Page 27 of Domino
“I said, where the fuck are you?” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time. And to answer your question, where I am is none of your business, Ryan.”
“You have my son. That’s my business.”
“I will not let you set the example for my son, Ryan. He is not going to turn out like you. I am not going to let that happen.”
“Bitch, I’m warning you. You had best get yourself and my son back home where you belong.”
“Not going to happen, Ryan. This isn’t working anymore. It hasn’t for a long time, and you know it. Let’s just go our separate ways and be done with this.”
There’s a pause on the line, but when he speaks again, his voice is low and colder than ice. Even from a thousand miles away, it sends chills down my spine.
“I told you before, Ashley. You both belong to me. You’re mine,” he says. “So, you had best get back here, with my son, before you make me do something that we’re both going to regret.”
The threat is so clear it makes me shudder and lances my heart with a spike of fear. My mouth is dry, and I have to force myself to calm down and remind myself that he’s a thousand miles away. More than that, he’s got no idea where I am nor any clue how to find me. I close my eyes and let out a small, steadying breath, letting the logic take control of my mind to soothe me.
Feeling slightly calmer, I open my eyes and focus on the kids playing in the yard, letting their sheer joy wash over me. It infuses me with a much-needed rush of happiness and strength that I so desperately need.
“Did you hear me, Ashley?”
“I heard you. I’m just ignoring you. I don’t respond to threats, Ryan. Not anymore. And I won’t let you teach Cole it’s okay to behave like you.”
“Ashley, I swear to God—”
“Again, I don’t respond to threats. I’m only going to say this once, and then I’m hanging up. You and I are done. I don’t love you, and I haven’t for a long time. And I suspect you haven’t loved me for a long time either,” I cut him off. “I suggest we put an end to this charade and move forward with our lives. If you wish to speak to me again, you will be polite, or if you can’t manage that, then you will be civil. If you threaten me again, I will hang up and change my phone number, and you’ll never be able to call me again. Have I made myself clear?”
“Bitch—”
I disconnect the call, and it immediately rings in my hand again, so I sent it directly to voicemail. It’s a process I have to repeat half a dozen times. Once he gets the idea that I’m not going to pick up the phone, the text messages start. He starts off ugly and threatening and only gets worse from there. Each message is increasingly hostile, filled with name calling and threats.
Needing an infusion of joy and laughter, I drop the phone on the table, I walk out into the back yard. The kids are all too caught up in their game to notice me, but Missy is sitting at a table on the covered deck watching them, and she waves me over. I sit down across from her and she pours me a glass of white wine.
“Looks like you need a glass,” she says.
“More than you know.”
I pick up the glass and tap it against hers, making a high-pitched ping. The wine is crisp and refreshing as it slides down my throat, and I savor the rich, buttery flavor of it. It settles into my stomach, filling me with a warmth that spreads throughout my entire body.
“Your taste in wine is as exquisite as your taste in men,” I say.
Her smile is wide. “I do pick some good ones, don’t I?”
We share a laugh as the sound of the kids playing and laughing fills the air around us. To me, the noise they’re making is as therapeutic as the wine I’m drinking. It’s so pure and so innocent. It’s good medicine to help shake off the case of the icks I have from that conversation with Ryan.
“Rough day, huh?” Missy asks.
“I just got off the phone with Ryan. I accidentally picked up without checking the caller ID.”
She grimaces. “Yikes. What did that asshole have to say for himself?”
A wry expression crosses my face, and I relate the whole conversation to her. She listens, aghast, and when I’m done, she drains her glass and pours another for the both of us. Judging by her demeanor, it’s clear that Missy’s never had to deal with somebody like Ryan before and finds it both shocking and appalling… which is pretty much how I feel about it, too.
“Did he threaten you like that regularly?” she asks.
The feeling of shame that engulfs me is overwhelming. It’s like this every time I think back to the times Ryan threatened me, humiliated me… and put his hands on me. As somebody with a degree in psychology, you’d think I’d be able to understand why I feel such shame when I think about those times. You think I’d be able to somewhat detach from myself and figure out why I feel that way.
But the truth is, when you’re stuck in the middle of it, caught up in the moment and all of the feelings that come with being tormented and/or beaten by your husband, by somebody who is supposed to love you, that degree means nothing. Oh sure, the knowledge of what you learned in getting your degree is handy after the fact. When you dissect things as you do the post-mortem on your thoughts and feelings after taking a beating, having a degree in psychology is handy.
