I didn’t see Tim the next day or the day after that.

Harper invited me to watch Game Three and Game Four with the girls at her place. She and Zachary Ryan had finally moved into a small condo together in Newport Beach, right on the Balboa Peninsula, and she was having a House Warming Party for all the girlfriends and wives. There was nothing more I wanted than to say yes. I wanted to go and hang out with them and know about them and immerse myself in this new subculture that I would never be able to truly understand otherwise.

But I couldn’t. Not with the bruises on my face. Not when it hurt to walk.

An officer drove me to Kaiser, which was a couple of miles south of the police station. In the car, I told him everything, how I believed my so-called rescuer was behind the attack, how I had been to the station that morning and filed a police report because Tim was not obeying our restraining order. I gave him all of the information I had on Tim, and when the officer realized who I was talking about, I noticed sympathy flash in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

Like this was going to be impossible to solve. To completely get rid of.

I wanted to cry when I saw that look. But I didn’t. I bit my bottom lip until I could taste blood and threw my eyes out the window, trying to ignore the sympathetic stare, trying to ignore how impossible this whole thing was going to be.

I took a breath and then another. I found myself counting down from five slowly. The pain was also a good distraction, as sick as that might sound. At least it was something to focus on that wasn’t Tim.

The ER discharged me a few hours later. I was bruised and cut up but there was nothing wrong with my ribs, nothing wrong with my lungs, and I wasn’t bleeding internally. The blood I spit up was from cuts in my mouth. They did suggest I stay home for the rest of the week, just so I could have time to heal. I was more concerned about finding makeup that would cover my swollen face, but at least I didn’t have to worry about that now.

That night, I made myself hot cocoa and watched the Gulls lose Game Three. I looked at my phone and wanted to reach out and text Art but I held back. He probably wasn’t even thinking of me right now. He was with his team and that was where his focus should be. I didn’t want to distract him, even if it was a simple text telling him I was sorry his team lost.

I crawled into bed, turned out the light, and took a deep breath. I had already checked to make sure all of my doors were locked – which they were. The police knew about him because I filed two police reports naming him as the suspect in the same day so, if I needed help, I could just call 911 and help would be dispatched to me immediately.

At least, that was what the officer said.

Of course, he couldn’t tell me if anything would actually happen to Tim. It hadn’t made me feel any better when he admitted that it was going to be hard to put Tim away. At least he believed me. That meant something.

Sleep came hard and quick, and before I knew it, I was waking up the next morning. There was no game today, and since the doctor wrote me a note to get me off work the rest of the week, there was really nothing for me to do except binge watch more television – which I was fine with.

A few hours into my day, around eleven am when I was on my seventh Eggo and my third episode of The Punisher, my phone rang. I picked it up when I saw Art’s number, trying to figure out just what the hell I was going to say and how I was going to say it. I hadn’t prepared for this. I hadn’t realized he was going to do something as crazy as calling me.

I sucked in a deep breath. I blew it out through my mouth. I rolled my shoulders back, paused Frank Castle, and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, kid,” he said and I felt the butterflies in my stomach start to bump into each other like they were undone simply by the sound of his voice. Just because of how he called me kid, like it was the same thing as calling me honey or baby. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

I decided I wouldn’t tell him what happened to me yesterday. I didn’t want to worry him or distract him. I didn’t want anything to throw off his game. The Gulls were down by one game. They really needed to come back to Orange County with a win and tie the series back up.

“You’re lying,” came his response.

I glared at nothing in particular. “And how would you even know that?” I asked.

“You talk different when something is bugging you,” he responded.

I nearly growled. I didn’t understand how he noticed these things. Art was the sort of guy who was quiet and minded his own business. He didn’t typically notice things - at least, that was the impression I got from him. The only exception to that was when he saw the roses on my porch and helped me dispose of them. And when he noticed I had come home early from work. And...

I guess everything that had to do with me.

I was the exception.

