Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
He's not violent. At least, I've never seen him violent. But he's clearly capable.
Simon is good at everything. He might be capable too. I don't know.
But it's hard to imagine him settling his problems with his fists.
It really is.
And usually—
Usually, it's not hard for me to imagine that. Especially not with men. Especially not with men I've kissed.
There's always something. A love of boxing. An obsession with vigilante super-heroes. A desire for rough sex.
These men, with their perfectly normal, socially acceptable interests, scare me.
As soon as I feel that fear, I see signs everywhere. I can't unsee them. I can't trust someone enough to talk to them. I don't even talk to the people I do trust.
And since I can't admit to the fucked-up state of my brain—
Still not over my fucked-up childhood.
Still holding on to my teenage coping mechanisms.
I try to get over my fear. I try to unsee the signs.
When I can't, I end things.
"Ms. Moyer." Xavier slips into serious, security mode. "You all right?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"Busy day?"
"Always."
He nods of course.
"Is everything okay here?"
"A woman came by. She looked like Lee, actually. Lee in fifteen years. She said she wanted to talk to you personally. I told her you were out, asked if she wanted to leave a message, but she said no. Said a friend referred her and she could only trust you."
"How did she seem?" I know a lot of people. A lot of people know me. It's not usual for someone to offer my name, especially if they suspect violence. Especially to women like Lee—
Upper West Side wives in designer sunglasses, who spend their free time on charity boards. After all, they can claim they're volunteering, not looking for help.
It saves face.
Sometimes, it even keeps them safe.
"Scared," he says. "But holding it together. I asked her to leave a note, but she declined."
That's a red flag, but there's nothing I can do. It's true in every field; people won't accept help until they're ready.
I can't force her to accept.
Hell, I'm the worst person to ask her to accept help. I'm not good with survivors. I see my mother in them. See the rage in my father's eyes. See all the fucked-up shit piling in my head.
Some survivors cope enough they're able to work with victims, but it's rarer than TV and movies make it seem. For most people, it's too much to take, being surrounded by reminders of their trauma.
But now I'm late for dinner, with—
Fuck, I need to check my phone.
"There was something about her," he says. "I'm worried."
He has good instincts. "If she comes back, call me."
"Anytime?"
"Anytime."
"Might interrupt your date."
"It's not a date."
"You sure?"
"I'd be wearing something shorter on a date."
"Haven't seen you in anything shorter."
"And when was your last date?"
He nods fair enough. "Have a good night, Ms. Moyer."
"You too, Xavier." I hold my purse close and make a mental note to keep an eye out for his call.
My head stays in work mode as I step outside. August in New York. Hot and humid, but not unbearably so.
My dress is a summer wool. That's why I picked it.
Not because Simon teased me about wearing purple.
Not because I thought of him all weekend. Or all day.
I check my plans again—a lawyer who worked with my father, at a hotel restaurant a few blocks away—and try to push my thoughts to work.
It's a comfortable place for me. I'm in control.
I like control.
I don't like losing control.
It's been a problem before. A big one, when I was younger. Then recently.
It was easier then, even though it was worse. People expect teenage girls to try to control their bodies. They expect a "normal concern" to occasionally turn to obsession.
They watch for signs.
Teachers, counselors, parents, coaches.
Sure, I didn't fit the pale blond part of the stereotype, but I aced the other criteria.
Perfectionist, family trouble, high achieving sport.
I got help.
I was better.
It was miserable, but it was understandable.
A thirty-one-year-old woman restricting her food intake to cope with her mom's illness?
It's common. That's what statistics say. But no one looks out for it. No one understands it. No one sees it as a problem.
Maybe Mom would have if she was all there.
But she wasn't. And Daddy was focused on her. We were all focused on her.
I'm an adult now.
A grown-up.
I watch over myself.
I tend to myself.
I keep myself in check.
That's how it is.
And that's how I like it.
It's just sometimes…
Sometimes, it's too much. Sometimes, I'm tired of holding up the world, and I want to crumble into a million pieces and know someone else will pick them up.
I want to fall apart in someone's arms.
Feel safe.
Understood.
Loved.
But it's not in the cards. Not anytime soon. My ex-fiancé, Sol, loved me. He did. I saw it. I heard it. But I didn't feel it.
And I couldn't trust him.
And now he's married and happy, and I'm here, trying not to think about how much I want Simon.