Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“Was your dad a bastard to your mom too?” Foster asked hesitantly.
“He was. Mostly after he drank. He went on weekend benders.”
He frowned. “That sucks.”
“He’d call me names and criticize everything I did, and Mom would defend me. He’d stop for a while, then go off on me again. Anyway, I knew it was a bad idea to show up at his place after I left Clint, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“What happened?”
“He was drunk most of the time and picked fights with me. It was the reason why I moved out as soon as I graduated, yet somehow I ended up choosing some awful men through the years, though never as awful as Clint.”
“How long were you together?”
“Five years. I gave up everything for him. Even my friends. God, what was I thinking?”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself.” He gripped my shoulder, and I’d admit I liked how his hand felt there. Comfort and support. “You were a victim.”
“Yeah, it took me a bit to convince myself of that. He gaslighted me so much, I thought I was losing my mind.”
“That’s usually how it works.” He frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’m free now, in the purest sense.” I reached down to pet Oscar. “Want to hear something interesting?”
He nodded as he chewed his food.
“There are no domestic-violence shelters for men in the city, or in the state.”
“Shit, I never thought about that. Why do you think that is?”
“Because men are afraid to come forward?”
“I bet you’re right.” He motioned to my hand. “You’d think with your injury…”
“The truth is, I punched him—as his hand was tightening around my neck.” It was the first time Clint had tried choking me after a fight. And I saw it in his eyes, the raw anger. I was afraid he wouldn’t stop. “I broke that fucker’s nose, and he used it to gain sympathy, to turn people against me.” Even my closest friend, Marcie, from work. She was Clint’s friend first, they knew each other from childhood, and he’d called in a favor when I was applying to the salon because they still kept in touch. Marcie and I had grown close over the years—at least I thought we had. “I don’t regret it. That’s how I got away that night.”
“Damn.” His eyes widened. “I know you probably don’t believe it, but you’re strong and brave.”
“Eh, anyone would be to survive.” I was such a wreck that night that I even left the emergency room, unwilling to wait hours for an X-ray on my fingers. So I made do by taping them together as they healed. It was a dumb decision, and here I was.
His fingers squeezed my shoulder. “Not just anybody.”
“Thanks.” My face heated. “So, uh…tell me more about your family.”
“Not much to tell. Middle class, grew up in the suburbs of Chicago. I have an older brother who lives and works in the city. His name is Chase.”
“Are you close?”
“Yeah, we have weekly video calls to check in with each other.”
“Sounds nice.” His childhood sounded way more idyllic than mine.
He told me about pranks his brother would play on him as kids, and as we laughed, it felt like a normal night out with a friend.
Well, not totally normal. Clint would get jealous if I hung out with friends alone. His temper was unpredictable, just like my father’s. During arguments, he’d pushed me around sometimes, bruised my arm from squeezing too hard, and used the silent treatment for days to punish me. Before I knew it, I was miserable, but I also loved him fiercely. At least I thought I did. Our make-up sex was tender and remorseful, something I craved from him, and it was how he’d hook me in again.
Shaking off the memories, I realized I’d nearly forgotten why I’d shown up at his place. Foster was so easy to talk to…but I was there to pay back a debt. That was what my life had become: a series of transactions.
Foster began packing away the food while I took our dishes to the sink. I ran the water, lifted the sponge, and swiped it across the plate.
“Hey, you don’t have to—”
“I want to. Feels like ages since I’ve done this.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Cleaned dishes?”
“Done something domestic.”
“Understood.” He stood beside me and reached for a dish towel. “I’ll dry.”
So that was what we did, something so simple, but it made me feel normal and maybe a bit hopeful too.
After the chore was finished, Foster used a comb to dampen his hair at the sink. We had to make do with what we had. I followed him to the living room, where he sat down while I picked up my shears. Oscar had lost interest after the food was put away, and was now lying on his pillow near the couch.