“I’m sorry, Kitten. Your hope was keeping you too strong, making it too difficult. Later, you’ll understand, you’ll appreciate this.”
I did actually, some time later, appreciate it. Not for the loss of hope, but that he didn’t take a finger or toe to use to stage my death. The teeth hurt, but I wasn’t left with any deformities or outward scars. When I tested a smile at the dusty mirror above the sink, I looked normal. As normal as a girl in a basement cell could look. A girl who had a habitual black eye and split upper lip.
After he pulled my teeth, I struggled, through the haze of medication and pain, to speak, to ask intelligent questions. But he silenced me, laying a firm hand over my sore mouth, his lips coming down to my forehead with a soft press. “It’s only hard for a brief while,” he whispered against my hairline. “The quicker you let go, the better it will be.”
I had stilled, hating the weight of his hand, the heat of his breath, the brush of his lips. Had fallen into the role of dutiful slave, the one who pleased him, the one who limited the level of contact that was needed. I laid still, the fight going out of my features, my muscles falling limp, my questions disappearing, replaced by the simple thought that Iwillneverletgo. A tear leaked down my cheek when I closed my eyes, and I breathed easier when he released my mouth, his lips leaving my forehead in one wet smack, the creak of his shoes heard when he stood. I lay in place, my jaw aching, more tears streaming, and repeated the mantra.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep looking.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep...
The medication took me away.
“So you do want me to come.”
I swallowed a big gulp of Mountain Dew. “Yes. But I want you to understand what you’re getting into.”
“I’ve been to weddings before. I have a tux.”
“God no. Don’t wear a tux.” Yep, a definite disaster. Gargantuan.
He laughed. “Okay. You seem stressed about this.”
“I am. Terrified actually.”
“Then I won’t go.”
I took a deep breath. Jumped off the cliff. “I think you should. I will be a basket case and everything that can possibly go wrong will, but I think you should come. Really.”
“I don’t want you to feel forced into this.”
Now I laughed. “I don’t want to force you into it.”
“Anything involving you I’ll never have to be forced into. Trust me on that.”
I was losing this battle, my caution not strong enough to fight the fall of my heart. “Okay.”
“When should I arrive? This invitation says the wedding’s next Saturday night.”
“Are you working that weekend?” He seemed to work every weekend, our trips often interspersed with his meetings or functions. I didn’t mind. It gave me some alone time, a chance to visit the spa or catch up on my reading. Or more recently, catch up with the girls on my new phone.
“Nothing I can’t get someone else to handle.”
“Then come Friday. You can stay with me.” I felt suddenly shy, like the assumption of his lodging was forward – even though we’d left the separate rooms arrangement back in Aruba.
“And what about this weekend? Can I steal you for a few days? The Caribbean weather is supposed to be perfect.”
I groaned. “I can’t. Chelsea has us all working overtime. Saturday night we’re having a sleepover at her house and assembling the favors. She’ll kill me if I flake out.” It was true. She literally would. She’d already described to me how she’d do it (strangle me with her garter belt), and where she’d put my body (in Lake Talquin, weighted down with the party favors I so carelessly skipped out on). Plus, forgetting the imminent threat of death, there was the fact that I missed my friends.
“A sleepover?”
I lost a little of my stress in the giggle at his response. “Yes, a sleepover. What, you and your friends don’t have sleepovers?”
“Are hair braiding and naked pillow fights involved?”
“Oh yes,” I teased, dropping my voice lower while simultaneously shaking out the popcorn into a bowl. What could I say? I was a good multitasker. Could pull off sexy seductress and gourmet dinner preparer, all at the same time. “Naked pillow fights are right before skinny dipping and whipped cream wrestling.”
“Fine.” He let out a troubled exhale. “It’ll be a long two weeks.”
I smiled. “For me too.”
“So … no tux?”
“No!” I said sharply. “Khakis and a button-up.” Granted, had it been up to Chelsea’s expensive Atlanta wedding planner, tuxes would have been standard. We’d had to remind her, several times over the last year, that ninety-nine percent of the attendees were country folk and not millionaires. “No tie.” I added. “And even in that, I can’t guarantee you won’t be called a city boy.”
“It’s okay. I kinda am a city boy.”
I smiled. And in that moment, despite everything stacked against us, I felt a glimmer of hope that we would survive the wedding weekend.
3 months, 2 weeks before
tight (tt)
(adj.) barely allowing time for completion
“a tight schedule”
It was official. Brett was coming to the wedding which meant he was coming here, would stay in my house, touch my stuff, pet my dog. Would meet my friends again, my parents—oh god, my father. All because Chelsea couldn’t mind her own business. I stared at my living room in a mild state of panic. I’d had two weeks to prepare; this wasn’t a surprise. Had twelve days and nights to work down my carefully written “to do” list.
