Emma

I stare out the window at the city lights as my coffee shop hero fights through traffic to bring me to the hospital. The heartbeat of Miami is just starting to thrum at this time of night, while mine is slowly dying. I know that in just a few short blocks this will all be over. I will probably never see him again outside of my dreams, and I’ll have to go home and face Bastain. And the earth-shattering truth that threatens to tear my world apart.

The ibuprofen mystery guy gave me just before we left is helping a great deal with the pain and throbbing in my head. Or maybe it’s the company, or his gentle touch and kind smile. An energy I haven’t felt in years pulsates through my body whenever he’s near. The day I saw him in the coffee shop, he mesmerized me with his seductive smile and gracious manners. But, tonight he caught me by surprise with his exquisitely sculpted abs and tattoo covered arms. I knew he was fit, but I never would have guessed all that lay hidden beneath his three-piece suit. There was something so rugged and raw about his shirtless appearance that’s such a contrast to the calm and gentle way he was touching me. The way he looked at me when he lifted me up and brought me inside the gym. And again, when he brought his hand to my face, leaving a trail of blazing fire with his light strokes against my lips. I think he felt it too, or at least I hope he did. But he never acted or spoke out of line. I have no doubt he knows I’m lying about the accident, but he never attempted to argue.

Six blocks later, he pulls into a parking space near the hospital’s emergency room and looks over at me. We haven’t spoken a word in twenty minutes. He’s avoiding asking obvious questions, and I’m relieved I don’t have to tell him anymore lies. His deep, brown eyes meet mine, breaking through barriers I have spent years building up. It would be so easy to crawl inside his chest and let him keep me there, safe and sound, the way he made me feel tonight. But, I have demons to battle, and no one, not even me, can feel safe until they’re buried deep within the belly of the earth where they belong.

“You didn’t honestly think I was going to let you do this alone, did you?” he says, a defiant smirk threatening his lips.

Well, I was hoping you would, yes.

I paint a grateful smile on my face and take his hand, sending a sensual tenderness shooting through my bloodstream. I wish he could come inside with me. I wish he could take me home. I wish I could hide in the warmth of his smile forever. His jaw twitches as he reaches forward to stroke my unbruised cheek. I can’t. I can’t risk Bastain seeing him. I’m here because I spent five minutes too long on a dance floor. I don’t want to think about what would happen if he knew this man had touched me. I have to keep this secret. I have to keep us safe. Both of us.

“You don’t have a choice,” I inform him, trying to keep my tone firm as I let go of his hand.

“I could just throw you over my shoulder and carry you in kicking and screaming.” He’s trying to sound threatening, but I hear the mischief in his voice as he fights back a grin.

I picture him slinging me up and over his shoulder in a more playful manner, under less somber circumstances. I envision myself laughing as he smacks my butt. Things with him would have to be easier than they are with Bastain. He’s tender where Bastain is aggressive. He’s charming where Bastain is cynical. If mystery guy does have someone waiting for him, she’s one of the lucky ones.

“I’m trying to deflect attention, not attract it,” I joke back.

“You could wear a burlap sack and a paper bag, and you’d still have my attention, love,” he says, the hand on my cheek slipping to my jaw as he tilts my head to look at him.

The flirtatious gleam in his eye goes dark and serious beneath the dim lights of the parking lot. My breath catches sharply in my throat, and my mouth goes inexplicably dry, causing me to wet my lips. He watches with a combination of curiosity and fascination.

“I need to do this alone. That’s not a request. I’m not asking permission.” You have to go before I lose my willpower.

He heaves a sigh and drops his hand to his lap. I should tell him about Bastain. I should explain why he needs to go. He’s been so kind. It’s not fair to keep him in the dark like this. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t know if it’s because I am too ashamed to tell him, or if I’m just not ready to admit it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it true. And I’m not ready to deal with that yet.

“Fine. I won’t go in. I’ll wait here,” he says, “I could use a nap anyway.”

Why does he insist on making this so difficult? I should be turning cartwheels because a guy like this is willing to do so much for me. Instead, I’m shoving him off like he’s trying to sell me useless magazine subscriptions. “You’d just be wasting your time.”

His eyes study mine, searching for the lie behind my words. “Is that your final answer?” he asks, unable to hide his disappointment.

“Final answer.”

“Well, I guess there’s no arguing, then.”

I shake my head in response, and he looks away. I climb out of the car and peep my head in through the open window. “See ya,” I say, with a smile. This one isn’t genuine. I have to force it. Because inside I really feel like crying. I might look like a mess on the outside, but for just a short while, for the first time in a long time, I felt peace on the inside. And I’m not ready to let that go.

“See ya,” he returns, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. I turn and walk away as the first of many more teardrops starts to fall.

The look on Bastain’s face when he picked me up from the hospital was one of pure shock. I guess he thought I’d spend the night in Santana’s back yard, broken and bloody, until he decided to come save me. After standing outside debating with myself for what seemed like an hour, I chose to go inside and get checked out. My hero had taken good care of me, according to the doctor. My head is tender where I have knots on my scalp, but there is no orbital fracture due to the impact on the concrete or from the brick wall. I’m lucky, luckier than some, I’m afraid. I don’t need stitches, and I don’t have a concussion. I should be all healed up and back to normal within about four weeks.

I give Bastain the same story I gave mystery man and the doctor about running into a glass door. The look on his face tells me he doesn’t buy it. Then again, I’m not surprised. Deep down he knows the truth just like I do, only neither one of us are prepared to admit it out loud.

“Where were you?” I ask, forcing the knot back down my throat as I speak.

