I’m absolutelynotdisappointed when I see Hannah’s contact flash on the screen instead of Liev’s.
Hannah: I’m out running errands, so I’ll pick you up around 5. Sound good?
Shit.I bite my lip, hesitating.
It’s Saturday, which means group therapy, and I promised Hannah I’d get coffee with her beforehand.
My finger hovers over the keyboard, the temptation to cancel unbelievably strong.
How am I going to explain my injuries?
But if I don’t show up to therapy, Dr. Swan will want to talk aboutwhyand then that will lead to her deeper concerns about my “ability to open up and communicate” about my trauma.
Ugh. If it weren’t for Brady and Elizabeth, I wouldn’t even be doing this.
Me: Yup. See you then.
I put my phone on my thigh with a sigh. At least I have Hannah, evenifI am not convinced the therapy is working. She’s as averse to sharing as I am, so we sit in silent solidarity together.
Just before five, I pull on black leggings and a fitted tank before layering a thick hoodie over it. The fabric covers the bruises on my arms and legs, and I shove a knit cap onto my head arranging my hair forward so that it covers the worst of the swelling on my face. The makeup I applied covers the livid marks on my neck and face, and after clipping my nails as short as I can, all remnants of blood are gone.
I glance at my reflection in the small mirror by the door.
See, Ilooknormal.
However, my efforts aren’t as effective as I had hoped.
“What the hell happened to you?” Hannah gasps, her eyes wide when I slide into the passenger side of the car.
I flinch. “What do you mean?”
“Your face. You look like…” Her mouth falls open. “Did your ex come back?”
“No.”No chance of that without a Ouija board.“It’s not that bad,” I say defensively.
“Uh, yeah. It kind of is. What’s wrong with your voice?” Understanding flashes in her eyes as her gaze dips to my neck. She hasn’t told me much about what happened in her previous relationship, but I know there was abuse. It’s how we met.
Of everything Aaron wrecked, she’s the one good thing that came from it. I’d only been to one of the group therapy sessions for domestic violence survivors when Hannah had joined. She’d rushed in late, cheeks pink from the cold, hair falling from a loose clip, looking like the mess I felt like on the inside. But she’d been funny and self-deprecating, and she hadn’t pushed me to bond like so many of the other women had.
Over the last few weeks, we’ve been texting, getting coffee before group, and even gone out dancing a few times. “Sera?” Her voice is careful, and as much as I’d like to avoid the whole conversation, it’s impossible.
“I went out last night and got mugged going back to my car.” It’s an approximation of the truth.
“Alone?”
“Yes,alone. I’m a big girl,” I tell her as she pulls out onto the busy street.
“You could have called me. I would have gone out.”
Shit. There’s a trace of hurt in her voice.
“I needed to be alone,” I say carefully. “For what I had planned.”
Her face creases, but then she’s distracted, gesturing angrily at the man who cut us off. “Dick!”
I laugh. Hannah comes off unassuming and sweet, but I’ve seen her temper flare a few times when she gets frustrated. Frankly, it makes me like her even more.
She grimaces. “I hate Atlanta drivers.”
