Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
When I’d told Riff about it, kind of poo-pooing the idea because Shady Valley was such a small town, and what were the chances that enough women were around to require that kind of class, he’d been the first one to remind me that most women had stored trauma, even if it wasn’t of the “Capital T” variety. Our lives are all full of smaller, lowercase traumas that we hold onto without even realizing it.
And, he’d reminded me, this wasn’t the eighties. We had the internet. I could take my classes to an online video platform, reaching all the women who needed it, and also making an income from ad revenue.
With the new year, I had a lot of hopes and a lot of tentative plans for my future.
I guess I just naively believed that Riff would be right there at my side.
I understood that, logically, I had to stop relying on him to be my human comfort blanket. My therapist told me it was a fine line between having safe people around me that I could lean on, and becoming too dependent on someone else.
I guess this would be a test on which side of that line I was truly walking.
“Were you trying to leave without saying goodbye?” I asked as Riff tiptoed around the room the morning he was leaving, trying not to wake me up.
“It’s early, darlin’,” he said, head tipped to the side, something in his gaze that made my heart feel heavy, but I couldn’t quite place what it was.
“Still,” I said, swiping my hair out of my face as I moved to sit up, looking at him like I was trying to memorize him, like if I didn’t, I might forget what he looked like when he was gone.
He was shirtless like he always was in the mornings, but this time it was jeans hanging low on his hips, and his hair was still damp from the shower, pushed back away from his face.
I learned from our time together that he kept himself fit thanks mostly to Detroit, who was a bit of a drill sergeant in the gym. He claimed when he was on the road, he was a lot less diligent, just going for short runs in the morning, and doing some body weight work in motel rooms.
When he told me, visions of him in said motel rooms, wearing just his sleep pants so his muscles were on display as he did push ups, sit ups, planks, and lunges popped into my mind.
And, again, I felt that little… twinge of… interest.
It felt wrong to have those thoughts and feelings, but my therapist was quick to tell me that everyone’s healing journey was different, that some women felt ready for intimacy again after just a few weeks, while others took months, years, or never felt like it again.
She said some women felt like being with a caring partner again because it made them feel more ‘in control’ of their bodies again, like they were reclaiming it. While others had feelings of being trapped or memories of the assault while they were trying to have sex.
It was different for everyone.
Whatever you decide for yourself, is right, she’d pressed.
I didn’t know if I felt, you know, ready for that or anything, but I was trying not to make myself feel bad or guilty or ashamed about having the occasional feelings I had about Riff.
So I let my gaze slide over his chest and abs, committing them to memory. I even released any tension that built in me while the desire sparked a bit as I made my path back up to his face.
“It’s only ten days,” he insisted, which he’d been doing since he learned he had to go again. Like he was maybe not only trying to remind me, but himself.
Or was that wishful thinking?
Some part of me was worried that there was a part of him that was happy to be on the road again, so he wasn’t responsible for being my comfort person anymore.
He’d been nothing but good to me. He never showed any signs of being sick of me being around, being in his space, or taking me places.
But I couldn’t shake the concerns.
“I know,” I agreed, moving to stand and moving toward him.
Then folded myself into his arms.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been close to him, that I’d stolen strength and comfort from his sturdy, stalwart self. But this was the first time I’d hugged him… vertically.
And something about it felt a lot different as his arms folded around me, held onto me almost as tightly as I was clinging to him, breathing in his familiar woodsy scent.
I knew I was clinging as the moments ticked on, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go yet.
Eventually, one of his arms moved, his fingers sifting through my bed-messy hair, making little shivers move through my insides.