“I know.” Lo’s thick brows converge above the outrage in her eyes. “I just hate that he used me against you.
The walls feel like they’re closing in on me even discussing the invisible but very real chains Caleb used to hold onto me.
“Everyone who meant anything to me, he used against me, and he’d do it again and worse if he got the chance.” I shake my head. “Seeing me and August together—I just hope it doesn’t push him over the edge. That’s part of my hesitation, too.”
“You can’t live your life in fear of him, though.”
“Sometimes it’s the fear that keeps you alive, Lo. I learned a lot from this experience. I learned that people are really cavalier with other people’s lives.”
“What’s that mean?”
“They tell women to ‘just leave’, and they say ‘you’re so weak to stay.’” My words tumble out of me faster than I can process. “Yes, there are women who stay too long. Yes, there are women who accept abuse, confused that somehow it’s still love. That wasn’t me, but I knew that if I tried to leave and failed, he would kill me.”
Lo stares at me in silence for a few moments. I can tell she thinks I’m being melodramatic, and I have to make her understand.
“Seventy percent of domestic-abuse homicides occur when the woman tries to leave. That means that when a lot of these motherfuckers say ‘I’ll kill you if you leave me,’ they mean it.” A sob catches in my throat, but I shove it back down, determined to have my say with a strong, unwavering voice. “Imagine if I’d left and he got partial custody of Sarai. That monster having my daughter on the weekends? Never.”
“That wouldn’t have happened,” Lo says, but she sounds less certain than she did when we first began.
“Oh, yes, it would have. He’s rich, famous, has the best lawyers money can buy, and no prior offenses. Sports, especially at his level, is so insular, and they protect their own. I’ve seen it for myself. Behind every woman who comes out telling her story, there’s a line of officers, staff, coaches, and people who should have helped, who knew and did nothing.”
Hurt, outrage, and fury throw a tantrum inside of me. I pause to draw a calming breath before going on. “He wouldn’t have gotten more than a slap on the wrist, and that’sifanyone believed me.”
I gather my hair back from my face and link my hands behind my neck. It’s an impractical justice, a woman having to share custody with the man who tried to kill her because his parental rights should be protected.
“People have no idea what some women go through behind closed doors or what keeps them there.” I shake my head. “That was me, living a lie and getting beaten up by the truth until I found my way out. And I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over it.”
“You will.” Lo tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and I flinch.
“See?” My laugh comes out slightly hysterical. “He used to do that. He’d push my hair behind my ear so gently, but with his gun.”
“Shit, Bo,” Lo says, anger and horror taking up arms in her expression.
“You know I still sleep curled at the edge of the bed because it’s the only way I can. I didn’t want our bodies touching while we slept.” Tears clog my throat, and a few escape my eyes no matter how much I will myself not to cry. “I didn’t want him that close when I was asleep, but he wouldn’t let me sleep anywhere else.”
“You need to talk to someone, babe,” Lo says.
“I am, actually. I do. I’ve been talking to a counselor at a women’s shelter here in the city, but can a therapist strip my mind of the memories? Of the nightmares? Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s a gun between my legs.”
“What the hell?”
“Yeah, he liked to put a gun to my vagina and make me choose between that and his dick.”
“That bastard.” Lo’s eyes harden, and her full lips thin. “Don’t worry. His is coming. His days are numbered.”
Lo has removed her braids and wears her hair’s natural texture in a close cap of curls dyed platinum that contrasts starkly with her complexion. She looks so different, but the same light that burned in her eyes when she confronted Caleb ignites now.
“Lo, what does that—”
“Mommy, potty,” Sarai says. She stands and crosses one little foot over the other.
God, she’s adorable. I’m not biased.
“Potty training,” I mutter, standing and taking Sarai by the hand and heading for the bathroom. “We’ll be back.”
Sarai’s all done and washing her hands when Lo yells from the front room. “Bo, you said August’s number thirty-three, right?”
The concern in her voice propels my heartbeat, and I rush back into the living room just in time to see a replay in slow-motion.
