She exits the room without another word.
Taking a breath, I cross the tiled floor and stand directly in front of Cindy. To my horror, she reacts with that tiny, fearful flinch I’ve been witnessing all night. As if this is a like father, like son situation. As if I’m going to…
“I’m not going to hurt you.” My voice cracks like a fucking egg. I feel sick that I even have to assure her of that.
Panic floods her eyes. “What? Oh, honey, no. I didn’t think…”
“Yes, you did,” I say quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not taking it personally. I know what it’s like to…” I swallow. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here, because I need to get the hell out of this house before I do something I might regret, but I just need you to know something.”
She uneasily lets go of the dishwasher door. “What is it?”
“I…” Another deep gulp and then I get right to the point, because really, neither one of us wants to be having this conversation. “He did it to me and my mom, too, okay? He abused us, physically and verbally, for years.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word.
My heart squeezes as I force myself to keep going. “He’s not a good man. He’s dangerous, and violent, and…sick. He’s sick. You don’t have to tell me what he’s doing to you. Or hell, maybe I’m wrong and he’s not doing anything—but I think he is, because I see it in the way you act around him. I acted that way too. Every move I made, every word I said…everything I did was rooted in fear, because I was desperate for him not to beat the shit out of me again.”
Her stricken look is all the confirmation I need.
“Anyway.” I inhale deeply. “I’m not going to drag you out of here over my shoulder, or call the cops and tell them there’s domestic abuse going on in this house. It’s not my place, and I won’t interfere. But I need you to know a couple things. One—it’s not your fault. Don’t you ever blame yourself, because it’s all on him. You did nothing to invite his criticism and his verbal attacks, and you didn’t fail to meet his expectations because his expectations are fucking impossible to meet.” My chest seizes so hard my ribs ache. “And two, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to call me, okay? If you need to talk, or if you want to leave him and need someone to help you pack or move or whatever, call me. Or if he…does something and you need help, for fuck’s sake, call me. Can you promise to do that?”
Cindy looks stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. Her blue eyes are glassy, and she starts blinking fast, as if she’s trying to ward off tears.
The kitchen becomes as silent as a funeral home. She just stares at me, blinking wildly, the fingers of one hand toying with her sleeve.
After what feels like an eternity, she gives a shaky nod and whispers, “Thank you.”
Heat blasts from the air vents when I slide into the driver’s seat. Hannah has started the engine and she’s already buckled up, as if she’s as desperate to get away from here as I am.
I put the car in drive and speed away from the curb, needing to put distance between me and that brownstone. If I’m lucky enough to play for Boston one day, I plan on living as far away from Beacon Hill as possible.
“So…that was kind of brutal,” Hannah remarks.
I can’t stop the laugh that shudders out. “Kind of?”
She sighs. “I was trying to be diplomatic.”
“Don’t bother. That was a nightmare from start to finish.” My fingers curl around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. “He hits her.”
There’s a beat of silence, but when Hannah answers, it’s with regret and not surprise. “I thought that might be the case. Her sleeves rode up in the kitchen and I thought I saw some bruises on her wrists.”
The revelation sends a fresh bolt of anger whipping through me. Damn it. A part of me was still hoping I might be wrong about Cindy.
Silence settles between us as I head for the highway ramp. My hand rests on the gearshift, and Hannah covers it with hers. She strokes my knuckles, her gentle touch easing some of the pressure in my chest.
“She was scared of me,” I mumble.
This time, Hannah does sound surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“When I was alone in the kitchen with Cindy, I took a step closer and she flinched. She flinched, like she was scared I might hurt her.” My throat clogs up. “I mean, I get it. My mom was jumpy, too. So was I. But…fuck. I can’t believe she thought I was capable of hurting her.”
Sadness softens Hannah’s voice. “It’s probably not just you. If he’s abusing her, then she’s probably scared of anyone who comes near her. I was the same way for a while after the rape. Jumpy, nervous, suspicious of everyone. It was a long time before I was finally able to relax around strangers, and even now, there’s still things I won’t do. Like drink in public. Well, unless you’re there to play bodyguard.”
I know that last line is an attempt to make me smile, but it doesn’t. I’m still preoccupied by Cindy’s reaction.
In fact, I don’t feel like talking anymore. I just…can’t. Fortunately, Hannah doesn’t push me. I love that about her, how she never tries to fill silences with forced conversation.
She asks if I’m okay with music, and when I nod, she plugs in her iPod and loads up a playlist that does make me smile. It’s the classic rock set I emailed her when we first met, though I notice she doesn’t start it from the first song. Because the first song happens to be my mother’s favorite, and I’m pretty sure that if I hear it right now, I’ll burst into tears.
