She shifts again, and her skirt rides up a hint. I don’t look. I’m merely made aware in my peripheral vision. “There’s not much to know about me. I was born and raised in a small town north of here. My mom is dead. My biological father, whom I’ve never met, lives somewhere in this city, and my stepfather, who was a monster, is also dead. I don’t have any siblings. I’ve always used my writing as an escape from reality, although I mostly write sad stories, which doesn’t make much sense.”
I pick up on it right away. “Why doesn’t it make much sense?”
“I write to escape sadness, but it trickles into my writing anyway.”
“Why are you still with Roarke?” I remember his name from her cell phone. It’s an awful-sounding name. It makes a guttural noise in my throat. I searched hisname and found a company photo of him. All white, fake veneers, and bad hair transplants. The portrait of a wife beater. My skin prickles at the memory. I almost broke my iPad while I read his biography. From a well-to-do family, with a penchant for sailing and bourbon tasting. I wonder how much bourbon he had in him when he gave her the black eye.
She sighs. “That’s the one place I won’t go. Please. Don’t ask. He’s a good man. He really is. I have a lovely home and a nice life because of him. It’s not fair to talk about him when he’s not here to defend himself.”
There would be no defending. I’d kill him outright.
“You couldn’t have those things without him? I think you could. A good man would never hit a woman. You don’t have to be afraid of him, you know? You could leave and never look back.”
This is what I’ve learned about domestic violence. Women tend to blanket themselves with fear and never come up for air. It’s a crippling, mind-numbing, reality-altering terror.
She smiles sweetly. “That’s very kind of you to say. I better be going now, Smith. Thank you ever so much for today. Shall we meet again soon?” Carina isn’t ready to come up for air. She’s not denying the abuse either. That, perhaps, is the best thing of all.
She stands. I stand. The black-and-white photo peeking up at me is Megan kissing my neck. My eyes are closed with a blissful smile arching my face. It makesmy stomach hurt. I’ll never feel that again. Not with Megan. And I’ll have to pretend. Carina catches me staring. “You’re very lucky, Smith. Very lucky indeed,” she whispers.
I shake my head. “Luck never has anything to do with it. Be well. And, Carina? I want you to know something.”
Gathering her things, she heads for the door. I open it wide. Mrs. Waters is gone. “What’s that? I could guess, but you’re surprising in that way. I can’t predict what you might say next. With regards to me, it’s very much a mystery. Tell me. What do you want me to know?” Carina’s voice seems emboldened.
“That I’m not hiding from you, so you shouldn’t hide from me either. I’m here for you. In whatever capacity makes you most comfortable. If we’re going to continue this, which I hope we will because it seems therapeutic for me, then we should be friends. Give and take. Okay? Let me be there for you.”
Her big eyes turn down in the corners. “Oh, Smith. You can’t save everyone.” She lays her smooth palm on the side of my face. The bad side of my face, the one that is hard to look at. Carina sees well past the surface into the uncomfortable, ignored zone of my psyche. And with such ease. Bringing my hand up, I grasp her wrist. She leaves her hand on my scars.
“I can try,” I say, smiling.
“You can,” she returns.
And so I will.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carina
Sometimes strength is displayedin unfamiliar ways. It doesn’t look like the ass-kicking heroine in the latest blockbuster. She doesn’t use a gun or have a sharp tongue. Sometimes a woman’s strength comes from enduring. Going on—waking up and doing the same thing over and over again.
Since I began meeting with Smith, thoughts of leaving Roarke creep in more and more. Instead of enduring, I’m envisioning a life without him and his controlling dictatorship. These thoughts always end with me shaking with terror. I made a plan to leave him after he manhandled me last night. Luckily, this time, it wasn’t my face.
I didn’t sleep all night. I lay awake with fear picking my plan apart piece by piece. When it was time to wake up, I knew I needed my friend to take my mind off everything.
Jasmine sips her tea. “How many meetings have you had with Deep-Smith-hot-body?” She giggles. I love the sound.
We walk together through the farmers’ market, shoulders touching. I turn my face up so warm sunshine kisses my face. “Four. Four amazing interviews where I question things about myself because of the stories he tells.” I sigh and glance at her. “If I’m not with him listening to his stories, I’m thinking of them. This project is eating me alive.”
She grimaces and shakes her head. Her black hair, cut into a sleek bob, bounces back and forth. “That doesn’t sound good. So dramatic,” Jasmine jokes. “Why are authors so dramatic?”
I smile. “Feast or famine. You know that better than anyone. This is feast. I’m feasting, Jasmine. Be happy for me.” I wish I could take off my cardigan and tie it around my waist. It’s a beautiful San Diego day. Roarke made sure that wouldn’t happen.
She loops her arm through mine, causing me to wince. “I’m so happy for you. For us. Let’s get crepes,” she exclaims, leading me to our favorite food vendor cart. The sweet scents of sugar and butter seep into my awareness and lighten my mood even further. “I’m glad you called me this morning. I was slugging through my inbox on a Sunday morning. How depressing is that? Work on a Sunday.”
She orders for both of us, and we take our paper-wrapped crepes and sit on the curb to devour the confections. In between bites I say, “I’m going to leave him, Jaz. I’m going to leave him, and I might need yourhelp. In fact, I know I will.”
She chokes on a bite and bangs on her chest in an exaggerated gesture. “Jesus, Carina. A little warning would be nice. Of course, though. Of course. What happened?”
Using my very best what-do-you-think-happened face, I raise both brows. She cocks her head to the side in confusion. I slip my sweater down my shoulder until the huge purple bruise on my bicep is exposed.