I did actually, some time later, appreciate it. Not for the loss of hope, but that he didn’t take a finger or toe to use to stage my death. The teeth hurt, but I wasn’t left with any deformities or outward scars. When I tested a smile at the dusty mirror above the sink, I looked normal. As normal as a girl in a basement cell could look. A girl who had a habitual black eye and split upper lip.
After he pulled my teeth, I struggled, through the haze of medication and pain, to speak, to ask intelligent questions. But he silenced me, laying a firm hand over my sore mouth, his lips coming down to my forehead with a soft press. “It’s only hard for a brief while,” he whispered against my hairline. “The quicker you let go, the better it will be.”
I had stilled, hating the weight of his hand, the heat of his breath, the brush of his lips. Had fallen into the role of dutiful slave, the one who pleased him, the one who limited the level of contact that was needed. I laid still, the fight going out of my features, my muscles falling limp, my questions disappearing, replaced by the simple thought that Iwillneverletgo. A tear leaked down my cheek when I closed my eyes, and I breathed easier when he released my mouth, his lips leaving my forehead in one wet smack, the creak of his shoes heard when he stood. I lay in place, my jaw aching, more tears streaming, and repeated the mantra.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep looking.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep...
The medication took me away.
“So you do want me to come.”
I swallowed a big gulp of Mountain Dew. “Yes. But I want you to understand what you’re getting into.”
“I’ve been to weddings before. I have a tux.”
“God no. Don’t wear a tux.” Yep, a definite disaster. Gargantuan.
He laughed. “Okay. You seem stressed about this.”
“I am. Terrified actually.”
“Then I won’t go.”
I took a deep breath. Jumped off the cliff. “I think you should. I will be a basket case and everything that can possibly go wrong will, but I think you should come. Really.”
“I don’t want you to feel forced into this.”
Now I laughed. “I don’t want to force you into it.”
“Anything involving you I’ll never have to be forced into. Trust me on that.”
I was losing this battle, my caution not strong enough to fight the fall of my heart. “Okay.”
“When should I arrive? This invitation says the wedding’s next Saturday night.”
“Are you working that weekend?” He seemed to work every weekend, our trips often interspersed with his meetings or functions. I didn’t mind. It gave me some alone time, a chance to visit the spa or catch up on my reading. Or more recently, catch up with the girls on my new phone.
“Nothing I can’t get someone else to handle.”
“Then come Friday. You can stay with me.” I felt suddenly shy, like the assumption of his lodging was forward – even though we’d left the separate rooms arrangement back in Aruba.
“And what about this weekend? Can I steal you for a few days? The Caribbean weather is supposed to be perfect.”
I groaned. “I can’t. Chelsea has us all working overtime. Saturday night we’re having a sleepover at her house and assembling the favors. She’ll kill me if I flake out.” It was true. She literally would. She’d already described to me how she’d do it (strangle me with her garter belt), and where she’d put my body (in Lake Talquin, weighted down with the party favors I so carelessly skipped out on). Plus, forgetting the imminent threat of death, there was the fact that I missed my friends.
“A sleepover?”
I lost a little of my stress in the giggle at his response. “Yes, a sleepover. What, you and your friends don’t have sleepovers?”
“Are hair braiding and naked pillow fights involved?”
“Oh yes,” I teased, dropping my voice lower while simultaneously shaking out the popcorn into a bowl. What could I say? I was a good multitasker. Could pull off sexy seductress and gourmet dinner preparer, all at the same time. “Naked pillow fights are right before skinny dipping and whipped cream wrestling.”
“Fine.” He let out a troubled exhale. “It’ll be a long two weeks.”
I smiled. “For me too.”
“So … no tux?”
“No!” I said sharply. “Khakis and a button-up.” Granted, had it been up to Chelsea’s expensive Atlanta wedding planner, tuxes would have been standard. We’d had to remind her, several times over the last year, that ninety-nine percent of the attendees were country folk and not millionaires. “No tie.” I added. “And even in that, I can’t guarantee you won’t be called a city boy.”
“It’s okay. I kinda am a city boy.”
I smiled. And in that moment, despite everything stacked against us, I felt a glimmer of hope that we would survive the wedding weekend.
3 months, 2 weeks before
tight (tt)
(adj.) barely allowing time for completion
“a tight schedule”
It was official. Brett was coming to the wedding which meant he was coming here, would stay in my house, touch my stuff, pet my dog. Would meet my friends again, my parents—oh god, my father. All because Chelsea couldn’t mind her own business. I stared at my living room in a mild state of panic. I’d had two weeks to prepare; this wasn’t a surprise. Had twelve days and nights to work down my carefully written “to do” list.
