Her hand comes up, holding my face, her thumb wiping the tear away. “Now, what do you say we have some cake?”
“Sure.” I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
We sit there in silence while we each eat a large piece of chocolate cake that is so dense that it’s more like fudge. I have a large glass of milk with mine, and Nancy has a glass of wine. When we’re done, we pay the tab before climbing into Nancy’s Jeep.
I don’t know why she doesn’t say anything, but I know why I can’t. My emotions are too exposed; too much has happened today and I need some time to regroup. It isn’t until Kenton sends a text telling me that he’s on his way home that I feel some of the tension in my belly dissipate. Right then, I know that I’m no longer in like with him; I’m head-over-heels in love with him.
I wake up on a scream when I feel myself being shaken. My throat feels like it’s on fire and my skin feels damp with sweat. I look around in the darkness, holding my chest, trying to remember where I am, when the light is switched on and I see that Kenton is looking at me worriedly. I lower my head, covering my face with my hands, taking a few deep breaths as I try to get my heart rate back to normal.
“You were screaming like someone was killing you,” he whispers, sliding in behind me.
I feel my stomach drop and my insides twist with anxiety. I haven’t had a nightmare in years. When I first left home, I would get them often, but somehow, they stopped. I forgot what it feels like to wake up scared, so scared that I want to turn on every light then hide under the covers.
“Sorry I woke you,” I whisper, trying to pull away from his touch, humiliated that I woke him, that he witnessed that.
“Jesus, don’t do that. Do not fucking pull away. Not right now. Not when whatever it was you were dreaming about is still clinging to your skin and has seeped into mine.”
The bed moves behind me again and my hands are taken from my face. He pulls me down so I’m on my side, facing him, our faces so close that I can feel each of his breaths.
His arms wrap around me and his thigh slides over my legs so I’m surrounded by him. “Talk to me.”
I try to sort out what to say to him in my head. How can I possibly explain what just happened when I don’t understand it myself? “I don’t know if it’s a dream or a memory,” I say softly after a few minutes. I press my face into his neck and press my body closer to his.
“What happens?”
I take another shuddering breath and shake my head. “I’m in water. It’s not very deep ’cause I’m sitting in it and it only comes up to my waist. I have this doll in my hand that has blond hair, and I’m dunking her underwater, singing a song to her.” I swallow again, and this time, I feel bile at the back of my throat. “I don’t know what happens, but I feel hands on my head pushing me down. I can’t breathe and I try to scream but end up sucking in lungfuls of water.”
I take a breath just to remind myself that I can. My mom was never a good mom; she was abusive but never left a mark. She always made sure there was never any evidence pointing to her being less than perfect. To everyone who knew us, we lived the perfect life. We had the perfect home, the perfect yard, and she was the perfect mother, who had perfect hair, clothes, and makeup. Everything about her was perfect, and she made sure I was perfect—at least what everyone saw of me.
“Do you think that really happened? That she tried to drown me?” I wonder out loud, feeling his body wrap tighter around mine and his muscles tense. We’ve talked some about how it was for me growing up. I try to avoid talking about it as much as possible, even though he asks often. I just don’t like the look that comes across his face when we do discuss it.
“Do you?” he asks gently.
I take another deep breath, tucking my face into his neck, letting his warmth and smell take away the last of the nightmare. “Yes.” I nod, feeling his arms go tighter before he lets me go and gets out of bed, muttering a quiet, “Fuck,” under his breath.
“Oh God,” I whimper, feeling sick. I sit up, holding the sheet to my bare chest, looking around for quick escape. Tears start to sting my nose and I fight them back, knowing that there is no way in hell I will cry in front of him. Not now.
“Fuck!” is roared, and I turn my head just in time to see one of the new bedside lamps fly across the room, hitting the sliding glass door. The lamp bursts into thousands of pieces while the door somehow doesn’t shatter. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair as I try to think of something to do or say to calm him down.
“I’ll leave,” I tell him quietly, fear settling in my gut.
His pacing doesn’t change, and his fists clenching and unclenching tell me everything I need to know about his state of mind. I start to wonder if I do this to people, if I make them want to hurt me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whimper.
His head swings my way, and his eyes look me over, going from hard to soft. “Jesus, baby.” He comes towards me and I hold up my hand, trying to ward him off. His eyes drop to my hand then move back up to my face. “I would never hurt you.”
I know this; I know deep down that he wouldn’t, but I just watched him freak out, and that has put some fear in me.
“Never,” he repeats, and that’s when I notice that my body is shaking so hard that the bed is vibrating. “It was either the lamp or track down your mom and put a bullet in her.”
I feel my eyes widen as he shakes his head.
“I would kill her, baby. Without a second thought, I would end her. I know you don’t understand, but this is me. I protect the people I love. I hate feeling helpless when I know I can fix this. Knowing that someone who has harmed you is out in the world, walking around, does not sit well with me. It goes against everything I am to let her get away with what she did to you.”