Taking a breath, I cross the tiled floor and stand directly in front of Cindy. To my horror, she reacts with that tiny, fearful flinch I’ve been witnessing all night. As if this is a like father, like son situation. As if I’m going to…
“I’m not going to hurt you.” My voice cracks like a fucking egg. I feel sick that I even have to assure her of that.
Panic floods her eyes. “What? Oh, honey, no. I didn’t think…”
“Yes, you did,” I say quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not taking it personally. I know what it’s like to…” I swallow. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here, because I need to get the hell out of this house before I do something I might regret, but I just need you to know something.”
She uneasily lets go of the dishwasher door. “What is it?”
“I…” Another deep gulp and then I get right to the point, because really, neither one of us wants to be having this conversation. “He did it to me and my mom, too, okay? He abused us, physically and verbally, for years.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word.
My heart squeezes as I force myself to keep going. “He’s not a good man. He’s dangerous, and violent, and…sick. He’s sick. You don’t have to tell me what he’s doing to you. Or hell, maybe I’m wrong and he’s not doing anything—but I think he is, because I see it in the way you act around him. I acted that way too. Every move I made, every word I said…everything I did was rooted in fear, because I was desperate for him not to beat the shit out of me again.”
Her stricken look is all the confirmation I need.
“Anyway.” I inhale deeply. “I’m not going to drag you out of here over my shoulder, or call the cops and tell them there’s domestic abuse going on in this house. It’s not my place, and I won’t interfere. But I need you to know a couple things. One—it’s not your fault. Don’t you ever blame yourself, because it’s all on him. You did nothing to invite his criticism and his verbal attacks, and you didn’t fail to meet his expectations because his expectations are fucking impossible to meet.” My chest seizes so hard my ribs ache. “And two, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to call me, okay? If you need to talk, or if you want to leave him and need someone to help you pack or move or whatever, call me. Or if he…does something and you need help, for fuck’s sake, call me. Can you promise to do that?”
Cindy looks stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. Her blue eyes are glassy, and she starts blinking fast, as if she’s trying to ward off tears.
The kitchen becomes as silent as a funeral home. She just stares at me, blinking wildly, the fingers of one hand toying with her sleeve.
After what feels like an eternity, she gives a shaky nod and whispers, “Thank you.”
Heat blasts from the air vents when I slide into the driver’s seat. Hannah has started the engine and she’s already buckled up, as if she’s as desperate to get away from here as I am.
I put the car in drive and speed away from the curb, needing to put distance between me and that brownstone. If I’m lucky enough to play for Boston one day, I plan on living as far away from Beacon Hill as possible.
“So…that was kind of brutal,” Hannah remarks.
I can’t stop the laugh that shudders out. “Kind of?”
She sighs. “I was trying to be diplomatic.”
“Don’t bother. That was a nightmare from start to finish.” My fingers curl around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. “He hits her.”
There’s a beat of silence, but when Hannah answers, it’s with regret and not surprise. “I thought that might be the case. Her sleeves rode up in the kitchen and I thought I saw some bruises on her wrists.”
The revelation sends a fresh bolt of anger whipping through me. Damn it. A part of me was still hoping I might be wrong about Cindy.
Silence settles between us as I head for the highway ramp. My hand rests on the gearshift, and Hannah covers it with hers. She strokes my knuckles, her gentle touch easing some of the pressure in my chest.
“She was scared of me,” I mumble.
This time, Hannah does sound surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“When I was alone in the kitchen with Cindy, I took a step closer and she flinched. She flinched, like she was scared I might hurt her.” My throat clogs up. “I mean, I get it. My mom was jumpy, too. So was I. But…fuck. I can’t believe she thought I was capable of hurting her.”
Sadness softens Hannah’s voice. “It’s probably not just you. If he’s abusing her, then she’s probably scared of anyone who comes near her. I was the same way for a while after the rape. Jumpy, nervous, suspicious of everyone. It was a long time before I was finally able to relax around strangers, and even now, there’s still things I won’t do. Like drink in public. Well, unless you’re there to play bodyguard.”
I know that last line is an attempt to make me smile, but it doesn’t. I’m still preoccupied by Cindy’s reaction.
In fact, I don’t feel like talking anymore. I just…can’t. Fortunately, Hannah doesn’t push me. I love that about her, how she never tries to fill silences with forced conversation.
She asks if I’m okay with music, and when I nod, she plugs in her iPod and loads up a playlist that does make me smile. It’s the classic rock set I emailed her when we first met, though I notice she doesn’t start it from the first song. Because the first song happens to be my mother’s favorite, and I’m pretty sure that if I hear it right now, I’ll burst into tears.
