hand squeezes my shoulder, and I realize just how long it’s been since a man has touched me without the intention of hurting or controlling me.

Deciding to answer his unasked question, I say, “I spent a lot of time in the kitchen back in Vegas.”

Wyatt sits across from me and scans the perimeter before exhaling and bringing his gaze back to mine. “Did you enjoy it?”

Matt always demanded that I make gourmet meals, which had to be absolutely perfect. Luckily, I’ve always loved cooking and baking, but he sucked the joy from the experience, making me scared and anxious in a place that used to be a sanctuary.

Well, that describes my life in general – a prison of fear.

Oldlife.

Things will be different now.

“When I can choose what I’m making and there’s no pressure, yeah,” I return.

I can’t help but think that Wyatt must assume I’m just another dumb woman who stayed in a bad situation. And I hate it. The worst part of abuse is the shame and total loss of self.

The logical part of me knows what Matt did isn’t my fault, but the irrational side reminds me that I could have enacted my plan and tried to leave sooner.

When I look back, all I can focus on are my mistakes.

Wyatt starts to say something, but I interrupt, which is completely unlike me. I learned a long time ago to speak when spoken to. But something about this gentle man has me comfortable enough to break my pattern and make my voice heard.

“These bruises are two weeks old,” I confess.

Gathering myself, I use a fork to push the warm chicken through the melting tzatziki, enjoying the herbal aroma. I messed up when I made this same meal for Matt, which he was sure to let me know.

This time, the chicken has perfect grill lines, the lemon zest in the tabbouleh isn’t overpowering, and the falafel is far from soggy.

It’s a lot easier to cook without the fear of what happens if I fail.

“The last time he hit me, it was a bad scene,” I continue. “I gave myself a time limit to get my shit together and run. And I did – finally.”

“Our” bank account was inaccessible to me, and I had to use the limited grocery and expense money I’d managed to scrounge together and hide under a floorboard. Plus, I earned some money from slowly pawning all the jewelry Matt gave me.

I packed as little and as discretely as possible. And then waited for the perfect opportunity to leave when there was no chance Matt would be home from work early.

“I waited too long,” I continue, “but I didn’t want him to suspect anything or catch me in the act of leaving.”

When I called for help, I didn’t give Gabe any notice, even though he was always part of my escape plan. If he knew in advance, there was a chance he could talk or that whoever he asked to take in a temporary roommate would talk.

It had to seem spontaneous when it was anything but. Leaving was years in the making. And while things didn’t go perfectly, I made it work anyway. I can’t even begin to imagine the rage Matt experienced when he got home and realized I wasn’t there.

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