Page 46 of Love Rewritten

She points to the paper in front of her. “Today’s case is the start of Cooper vs. Peterson. It’s a criminal case. We are pushing for a felony charge of domestic violence. Most of today will be simple things like providing the charge information, making sure everyone understands the charges, and setting the hearing date. You won’t have to do anything.”

I nod again, completely unsure of what to say. She slips the papers back into her binder and closes it.

“Okay, you two stay here. I’ll check in down the hall to see how we’re looking on time and come to get you when everyone’s ready to start. If you choose to go in, I’ll keep you out of his sight as long as possible. We will get you through this.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dallas says before she leaves us alone again.

The hand that tightly gripped Dallas’s now grips the leather beneath me so hard it might rip from the seams. He pivots my chair to face him and kisses my forehead. No words. Just silent support. That’s what I need right now. Nothing anyone says will make this easier. And it’s taking every bit of willpower to keep myself in check.

A few minutes later, Trisha peeks her head into the room. “They’re ready.”

Fuck.

It takes everything in me to force my feet toward that courtroom.

To finally start setting things right.

To face the judge.

To face Sam.

Trisha hesitates before opening the large double doors. “Sam will be on the left. Just keep your head down. Only look where you’re comfortable. Dallas will sit directly behind us in the gallery.” She pauses for me to gather myself. “Okay. Are we ready?”

I shake my head, but the word “Yes” still comes out of my mouth. I guess I’m going in. I won’t know if I can do this unless I try. She gives me a sympathetic smile before pulling one of the doors open. I focus my eyes on the ground in front of me where my feet will be next. It’s the only thing keeping them moving, but they feel like I’m trudging through setting cement.

I don’t need to look up to know Sam’s already in here. I can feel his presence in the room like a sandbag swinging above my head, ready to drop at any moment. The room is quiet, not even the sound of shuffling paper occupying my ears. Dallas takes his seat in the front row of the gallery when Trisha opens the partition and guides me through. I take a seat on the right side of our table, the farthest seat from Sam, but it still doesn’t feel far enough away. It still feels like he could grab me if he reached out. The ghosts of his fingers latch onto my arm and throat, and all I can do is rub the tightening feeling away with my other hand.

A few seconds feel like hours before the judge is announced and everyone stands. When we return to a seated position, things finally start moving.

My ears go muffled through the whole thing. I barely listen. Not that I want to. Every inch of me is so tense it feels like if I relax, I’ll fall apart like I’m holding all the pieces of myself together with a feather so small the tiniest movement might let it all go crumbling to the floor. Yet at the same time, I feel like I’m on fire and nothing will put it out unless I get out of here, and even then, I’ll smolder so hot I’ll ruin everything that comes near me.

I hear bits and pieces of it. Felony charge. Protective order. Assault. Out on bail. All words I’ve heard come out of Trisha’s mouth before but this time they come from a few different people. I don’t care to see who speaks when. It doesn’t matter. All I care about is making it out of here with as many pieces of myself intact as possible.

I manage to pull myself from my dissociation just long enough to hear the question I’ve been waiting for.

The judge asks Sam and his attorney to rise. I focus on the table, tracing the wood grain with my eyes. “Now that you’ve been read your charges, how do you plead?”

A short silence fills the room. It’s deafening as I wait to hear his voice, and I almost wish I hadn’t pulled myself from my mind yet. But I need to hear his answer.

In a very cool, calm voice, one he used to use with my mother when he was being polite, or with me the morning after a fight when he thinks everything had gone back to normal, he says, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

My head spins in his direction so fast it’s a wonder I haven’t given myself whiplash. His eyes meet mine, and a smile so small most people wouldn’t catch it dances across his features before it disappears. He knows what those words did to me. He knows exactly where to press, as if it’s an exposed nerve for him to toy with.

I want to say something, to fight his response, but I know that would get me in trouble. And Sam’s fist has kept me quiet for so long that I’m not sure I’d be able to anyway. The last time I stood up to him, I spent two days strapped to machines. I won’t do that again.

There isn’t much left to discuss. It goes by in a blur. When I’m asked if I understand and agree with everything, I say yes before zipping my mouth shut again as if each word I speak might bring me closer to shattering the resolve I’ve worked so hard to keep together. A trial date is set, the judge says his closing words, and finally, we stand to leave. When I look up, I meet Sam’s gaze for the second time today. It’s just as silently vicious as the first time.

He doesn’t move from his spot. He watches me so carefully I think he can see right through me, through my fake tough exterior. There’s no way it’s still intact at this point. It’s surely crumbled. But his gaze flickers to someone over my left shoulder, likely Dallas, and I see his features falter ever so slightly before he returns to his tough exterior and looks anywhere but at us.

Trisha leads me through the partition, and I reach for Dallas’s hand before I’ve crossed the threshold of the gate. There’s some brief legal talk from Trisha in the hall that I pay no attention to before I’m desperate to get out of here.

I can’t do this again.

Not here.

Not with Sam.

I manage to hold myself together until we're home, but the tears are already flowing as I walk through the front door. Logan starts to ask how it went but stops as soon as he sees me make a bolt for Dallas’s room. I shut the door and sink to the floor, my back against it, knees drawn close to my chest. I hear the mumbling from them in the living room but don’t bother trying to hear the words. Nothing they say can make me feel better. It’s an effort to hear anything with how badly I want to fold into a ball and disappear forever.

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