“Aren’t you a fierce little tiger,” he says with an easy laugh, reminding me of the man I first met. “In any case, my therapist says that apologizing to you is one of the steps to becoming a new man. Culling toxic people out of my life can only do good.”
“I’m not toxic.” Why am I arguing with him? Why am I still talking to him at all? “Don’t call me again.”
“You will stay on this fucking phone until I say otherwise,” he growls.
To my horror, I find myself obeying his command.
“Hurry up,” I tell him. My feeble attempt to take back control only makes him laugh.
“You will forgive me, Eva. You have to—it’s your Christian duty.”
“Maybe one day I’ll be able to, but that’s not today, and don’t throw something in my face that you think is bull.” My free hand tightens around the steering wheel. “I don’t know what kind of lies you’re filling your therapist’s notebook with, but when you go back to prison to finish serving your time—”
“That’s not going to happen. I served my time, like a good boy, and was given permission to travel to the West Indies. I’m getting court-ordered help at the Peaceful Mind and Body Institute.”
Of course he wasn’t going to serve more time, and of course he’s at a luxury resort that masquerades as a therapy center.
I bite my lip to keep from screaming, but hot tears spill over my lashes and onto my cheeks. “Just say what you have to say, Penn.”
“Believe me, you little bitch, I will. First, you are a whore who slept around on me. That made me mad, and I couldn’t help but lash out at you. But that was wrong of me. You couldn’t help your whorish ways. Or the way you refused to—”
It starts to rain, fat drops landing on the windows. I concentrate on them, on the path they take as they travel down my windshield, instead of the man who promised to love and cherish me, but instead made my life a hellish nightmare.
“You didn’t love me like I deserved. You didn’t support me. You knew my triggers, yet you pushed them over and over, which in turn made me into this monster that even I was scared of. I forgive you for that.” He exhales, and the sound of another person talking fills the background. “Fuck, I feel so much better now. Thank you, Evangeline, for listening to me.”
He ends the call.
Like a robot, I scroll through my contact list.
My hands shake as I wait for my lawyer to answer. Every so often I sniff and fresh tears threaten to fall, but I refuse to give in.
“McBeal and Associates.”
“This is Evangeline Amb—McCarthy,” I begin, giving her my married name. Since it’s still legally mine until the divorce, I have to use it for court documents and other procedures. “May I speak with Lucy, please?”
“Of course, Mrs. McCarthy.”
How in the world am I supposed to have a normal relationship with anyone? How am I supposed to have peace when my soon-to-be ex-husband calls me? When my soon-to-be former in-laws give him my number? It had to be them.
“Evangeline, is everything okay?”
“Penn called me. I don’t know how he got my number,” I say in a rush.
She makes a small noise. I remember she once told me that she likes going up against assholes from rich families who think they are above the law. Penn’s family is no different. They have more money than God and less common sense than He gave rocks.
“I’ll be sure to speak with Mr. McCarthy’s lawyers about this. There’s a restraining order in place for a reason. And I hate to say it, but I also think we should extend it to social media as well. In the meantime, change your number and stop by my office to let my secretary update your personal file.”
Why should I? I want to argue. Why should I have to change anything so that asshole doesn’t call me?
“Thanks. I’ll take care of that as soon as I can,” I assure her, then end our call.
My lawyer is a great one, very competent and highly recommended, but I can’t help but feel that everything is on me. That nothing is required of Penn but to get healthy again. Oh, and to stay the hell away from me, which he’s done. Physically, at least.
The first time he hit me, it shocked us both. He swore never to do it again, blaming it on the drugs he had to take in order to keep his PTSD under control. Except he did it again and again. Eventually, he stopped making excuses and started blaming me.
Then, he stopped getting high at all before he hit me, and that’s when I knew he would end up killing me one day. The last time he put his hands on me, he almost did.
Something inside of me snaps and I start screaming, my hands covering my ears to drown out my words. “I don’t need your forgiveness. I did nothing wrong. Nothing.”
My words become a chant, filling the car, filling my brain until my entire marriage is playing in my head and I’m reliving every moment. Every slap and every bruise. Every excuse.
Everything.
Suddenly, the world is tilting. A hard tug has me standing, then pressed against a hard, warm wall. Strong hands run up and down my back, whispering words that I can’t make out at first.
“It’s okay, Evangeline,” the low, rumbling voice tells me. “You did nothing wrong.”
I break down, sobbing and not caring who’s touching me. As long as it’s not Penn, I don’t give a damn.