I hover awkwardly. Every part of me wants to gather him up and hold him, but Lauren’s voice echoes in my head: be his friend. But friends hug, right?
“Can I give you a hug?” I ask, letting him decide.
“I’d really like that,” he says softly, stepping into me.
I gently wrap my arms around him, being careful not to hurt him. His body is warm and trembling against mine. His hair smells faintly of the shampoo he must have used last night, and as he exhales, I can feel the tension drain out of him just a little.
“You’re safe now,” I murmur. “I won’t let anything else happen to you.”
He pulls back too soon, as if he doesn’t trust himself.
He glances up at me, then looks away. “Thank you. I still can’t believe this. I didn’t even defend myself.”
“You don’t have to defend anything,” I tell him firmly. “You didn’t deserve this. He’s a bully and a coward.”
Jay swallows hard, shaking his head. “I know…I mean, I read about the signs of an abusive relationship last night. All the red flags were there. I just never thought they applied to me. How did I not see it?”
“Jay,” I say, steadying my voice, “you survived it. That’s what matters. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”
I want to keep talking, to tell him how much I hate the bastard who did this to him, but I hold it in. What he needs isn’t my rage; he needs me to be his friend and to be patient. And I’ll be here for him as long as it takes.
“In the meantime, we need to deal with what’s in front of us,” I tell him, my voice firm but as gentle as I can make it. “Hopefully, it won’t take much to get you into urgent care.”
He winces as he shifts on his feet. “My side hurts worse this morning. The painkillers barely took the edge off. And my nose…” He touches it gingerly, flinching. “I’m pretty sure it’s broken.”
“That’s why you need to see a doctor,” I say, squeezing his arm. Then I take a breath, bracing myself. “But there’s something else we need to do, and I know this one’s harder. We need to document everything with photos. And you need to file a police report, maybe even get a restraining order.”
Jay’s eyes flicker with dread. “I thought about that, but I’m on the fence. Once Heather finds out, she’ll force it. One of her clients almost died because she refused to press charges.”
“So you’ll do it?” I ask carefully.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s humiliating. I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
“Stop,” I say, my voice leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t about being tough or proving anything. This is about what happened to you. Ray attacked you; he escalated, and that’s entirely onhim. Right now, the most important thing is making sure there’s a record of it.”
His shoulders sag. “Okay.”
“Good,” I say softly. “Let’s start with the pictures.”
He stands there, letting me photograph his face from every angle, the swelling and ugly purple blooming under his skin. Then, with a resigned sigh, he lifts his shirt.
My stomach knots at the sight of his torso marred with black and blue bleeding into a sickly yellow. When he turns, I see the mark of a boot print pressed into his back, as if Ray wanted to stamp ownership on him.
On the outside, I’m clinical and methodical. On the inside, I’m burning with vengeance. This man—this good and precious man—was ground into the floor as if he were nothing. The bruises will fade, but I know the harsh reality of what he’s been through won’t heal nearly as fast.
After we finish taking the photos, Jay goes into the bathroom to get dressed. I look up urgent care locations, trying to focus on logistics instead of the images burned into my brain of the tread mark stamped across his back and the purple swelling across his face.
By the time he comes out, clean clothes hanging loose on his battered frame, I’ve found a clinic just a few blocks away. I slide my phone toward him. “You can use mine to set up an appointment. Let’s get you checked out.”
He hesitates, then taps through the portal with shaky fingers. The soonest appointment is only twenty minutes out. Taking my rental, we don’t talk much on the drive.
The urgent care waiting room is quiet, with only two other patients. He clutches the clipboard the woman at the front desk handed him, his hands trembling as he tries to fill out the information on the forms. I take it from him and write in what I can, asking him for the details I don’t know the answers to.
After a short wait, a nurse calls out his name, “Jayson Taylor?”
His voice cracks as he answers, “Yeah, that’s me.”
Then, almost shyly, he glances at me. “Would you please come with me?”
