He pulled me back toward him and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug, his cheek against mine. “Hey, relax. I’m just messing around.”
The other man was still laughing. He thought this was all part of the joke—Andrew and I were having fun. Andrew pressed his lips against mine and I was forced to kiss him back, watching over his shoulder as the man turned away, his face red.
Andrew finally let go and took the lunch bag from my hand. “Thanks for bringing this.” He pulled a sandwich out of the bag. “Roast beef. My favorite.” He took a big bite and chewed methodically as he focused back on the cement truck. The other man had moved around the side and was talking to the truck driver. I looked up at Andrew. His face was a cold mask.
“See you at home, honey.” He walked away.
CHAPTER TEN
DECEMBER 2016
When I walk into my support group Monday night a few women are already sitting in their chairs and staring at their feet or hands in silence, while others are gathered around the coffee urn chatting about the weather. I grab a coffee and find a seat.
We start group the same way each time. We check in about our weeks, how we’re coping. This room is so familiar to me, the brick walls of the church basement, the rain on the outside window, the sour musty smell mixed with coffee and damp hair. I feel the coil of tension in my stomach easing and I’m glad I forced myself out of my warm house.
There are a few new women tonight, the shock in their eyes still fresh, their bodies tense as they sit huddled into their coats. One of the new members is a young woman, obviously dyed black hair, maybe mid-twenties. I catch her glancing at the doorway as though she’s going to bolt. I give her a reassuring smile and she flushes, but then settles back into her seat.
Jenny and I met at my first meeting when I moved to Dogwood Bay. I’d never been to a support group before and didn’t know what to say. I sat in the corner, my face hot and stomach churning. Then a blond woman with wild curly hair, damp from the rain and smelling like lavender shampoo, plopped down beside me and handed me a cup of black coffee.
“It’s terrible, but it does the trick,” she said with a warm smile.
Startled, I mumbled my thanks and took the cup from her. I wasn’t used to being in a social situation without Andrew, or having the freedom to talk to whomever I wanted—part of me wasn’t sure I even belonged at this group—but I liked the mischievous glint in her eyes, the funky glasses that were almost a little big for her face, her bright blue rain boots.
I took a sip and made a face. “I might never sleep again.”
“I don’t think many of us sleep anyway.” She looked down at her cup. “The only thing blacker than this coffee is my ex-husband’s heart.” I’d been surprised by her wry tone. She didn’t sound wounded or ashamed. She sounded angry. I realized then that I was tired of holding my head down, tired of feeling like I had brought this all on myself somehow. I was angry too.
“The only thing stronger than this coffee is the grip my ex-husband had on my life,” I said. “They should both be flushed down a toilet.”
She shot me a surprised look, her mouth lifting in a smile. “This coffee is so bitter, it could be my divorce lawyer.”
I’d started laughing hard and almost spilled my coffee, which then made Jenny howl with laughter. We had to step out of the meeting to get ourselves under control.
Jenny shops at Whole Foods biweekly, knows more things about kale than I ever will, e-mails me recipes for her latest hemp-or chia-seed protein smoothies, and sends daily inspirational quotes. When she was offered the job in Vancouver as a lifestyle consultant, I was thrilled she was following her dream, but she left a big hole in my life. It had been so long since I’d had a female friend, one who supported me completely. We Skyped yesterday and I told her what had happened at my client’s house and she was almost angrier than me.
“Ten years wasn’t enough,” she said. “They should’ve locked him up and thrown away the key. If you need to get out of that town, you call me right away.”
I don’t want to leave Dogwood yet—then Andrew would win. But if push comes to shove, I’m glad to know we have a home with Jenny. Both my parents are gone—my mother succumbed to her MS a few years ago, and my dad had a stroke not long after. They were devastated they hadn’t realized how Andrew had really been treating me when we were married, and disappointed I’d never confided in them, but they understood more once I explained how he’d threatened and hurt me. My mom insisted that I tell them the truth about everything from that moment on, and begged me not to worry about them. Then my father made me promise I wouldn’t come back to the island until Andrew’s trial was over and he was behind bars.