“No buts. It’s not ok. You love someone, their pain is your pain. And you do everything you can to keep them safe. So, no. It’s abuse. And he’s an asshole. It’s that simple. There shouldn’t be any cues, any triggers. You are not his punching bag, even when he’s having a shit day.”
“You don’t understand.”
I looked at her. At the bruises. The bags under her eyes. And I realized that if I wanted to get through to her, there was only one way. Stupid fucking boxes. I closed my eyes, mentally preparing myself to open up everything I had carefully sealed away with duct tape and bright yellow caution ribbon. Swallowing thickly,I looked at the far wall and then back to her. “Yeah, I do. More than you think.
“Growing up in Cali, my mom put me in a ton of these competitions. Beauty pageants, contests, challenges…you name it. And I was really, really good. When I was eleven, I had already won a bunch of stuff. And, one day, after a show, a guy named Scott Lauren came up to my mom.
“He seemed so nice. He was a modeling agent, and a judge. He was practically famous in our world, you know? My mom was so excited. This was like my ticket to the big leagues. And everything was fine for a few months. Then, on my twelfth birthday, he called me to his office and said he had a special surprise for me. For the birthday girl.”
I saw the moment the lightbulb went off in her head. Her brown eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in horror. It suddenly dawned on me that my cheeks were wet. I hadn’t talked about this in so long, but the pain was still there.
“Four years, Maria. Four fucking years. And I wasn’t the only one. When my mom finally caught on, she raised hell. But I never competed again. Being on stage makes me sick. Still does. That’s why we moved. Why I have these scars on my hands, from breaking my trophies. Why I don’t like being touched. So, yeah. I do understand. Some guys just suck. They are scum of the Earth. And Jesse is one of those guys.”
Maria launched herself across the bed, wrapping her arms around me. At first, I stiffened. Girl, I literally just said I didn’t like being touched. But this felt different. This was Maria, my friend. And it felt so good to finally be seen. So I leaned into her, and, for a few minutes, we both cried, soaking each other’s shoulders and turning into a couple of snot-nosed goblins. Eventually, I pulled back from her and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Please don’t go back to him, Maria.”
Her brown eyes were soulful, older than her seventeen years, and she shook her head. “I love him. What that man did to you was awful. But Jesse isn’t like that. He isn’t perfect, but he’s not Scott Lauren.”
I wanted to scream and throw the textbook. “I know he’s not. But Maria, Jesse is awful. He’s an asshole.”
“But he’s mine. My asshole. For better or worse. He loves me.”
I stared at her, and she looked away, “Does he, though? Or is he just using you? Abusing you? In the name of love. He. Doesn’t. Love. You.” I grabbed her arm, holding her bruise up to the light. “This isn’t love.”
She stood abruptly and yanked her arm back. “Ok, I get you’re concerned or whatever, but you don’t get to judge me. You don’t get to act like you know better. So, just stop. Stop making this about you.”
“About me? You can’t be serious. I am just telling you what everyone else is thinking. This isn’t about me.”
“Whatever. I gotta go make dinner.”
I scoffed. “Fine. Go back to him. But if you ever get tired of being his fucking punching bag, you’ll know where I’ll be.”
She whipped towards me, her defensiveness morphing into anger. “Yeah, kind of hard to miss your mansion.”
I knew I wasn’t imagining the undercurrent of bitterness in her voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She headed for the door but tossed venomous words over her shoulder, “Congrats, Holly. You escaped the bad guy. Was it really so hard? Is it still? In your big, white house and your designer clothes? You guys could afford to move across the freaking country to avoid him. That’s not an option for me. I love him. And I am staying. And I am choosing to fight for what we have. It is so different from what happened to you. I appreciate you telling me. It means a lot, really it does. And what happenedto you is awful. But it’s not the same. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
I rocked back on my heels like she had hit me. My shirt was still damp from her tears, and I could see the spot of wetness on hers. I thought it had helped, to tell her the truth. I thought she understood. Clearly fucking not. I blinked back a new wave of tears, the warmth of anger spreading in my chest. “Fine. Don’t let my privilege hit your ass on the way out.”