“It was starting to get crowded, so I moved the car to make sure we could get out. When I came back, you were gone.”

Lies. Bullshit. Excuses. He’s had all night to come up with a good story and this is the best he’s got? Now I’m angry.

“You couldn’t find me, so you just left?” I ask, emphasizing the final word as if it were the last thing he should have done.

“I’m sorry, Em. It looked like you were having a good enough time. How was I supposed to know you’d go running into doors and end up at the hospital?”

It looked like I was having a good enough time? So, he was mad that I was dancing. I knew it. And he knew exactly where I’d end up because he’s the one who put me there. It’s a chicken shit answer, but hey- I got an apology out of it so I should be happy, right? Wrong.

I need to learn how to deal with everything I’m feeling inside before I take this conversation any further, so I choose to remain silent the rest of the ride home.

I haven’t slept a full night in almost a week. There’s a thick fog of tension in our home. Some days we wade right through it, going through the motions as if nothing’s happened. Other days, it consumes us, keeping us silent as we try to find our way. Bastain has a hard time looking me in the face. I guess the bruises are an unwelcome reminder.

I can’t stop thinking about bouncy, brown curls, chocolate eyes, and a smile that could open the heavens. Every time I try to brush off the memories of how attentive and caring he was that night, they multiply and show up more vivid than ever, tormenting me. Sometimes I wake up feeling his touch against my cheek, hearing his voice whisper in my ear. He tells me I need to be strong. He reminds me I deserve better.

Then one day, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I decide to believe him. I spend the day sprucing up my resume. Bastain has me running errands for his car dealership, but it’s more of a power move than a paying position, a way for him to remind me of the hierarchy. I know if I told him I wanted a job, his immediate reaction would be getting me a position at his business. Living with Bastain and working for Bastain? Having him control my schedule as well as my finances? Hard pass. So for now, I tuck away fifty dollars when I go to the grocery store by getting cash back at the register. If I get any hits back on my resume, I’ll figure out what to tell him then.

Getting out of yoga class for the next four weeks wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I told Kylee that Bastain’s receptionist was sick and he needed me to work days at the dealership. She bought it without asking a bunch of questions, thank God.

It’s been almost two weeks now since that night at the party, and I’ve walked past the boxing gym at least six times. Every time I think I’ve worked up the nerve to go inside, my insecurities get the best of me, and I end up at the coffee shop around the corner instead. The closeness of the two locations explains why he was there that day. Sometimes I find myself sitting at that table in the corner, hoping he’ll happen to walk in. He doesn’t.

“How are you sleeping these days?”

Dr. Sandra Owen isn’t the typical therapist. Her office is in the back room of a book store, for starters. She calls her practice The Kitchen Table, because, according to her, that’s where families normally sit and talk about their day. She sits on a sofa across from the one I sit on, because she doesn’t have a desk. In the far corner of the room is an actual dining table. The walls aren’t lined with degrees and licenses, although I know she has them. Instead, the room reminds me more of a studio apartment than any type of office. I look around at the pictures of her children playing football and family vacations to Disney World, and I feel at home. I suppose that’s the point, to make patients more comfortable.

I settle into the cushions of the comfortable sofa. “The nightmares are gone,” I reply.

She analyzes my facial features as I answer her questions. Dr. Owen is an attractive, middle-aged brunette with the kindest blue eyes. “Has something happened to cause this change?”

I’ve been having the same nightmare for six years. It plays so vividly in my mind, I wake up trembling and soaked in sweat. It’s always the same, always with the same ending. It’s dark, and I’m standing on the side of a deserted road. It’s cold and starting to rain. I’m afraid. A car is coming. I’m relieved to see the headlights. It feels like I’ve been stranded alone on this road for days. The car doesn’t slow down as it approaches. I scream and scream as it gets closer, but it still comes at me full speed. It’s going to hit me, and I can’t stop it. I start to run, but I hear a yell coming from the woods behind me. Someone is calling for help. If I stop running to find out where the scream is coming from, the car will hit me. But the voice sounds so familiar, I am drawn to it. I have to stop. I have to help. I stop running, and the last sound I hear before waking is the sound of screeching brakes.

I focus on her question. What’s changed? When did the nightmares stop? The day at the coffee shop. Him. He’s why they stopped. He has to be. I can’t tell her that. I can’t say it out loud.

As if she’s reading my mind, she interrupts my thoughts. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest.”

“I met someone. A man.” Oh my God. I said it. “I met someone.” Those are words someone would say to their girlfriends explaining why their smile is a little bit brighter these days. That’s something you’d tell your parents when they’ve been hounding you about being single. It’s not something you say when you’re in a committed relationship with another man. Her eyes light up. She’s curious.

“And you feel this man is the reason the nightmares have stopped?”

“Yes.” She nods and scribbles something in her notebook.

“Do you want to tell me about the bruises? What caused them?”

I knew this would come up sooner or later. Dr. Owens knows about Bastain’s possessive nature and sometimes erratic behavior, but this is a surprise to both of us. I don’t answer with words. My eyes fall to the multicolored wool rug. I pull my feet up on the sofa and tuck them under my butt.

“Emma, I can see this is difficult for you to talk about.” She sets her notebook on the cushion next to her and leans forward. “I want you to start keeping a journal. You don’t have to write in it every day. Just when you’re feeling things you can’t say out loud. Write it down. Almost like writing a letter to yourself. Can you do that?”

A journal. I can do that. “Okay. Thank you, Dr. Owen.” I give her a hug, and set my next appointment for two weeks.