Page 71 of My Heart To Heal

‘I’m going to check on Jonah.’

I pull out the chamomile tea and two mugs and then brace myself on the countertop, pressing my palms into the cool surface and hanging my head. Rage heats my blood, and the overwhelming need to hurt this prick has me clenching my hands into fists, but I need to calm myself. I’m not like Bax, notlike my father. I can control my anger. I won’t let her see that in me.

‘Snoring his little head off,’ she says with a weak smile as she joins me in the kitchen, and I turn to pull her to me once more.

Her arms wrap tightly around my back and mine do the same to her as she presses her cheek against my chest, and I lower my chin to the top of her head. Both of us take deep, steadying breaths, and the sweet scent of her shampoo is like water on the fire blazing in me, putting it out, one breath at a time.

‘Don’t call me Marissa,’ she says softly before pulling back and looking up at me.

‘What do you…’

‘He called me Marissa, always, never Missy. You’ve never called me Marissa before, but you called me that tonight when you were angry with me. Call me anything but that, please.’

‘You got it,’ I agree without hesitation. ‘Go, sit, I’ll bring these over.’

She walks away, and I take another breath before picking up the tea and joining her on the sofa.

We sit in silence for a while, just drinking our tea and letting everything sink in. We’ve hardly talked in weeks, and now, here we are, together.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask gently, and she takes a deep inhale.

‘No,’ shesmiles, ‘but I should. I never have.’

‘Tell me as much or as little as you want, honey. I’m here for whatever you need.’

I stretch my arm out toward her and hold out my hand, palm up, for hers. She scoots toward me on the sofa, ignoring the offered hand and instead, tucking herself in against my side as I bring my arm up to drape across her shoulders.

‘Is this okay?’ she asks turning her face up to me and I nod, yes, this is more than okay. Swallowing, she nods and exhales through O-shaped lips. ‘You make me feel safe, Nick. I always knew I was safe with you.’

I swallow now, wanting to tell her she always will be, but it’s not the time for promises.

‘He was nice at first, and I fell for it. I think I was so desperate for love and connection after losing pretty much my whole family that I wanted to trust it was real.’ She speaks slowly, softly, and my arm wraps around her shoulders, holding her to me. ‘At first, it was control, telling me what to wear, how to style my hair, who I could talk to, checking my phone. Then it was a push here, a shove there. He was always sorry in the beginning — he loved me so much he got overwhelmed, was scared of losing me, and he lost his temper out of fear.’

My eyes closeat decades of memories of my parents — was he ever sorry? Did he ever tell my mom he loved her? If he did, I don’t remember it. I don’t think my dad cared enough even to gaslight my mom the way Bax did to Missy.

‘I know now he took advantage of my abandonment issues. He knew I would never leave him, no matter what, because I was so scared of being alone. So, he escalated, each time it was a little more, a hair pull while I was asleep, waking me up with the sharp pain to see how I’d react, pushing me into the wall or the table, and then he slapped me and so on.’

I grind my teeth and feel my nostrils flare. Did my dad slowly escalate, testing the waters each time, or was he just a violent asshole from the start?

‘By the time I got pregnant, he had it down to a fine art. He wouldn’t hurt me anywhere that people would see, so never my face, and if he marked my arms or legs, he made me wear long sleeves or trousers. I never wanted to take any time off work because if he knew I wouldn’t be seen, he would bust up my lip or give me a shiner just so he could enjoy looking at his handiwork for a few days.’

‘And when you got pregnant?’ My voice is low, hoarse, and controlled, and I feel her tense, so I force myself to soften and lean in to press a kiss to her temple. ‘Sorry.’

Her shoulders rise with a steadying breath, and she goes on.

‘He stopped, mostly. He stopped hitting me but took his frustration out in other ways.’

My eyes close now, and I push back the images, push back the screams and the sound of my father dragging my mom into the bedroom and slamming the door. Push back the memories of Clint dragging me away as I tried to bust down the door.

‘And after?’ I force it out to stop my train of thought. Mom, Missy — both of them abused in every way by the men who should have kissed the fucking ground they walked on.

‘It was better, mostly because he was out all the time. He couldn’t stand the sound of Jonah crying, so he would go out, fuck around, come home wasted, and crash out on the sofa. It was bearable.’

‘The um, the scars.’ It sticks in my throat, and I can’t fully form the question.

‘I can’t, not yet.’ Her voice is quieter now, and I know that memory is a tough one for her to relive, so I don’t try to force it. I wait quietly, considering my next question.

‘Miss,’ I have to know. ‘Did you think I would hurt you like that?’

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