She’s here.
She’s talking.
She’s trying.
“I’m listening,” I say softly. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
Sutton moves closer, her fingers reaching out to touch the half-finished teacup on the lathe. She traces its curves, her touch gentle, almost reverent.
“I was nineteen,” she says finally. “Working as a waitress near campus…before I ever came to Portland.” Her voice gets softer with each word. “He was twenty-two. A football player with all the confidence and swagger girls like me would swoon over. He was the kind of guy who knew exactly what to say.”
I watch her carefully, trying to keep my expression neutral as dread pools in my stomach. I already know where this story is going, and it’s taking everything in me not to react.
“He made me feel special,” she continues. “Like I was the only girl in the world who mattered, you know? And I believed him because…” She swallows hard. “Because I wanted to believe someone could see me that way.”
My heart cracks open a little more with each word. I want to reach for her, but I force myself to stay still, to give her the space to tell her truth without interruption.
“It was good at first. Or I thought it was. Looking back, I can see all the red flags, but back then?” She shakes her head. “I was so desperate to be loved that I missed them all.”
She moves away from the lathe, pacing the small workshop like a caged animal, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she moves.
“He didn’t hit me,” she says suddenly, as if anticipating my question. “Not at first. It was…subtler than that. The way he’d criticize what I wore. How he’d get angry if I talked to other guys. How he’d make me feel like I was lucky he even wanted me.”
Her words cut like glass, each one sliding beneath my skin. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as badly as I want to hurt Micah Brannigan right now. The rage builds in my chest, mixing with the ache in my ribs until I can barely breathe.
“He was so good at making me doubt myself,” she continues, her voice hollow. “If I wore something he didn’t like, I was asking for attention. If I talked to another guy, I was disrespectful. If I didn’t want to have sex, I was frigid. But if I told him I wanted it, I was desperate.”
She stops pacing, her back to me, shoulders hunched. “There was no winning. No right choice. Just…surviving him.”
I grip the edge of my workbench to keep myself from crossing the room and pulling her into my arms. I need to let her finish. I need to hear all of it, no matter how much it hurts.
“It got worse,” she says quietly. “The control. The jealousy. The way he’d twist everything until I couldn’t trust my own thoughts anymore.”
I clench my jaw so hard I think my teeth might crack. “When did it change?” I ask quietly, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
Sutton stops pacing and stares at the floor. “After about six months. He…he got cut from the team. Started drinking more. That’s when the hitting started. The first time he hit me was after I’d been talking to one of his former teammates at a party. I wasn’t even flirting. We were just talking.” Her fingers trace invisible patterns on the workbench. “When we got home, he threw me against the wall so hard I couldn’t breathe. Said I’d humiliated him. That I was nothing without him.”
Mother fucker…
My vision blurs with rage. I breathe through my nose, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the violence churning inside me.
“I should have left then,” she continues, her voice hollow. “But he was so sorry afterward. So gentle. Said he’d never do it again. And I believed him because I wanted to. Because I thought that’s what love was. Forgiving the unforgivable. And he comes from money so he paid for anything and everything. I think I felt like I owed him, you know? Like letting him treat me like shit was my debt to pay for all the things he paid for, for me.”
“Shit, Sutton.” my voice drips with sympathy and compassion for her. “You don’t owe anyone anything. No one deserves to be treated that way. Ever.”
Sutton’s eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. “I know that now. But back then…” She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. “Back then I thought it was normal. That relationships were just…hard. That love hurt sometimes.”
My chest constricts. The thought of her believing that—of anyone making her believe that pain was what she deserved—makes me want to tear something apart with my bare hands.
“How did you get away?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle despite the rage boiling just beneath the surface.
Sutton’s expression darkens. “He put me in the hospital.” Her voice is barely above a whisper and tears fall from her already glistening eyes. “He raped me three times.”
Fuck. Me.
“Once while I was wide awake and crying for him to get off of me, and then twice after he drugged me.” She gestures to her chest with shaky hands. “I was awake for that too, but whatever he drugged me with paralyzed my body. He…he broke three ribs, fractured my cheekbone. When I woke up in the hospital I told the doctors I fell down the stairs.” She laughs without humor. “Such a cliché, right? But they knew. They always know.”
My stomach twists violently. The thought of her in pain, of her broken and alone guts me.
