CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BRONWYN
Checking that Trip’s still engrossed in the kids’ programmes on television that I put on when I ran out of other ideas of how to keep him amused, I go into the kitchen and make myself a coffee, sit at the table, and just try to process the last twenty-four hours.
While guilt had overwhelmed me yesterday evening, I’d spent the night mulling it all over in my head. Some of what Pippa and Short had said finally sank in. From the time I’d been born, I’d been cursed to reside in a manipulative family environment. Groomed from a child, not only sexually, but to be compliant and afraid of punishment, the likes of which were doled out regularly.
I’m not going to be able to care for Trip if I’m mired in the swamp of guilt. I have to rise up, put it behind me, and look to a future outside of my family’s influence. Cognisant that I won’t be able to do that alone, I’ll definitely seek therapy for both my son and me. With help, we might have a chance at this new life being offered to us.
But what does that actually look like, and is it right?
Yesterday, Short became as angry as I’d ever imagined a man could become. While he only hurt me with words, I’d seen a red flag. Is he a man who could at any time fly off the handle on a hair trigger? Is that the right environment for my son and me?
Yet, I can’t forget how fast a switch had been thrown, and how he’d been able to put a leash on his anger, the moment he saw the effect it was having on Trip.
He’d apologised, the typical next step for any abuser. Somehow, though, I felt he believed he’d had genuine cause for his over-the-top reaction, even if I didn’t completely understand it. Or am I, just like the too-many-to-count abused women in this world, just making excuses? Like telling myself, verbal attacks are nothing like the real offences committed by my father.
Rather than hitching my wagon to Short’s, would I be better off if I took this opportunity to discover who I am, without a man influencing me and telling me who and what I should be? Who doesn’t take my choices and decision-making away from me?
Scoffing at myself, I realise I’m acting as if I’ve got a choice. In the ideal world, I might do something different, but in the real one, I’ve got to go back to work and my studies, if I’m going to make anything of my life, and have a career where I can support Trip and me.
Realistically, as soon as I put in an appearance at my work, Dad will know where to find me, and he wouldn’t hesitate to put pressure on me in public, trying to force me and Trip to return home. Facing up to him in that situation would be ugly, that is, if I didn’t have anyone who’d stand up for me. Short had promised a prospect would protect me.
A tick in Short’s side of the equation, of course. But is it enough?
Currently, he’s at the club, intending to discuss his mad plan to make me his old lady. If things were different, maybe I’dbe filled with excitement that a man like him wanted little old me. But this is not a relationship built on emotion. It’s just a mechanism to officially get the club’s protection.
Until yesterday, I’d looked at Short with admiration, admitting he’d stirred up feelings that, quite frankly, scare me. But now, he’s shown he’s a man with flaws, and I’m not sure he’s right for me. I have to put my son first.
Which is exactly what Short’s done at every turn.
Goddammit. Maybe the root of the problem is that, having been under my dad’s thumb for so long, I’m unable to think for myself.
The choice between Short and an unknown future should be easy. I’m not yet qualified, so even if I had money to disappear out of state, the likelihood of being able to continue my studies is zero, or at least not immediately. Credits would need to be transferred, and references supplied. I’d probably end up waiting tables, and what I’d earn there wouldn’t be enough to provide a roof over our heads, nor support both me and a growing boy.
While I’m trying to be sensible, forcing myself to consider yesterday’s red flags, despite everything, I still like Short. On one level, the thought of being in a relationship with him makes my heart beat fast in a good way, but that’s countered by my fear. If I come to mentally depend on him and rely on his support for my needs, in time I’ll inevitably lose him, and where would that leave me?
I’ll never he able to give Short what he needs from an old lady. Just the thought of being intimate with him terrifies me. The idea of him using that powerful body almost paralyses me with fear. My mind tells me he’s nothing like my dad, but my body instinctively thinks differently.
He said he wouldn’t ask that of me.
But he might weaken and get what I can’t give, elsewhere. If I can’t change, that would be the logical solution, and my stomach clenches at just the thought. Pretty stupid, huh? I can’t even analyse why, when I should be pleased that his going with someone else would take the pressure off me. I know the bikers have sex with the club women without emotions being involved. How can I be jealous about a hypothetical situation that hasn’t yet come to pass?
The pitfalls ahead are so numerous, that I was right to insist that his claiming me would only be temporary. I can’t afford to dream, not when my past has unbreakable chains firmly fastened on me.
I feel guilty that Short spent last night on the recliner, which couldn’t have been comfortable, but the only other option is me sharing the smaller bed with my son, which I wouldn’t want to do long term. Not when there’s a risk I might roll over in my sleep, inadvertently touch him, and trigger a meltdown.
Maybe Short can sleep at the club.
Shit! What is this feeling inside of me that has my stomach burning at the thought of him not being here to keep me company? Instead, he'd be where he’d have the club women who’d prove a much better option than me. There’s that stupid jealousy again.
Damn it, I’m driving myself crazy with these thoughts I can’t comprehend. My head aches with all the circular thoughts spinning around.
A knock at the front door startles me out of my reverie. Immediately, I freeze.Has Dad found us?
That huge television has a sound to match. There’s no use pretending there’s no one home. Shakily, I get to my feet, knowing even if I were to call Short, there’s no way he could get here in time. Fortifying myself with the thought that if he returnsand finds us missing, he’ll know exactly where to look, I force my feet forward.
Trembling, I reach the door just as another knock sounds. My hands shake, and I feel faint as I shoot the bolt, undo the latch, and pull it open…