I watched her go, trying to force myself to breathe.Please turn around. Just one glance up at my window.But she didn’t. I could see the set in her shoulders even from here. After her Uber disappeared from view, I turned and stood for a minute staring at my bed and the books still scattered there. I wanted to scream, but the last thing I needed right now was my mom or dad all up in my business. Grinding my teeth, I picked the books up one by one and chucked them as hard as I could across the room. The thud of them hitting the walls did nothing to dull my anger. Or the dull ache. I had fucking trusted her, and she had turned it against me. Who did that?
Throwing myself back onto my bed, I buried my face into my pillow. Only then did I allow myself to scream until my throat ached. The raw, thorn-like tenderness that had become so familiar to me. My mom’s voice came through the door, asking if I was alright. Guess I hadn’t been as quiet as I meant to be. When I yelled that I was fine, I wasn’t the least bit surprised when she took it at face value and left me to my misery. Just like old times. Me and my ghosts and a mom who was too caught up in being perfect to care.
That night, I took my pizza to my room. Amidst the textbooks and papers I had yet to clean up, I nibbled on my dinner and stared into a corner. Part of me was livid. I had opened up to her., and she had thrown it in my face. I had cried. I hatedcrying. What did she think I wanted? A pity party? No. I just wanted her to know she wasn’t alone and she was worth more.
Like it had been easy to leave everything I knew behind. The way my mom had looked at me in the months before, during, and after the trial. That sorrowful look, the one full of regret. I couldn’t stand it. So, I had stopped looking back at her. And when he walked down the courthouse stairs a free man? Well, I just stopped talking about it all, ’cause it hadn’t ever done me a lick of good. That’s when I just shoved it all to the back of my mind. Out of sight and all that.
My mom came in at some point, taking my plate and pressing a kiss to my head. She eyed the textbooks and my disheveled appearance. I knew that, in her own way, she cared, just as much as I knew that Maria hadn’t meant it. Not really. That didn’t mean her words didn’t sting. I just wanted so badly to help her. And maybe to run him over with a really big truck. Multiple times. Thud, thump, you son of a bitch. I chortled at the image, then wondered if this classified me as mentally unstable. Whatever. I would give her the weekend. And on Monday, she was going to realize I didn’t give up so easily. She was stuck with me, whether she liked it or not. She turned eighteen in a few months, and we were almost half-way done with our last year of school. Sky’s the limit.
I spent the weekend alternating between staring at my phone, praying it would ring, and running through my textbooks one more time. The air had gotten decidedly cooler, winter firmly having Georgia in her grasp after a brief struggle. At one point, I yeeted my geography book from the balcony and then regretted that decision when I had to go outside in the biting cold to get it back. Maria hadn’t reached out. Not once. My mom was hovering, like she always did. And dad had some major surgery and a sick kid to save. So, it was just me and my studyguides and my circling thoughts. And those stupid memories that hadn’t wanted to go back in their box.
The nightmares had come back worse than before.
Suddenly, the rumble of motorcycles ripped me from my concentration. Oh, and there was that. Much to mysheerdelight, there was evidently a motorcycle club not even ten minutes down the street. I think mom’s soul departed this mortal plane when she found out. I could live with it, for the most part, but there was a certain group of by now very familiar bikes that seemed to take a sick pleasure in revving their engines as they drove by.
Micropenis-possessing man children.
I flipped off the bikes as they went by. I had only caught sight of their owners once or twice in school. They were jocks. Big shock there. And players. Especially that blonde one. I only paid them any attention because one of them had a habit of staring at Maria like she had been put on this Earth to save him. And Jackson? That douche couldn’t be further from my mind, thank you very much. He was lucky I remembered his name.