“So?” he asked. He still had that aggravating tone that I wanted to slap out of his mouth. It was decidedly knowing and pushy and I wanted to tell him he had no business telling me what to do. Except he really wasn’t doing that. He was just concerned about me. He noticed that something was bugging me, and I appreciated that. Even when I was with Tim, he either didn’t give a shit or didn’t bother to really look, to really know about me.

Art, on the other hand... I wasn’t even officially with Art and yet, he could look at me - actually, he wasn’t even looking at me. This was done over the phone. - and he could understand that something was wrong. No matter how small, he knew something was on my nerves. And I found I really liked being noticed.

“I just miss you,” I told him honestly. I didn’t know what else to say. I knew I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him about Tim. I actually hoped I’d be able to hold off until maybe even the Stanley Cup finals. But these bruises had a mind of their own. They definitely wouldn’t heal by the time he got back and I knew we would see each other. He was staying with me, it seemed. Not that I minded.

This whole thing was weird. Different. We knew each other for a couple of weeks now and yet my house felt empty without him. His presence somehow made me feel...

I shook my head. I didn’t need to get sucked down that trail of thought again. I knew how he made me feel.

There was silence on the other end of the line. I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t said too much. I knew there was something going on between us, something more than just pretending. I knew we danced on a thin line of what was appropriate and what wasn’t appropriate. I knew his kisses seared my lips and I stayed up thinking about the way it might feel if his lips were on other parts of my body, what it might feel like if his skin was on my skin, what it might feel like if he was inside of me.

I closed my eyes and cleared my throat. It had gone dry quickly. I needed him to say something, anything. I needed to know that I hadn’t said too much.

“I miss you too, kid,” came his response.

My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t know what I was expecting from him, but it wasn’t that. And yet, it was the exact response I wanted.

“What are your plans for today?” I asked. My voice came out raw, and I had to clear my throat so I could be heard better. It was just another effect he had on me.  

“We had morning skate earlier and then I ate breakfast,” he replied. There was a slight pause and I knew he had something he was going to say, something important, even if I didn’t know what that was. “Are you sure you’re okay, kid? You don’t sound... like your normal self.”

I almost smiled at that. I took it as a compliment that he was able to distinguish between how I normally sounded and how I didn’t, but I hated lying to him even though I was doing it to protect him. Even though I needed to do it in order to ensure he didn’t get distracted. They needed to win Game Four. That was all there was to it. They needed to come back with a win.

“I just have a lot on my mind,” I replied. This wasn’t actually a lie. I did have a lot on my mind. “This whole thing between us... it’s unexpected.”

A beat. “In a good way?” he questioned. I could detect a slight hesitancy in his voice as well. Like he knew what he wanted to hear but he wasn’t sure if he would get the response he was looking for.

I wish I knew what he wanted to hear. I wish I knew how he felt.

“In a good, surprising way,” I clarified. “You... you helped me, Art. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

I could picture him so clearly in my mind; he would look away from me, his shoulders would stiffen, and he would snort. He would shift his weight and finally look back at me and even though his entire body language reeked of discomfort, there would be slight appreciation in that tawny gaze of his. Like he genuinely cared about what I said and how he made me feel but the fact that he was getting complimented wasn’t something he was used to so he didn’t quite know how to react to it.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, trying to make his voice come across as nonchalant and indifferent, like he didn’t care.

But just like he could tell I spoke different when I was keeping something from him, I could tell with how he spoke as well.

“You’ve done more for me than you realize,” I insisted. “If I’m being honest, I’ve never told anybody what I’ve told you. Not my closest friends. Not even my family. They know bits and pieces but they don’t know the deep, dark secrets I have about Tim. About everything he’s done to me. I mean, you don’t know everything either but you know more than they do. You know more than anyone.”

“And what made you decide to share that information with me?” he asked. His voice was husky; it was low, no louder than a grisly whisper.

It gave me goosebumps and I was wrapped up in pajamas and my comforter. The things his voice did to me... and he wasn’t even in the same room as me.

“I just.” I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know.” I paused. “I trust you.”

I held my breath. He was silent for a long moment. And then: “I trust you too, kid. More than you know.”