Page 88 of Late Harvest

“Not physically. Well, actually that’s not true. He’d shove me. Threaten me with worse. But he never hit me.” She halted, struggling with the words. “Even so, the emotional damage was horrific. Verbal abuse was an everyday occurence—that is, the days he wasn’t passed out, dealing drugs, or pretending to find work. He’d put me down. Mock my physical appearance. Tell me I was as stupid and worthless as my mother.”

Remy laced her fingers together, squeezing hard until they ached at the webbing. What she was about to share was the worst of this part of her story. But not the worst overall. By far.

Her brimming tears spilled over and down her cheeks, and she quickly dashed them away with the heel of a hand. She dragged in a breath. “He would make me—make me watch while he h-hit her. Told me if I turned away or ran away, he’d”—she swallowed painfully past the unforgiving knot in her throat—“he’d kill her.”

Remy closed her eyes, fighting to control her breathing, like Etta had taught her.

“Jesus,” Sebastian breathed out, coughing and clearing his throat. “Jesus, Arabella. I—I don’t have words to— I don’t know what to say.” A tear slid unchecked down his cheek.

She shook her head. “Not much to say. His cruelty was relentless. Anyhow,” she continued, needing to move through the story so Sebastian could go ahead and run away from the ugliness he’d unwittingly connected himself to. “We moved around a lot. I think I lived in nine places before high school. Different cities, different states, and we eventually ended up in Baltimore.

“Sperm donor was making his living dealing drugs and mom waited tables. Sometimes he’d beat her so badly, the cops—who were frequent fliers at every shabby place my parents lived—would talk her into going to the hospital, where some persuasive social worker would occasionally convince her to seek support at a shelter. That would be…a time of respite. Where I might get some new-used clothes. Be able to study in peace. Eat three meals a day. Feel…safe. Protected,” she finished in a whisper. “And that’s why I make sure to give back now. To help others in the same situation.”

“Arabella, we don’t need to talk about this now.” Sebastian stood and started to move toward her, Chicane in his arms, little nose wiggling as if he sensed her distress.

Remy held up a staying hand. “Please. Please don’t come closer. I just—I need space. And now that I’ve started, I need to get this out.”

Sebastian’s gaze moved carefully over her face, assessing. Eventually he nodded, eyes sad, and sat back down.

Remy pinched the bridge of her nose, dropping her head against the weariness weighing her down. “She never stayed long at the shelter. A handful of days at most. He had a hold over her I could never understand. But I used to wish”—she caught the sob that almost erupted from her—“used to wish that he’d hurt her enough that she’d finally see reason. Not physically. But…emotionally.

“Instead, one afternoon, he beat her senseless. I’d just started high school, so I didn’t have to witness this one. Thank God.” Remy winced, flinching at brutal memories best left untouched. “Apparently he left her crumpled in a corner and proceeded to invite some friends over and get high.

“I was pulled out of biology by the principal. The school’s guidance counselor was waiting for me, along with two police officers. They’d responded to a 911 call for a suspected overdose. Apparently, one of sperm donor’s fellow junkies called. The police found him dead, my mother still unconscious in the kitchen.”

“Arabella—”

She continued woodenly, as if Sebastian hadn’t spoken. “My mother had been transported to the hospital and admitted to the ICU with a traumatic brain injury and multiple broken bones. The police removed his body. I never saw him again. The guidance counselor asked who she could call for me. I couldn’t even respond, because…there wasn’t anyone.”

Remy shifted and reached for the picture, tears brimming in her eyes. She traced the beloved face as she had so many times when she was feeling lost and low. “One of my classmates happened to be in the office. A beautiful, funny girl who absolutely radiated joy and love. It was early in the semester, but she was already the most popular girl in our class. Only…Etta Remington was the opposite of a mean girl. She was beloved,” Remy choked on agonizing, guilt-ridden sorrow, “b-because she was so, so kind. Later, she told me something elemental and soul-deep had whispered at her to step forward and help me. But she shouldn’t have. Her kindness…it set in motion—fuck.”

The dam broke and a wave of tears streamed down Remy’s face, her body shaking with the agony of remembering. She put a staying hand up to keep Sebastian away. She couldn’t handle his tender touch juxtaposed with such ugliness and pain.

“Anyway,” she eventually managed, composing herself and not ready to go there yet, “Etta informed the principal we were best friends and that her mother, Tasha, would be happy to take me in as long as necessary.”

Remy wiped her face with her sleeve. “Mind you, this was the mid-nineties. The school safety precautions so common today hadn’t yet been put in place in the overcrowded city school I attended, which was filled with all backgrounds of kids, some of whose stories were as bad as mine. Or worse.” She shook her head.

“They allowed Etta to call Tasha at work. To her credit, Tasha took it in stride and affirmed Etta’s statement.” Arabella traced the much-loved picture with her gaze, wishing for the chance to go back in time and change so many things—except that day. Selfishly, she wouldn’t change that day for anything, because it gifted her the Remingtons. “She’d never even met me. Simply took her daughter’s word for it. Their relationship was so loving. Trusting. It was everything I’d ever wanted and never had. Until then.

“I went home with the Remingtons that day. And during the week I stayed with them, until my mother was released, Etta’s declaration of best friendship manifested into reality.”

Sebastian stood again, moving closer to hand her Chicane before taking a few steps back, honoring her space. It was like he could read her emotions, her needs, as clearly as he read his beloved romances.

“The E necklace you wear⁠—”

“It was hers,” Remy affirmed. “More on that…later. If I can.”

“You don’t need to⁠—”

“I do,” she asserted, so forcefully Chicane jumped a bit in her arms. “Sorry, my darling.” Remy nuzzled his silky fur until he settled back down.

“I do,” she added, this time more softly. “The Remingtons became my family in the truest sense of the word. My mother quickly devolved into her own alcoholism—grieving that sonofabitch as if he’d never made a vicious habit of pulverizing her. It wasn’t until much later in my life, and after a fair amount of therapy, that I recognized she’d identified herself only through him. She was so tied up in him, and her feelings for him, she became co-dependent on him and borderline obsessed. She used to fly into jealous rages then drink until she passed out when she caught wind of another instance of his rampant cheating.”

Remy blew out a long breath. “Isn’t this uplifting? Doesn’t it make you want to just run to the nearest courthouse and marry me?” Sarcasm dripped from her words, her only defense against what was emerging as a terrifying realization. She finally understood one tiny piece of her mother—that longing to be loved and cherished by the person who captured your heart, even if you know it can only end in misery and heartbreak.

Sebastian covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, gently wrapping her and Chicane in his arms, stroking the back of her hair. She allowed it, sinking into the embrace.

“Arabella,” he soothed, “I hate that you went through all that. But nothing about you makes me want to run away. You hear me? It makes me want to enfold you fully into my heart, my life, and give you all the lo⁠—”