Page 70 of Pour Decisions
She knew.Sheknew. Not only that, she orchestrated the whole thing at my expense.
I think I knew that she knew my stepdad had been paid off deep down, but I chose to forgive and move on. I attributed it to him being an asshole. But her putting the idea into JD’s father’s head is so unspeakably cruel that it never crossed my mind.
I’m her daughter. Why would she want me to suffer like that? How could she let me suffer like that and pretend she had nothing to do with it?
I walk onto the back porch, the dogs excitedly swarming me.
“I don’t have food, sorry,” I say, my voice flat.
I sit on the stairs going down into the yard instead of in a seat, and the dogs run around me. Bubba sits on the stair next to me, leaning against me. I watch the other dogs run around, trying to stay numb while I’m here.
Murphy runs up the stairs with something in his mouth and excitedly puts a pinecone in my hand. He stands on the steps below me, looking at me for approval with his tail whipping back and forth.
I laugh seeing how silly he looks, and it nearly sends me into a crying jag.
“Thank you.” I pet him and he runs back into the yard.
I stare blankly off into the yard, the greenery turning into a blur. I don’t want to think yet. Instead, I focus on Murphy, then Bubba, bringing me stuff. Bubba brings me sticks, but Murphy starts bringing me all kinds of things—rocks, an old bucket, part of a cardboard box.
“We’re going home,” JD says from behind me after who knows how long. He puts his hand out to help me to my feet. “You’re freezing, kitten.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t even realized I was out of the reach of the heat lamps.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you sooner,” he says.
“It’s okay. The dogs kept me company,” I say.
He guides me around the back of the house, through a gate, and to the car, turning it on and blasting the heat. Bubba settles in the back seat and puts his head on the console between the front seats. JD disappears for a few moments and returns, handing me bags of leftovers.
I feel the anger rolling off of him in waves the whole drive home. He doesn’t take a hand off of me as we get into the house and go into the kitchen. I hardly ate, but I’m not even hungry. I should drink water though—this headache is probably a mixture of all the drama and the drink I had.
JD sees me going for the water and does it for me, filling up glasses for water for each of us. The gentle care finally makes me burst into tears.
Bubba whines, pacing around my feet, and JD steps around him to pull me into his chest. He’s warm and smells like his laundry detergent. His big hand skims up and down my back, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I just cry into his shirt for an embarrassing amount of time, big ugly sobs.
“Sorry,” I say with a sniff, pulling away.
“Don’t apologize, kitten,” he says.
Still, I’m embarrassed even though logically, I know this is a normal thing to cry over.
If I sit down I’ll drive myself crazy, so I grab a rag and cleaning spray to wipe down the already-clean counters and cabinets. He steps back and watches me, like he’s afraid I’ll collapse.
Here’s the problem with crying, at least for me—whenever I start, it’s like an earthquake. There’s the big, initial quake, but aftershocks hit too. I hate it. But sometimes it’s too damn hard to keep a smile on my face or optimism anywhere in my thoughts.
“Here.” He takes my rag and spray, then puts them back under the sink. “Come on.”
He takes my hand and guides me to the bathroom as I sob. I stand there as he turns on the shower, then helps me strip off my clothes. It’s purely functional, not sexual, as is he when he strips down too. After testing the water, he clips my curls on top of my head and guides me in, making sure my hair doesn’t get wet. He closes the curtain behind me.
He gently massages my shoulders and back as I let the hot water run down the front of my body. The strong, firm touch starts to calm me down, little by little. I have no idea how long we stand there for, but it’s long enough for me to feel calm. Still embarrassed and hurt, but calm.
I turn into his chest and tuck myself against him again. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. The full-body skin-to-skin contact is a balm to all the hurt. He’s a little hard, yeah, but he’s not acting on it. I’m not the kind of person who wants sex as a distraction anyway.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “A shower always helps.”
“I know.”
“I’m racking up your water bill,” I say. It’s a joke, but my voice cracks.
