Part 5 – August – The Boyfriend
“Biscuits and—”
Adam holds up his hand. “Stop it. You’re supposed to be resting your voice.” Then he looks up at the waitress. “She’ll have biscuits and gravy with a side of eggs, please. Scrambled. And I think we’ll need another ketchup bottle. This one is empty.”
I smile at him, holding the coffee cup tight in my hands to warm my fingers.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’ve been out of the hospital for four days now, and my voice has almost completely come back, except for a slight rasp, which makes me sound like a chain-smoker, but other than that, I’m fine. Still, he’s doting on me. And I know it’s just his way of making up for what happened.
If only I could make him understand that it isn’t just the damage to my throat that I need to worry about. Every time I close my eyes, I see Truett’s hate-filled sneer as he presses his weight into my neck. He wanted me dead, and that’s not something you just get over with some pain meds and a night in the hospital.
I think more than anything, it’s the why he wanted me dead that won’t stop harassing my ego. I didn’t pose a threat to him. I didn’t hurt him or take anything from him. I was a problem to him because of who I am, and that’s the thought that keeps me awake at night. He wanted me dead because his son loves me.
Never in my life have I ever felt the need to apologize for who I am. Being on my own at seventeen, I was like a kid in a candy shop. I had the freedom to be as wild and free as I wanted with the added responsibility of also keeping myself alive with a roof over my head.
I lived for me by my rules and never with anyone else in mind. But what about now?
My eyes settle on another couple across from us at the diner. Everything about them appears compatible, from their matching black shirts to their matching egg-white omelets.
Adam reaches across the table, touching my fingers. I turn my attention toward him.
“I’m thinking about dying my hair,” I whisper, touching my pink strands.
He looks immediately affronted. “What? Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting too old for pink hair.”
The worried line between his brows grows even deeper. “How many painkillers did you take this morning?”
I roll my eyes before holding up an O shape with my fingers.
“Then, don’t be ridiculous,” he replies, taking a drink of his coffee. “You’re twenty-seven. You could be sixty-seven and it still wouldn’t matter.”
I try to let his words of encouragement settle in, but all I keep thinking about is his promise in the hospital to be there for me for everything. And I wonder if any of that fantasy talk at the church still applies. What if I worked at a sex club? What if he had his own church? Would my lifestyle ruin his? Or the other way around?
I love him, but do I love him enough to change for him?
Does he love me enough to change for me?
As he sets down his coffee cup, I can practically feel the concern radiating from him as he stares at me.
“Peaches, look at me.”
Leaning back in my booth, I gaze across the table at him.
When he sees tears well up in my eyes, his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. It’s still so incredible to me to be with another person whose emotions are so easily affected by my own. When I cry, he hurts. When I’m happy, he smiles.
It’s romantic but also…overwhelming. I’ve never been so responsible for another person’s state of mind before.
“One day at a time,” he says, touching my hand again. And I let those words calm me. Silencing the thoughts of the future or of the past, I try to just focus on his presence here right now.
When his phone rings, he doesn’t even budge. His eyes are on me.
“Answer it,” I whisper, glancing at the screen to see his mother’s face.
Reluctantly, he picks up the phone and I hear Melanie’s voice on the other end after he swipes to answer the call.
The press has been all over her since Truett’s arrest. The minute the news went public, Adam had security increased at their residence and canceled service at the church on Sunday, the day after the attack.
People are angry, confused, and want answers. I hate that so much has fallen on Adam’s shoulders, even though he claims to be taking it all in stride. He said there are some other guys at the church whose job entails cleaning up after Truett’s mess, but he still has his mother to worry about.
“Yeah, she’s feeling better,” he says to his mother, his eyes on me.
I smile when I think about how compassionate she’s been through all of this. She visited me in the hospital before I was discharged, and she’s been sending food to my apartment every day since.
One of Truett’s employees posted his bail less than two days after the attack, but as far as we know, he’s been staying in a hotel somewhere since. I don’t know the details of what happened between him and Melanie, but from what Adam said, she wouldn’t let him back in the house.
In my head, I picture her standing by that front door, shotgun in hand, defending her home and forcing him away. While I’m not exactly sure that’s how it went down, I love the image.
When Adam’s face takes on an expression of worry, I lean forward.
“What’s going on?” I mouth.
“He does?” Adam asks his mother.
“Who?” I whisper.
“I’m not ready,” he replies.
I bounce anxiously as I wait for him to finish the conversation so he can catch me up on what they’re talking about.
Finally, he tells his mother he loves her and hangs up the call. I’m staring at him with anticipation before he finally takes a deep breath. The worry line is still positioned in the middle of his forehead, which means whatever this is, it isn’t good.
“He wants to meet with me.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Who do you think?” he replies. “My dad.”
“Fuck that,” I rasp, and Adam gives me a scornful expression for trying to speak.
“I’m not ready,” he says, chewing his bottom lip. “I’m just…afraid of what I might do if I see him.”
This time it’s my turn to reach across the table to touch his hand. “You’re not a bad guy for wanting to kick his ass,” I whisper. “Good people sometimes do bad things for the people they love. Bad people do bad things for themselves.”
The corners of his lips lift in a crooked grin. With those stunning, kind eyes and laugh lines framing his mouth, I admire him for a beat, realizing just how perfect this man is. So I squeeze his fingers with my own.
“I wonder why he wants to talk to me,” he says.
“To apologize?” I ask.
Rolling his eyes, he lets out a scoff. “Very funny.”
“I don’t like it,” I reply, to which Adam nods.
“Neither do I.”
We’re still holding hands and staring at each other across the table when the hostess seats a couple at the booth across the aisle from us. Within seconds, I feel their curious stares on us, but I only glance their way briefly.
I don’t know if they recognize us from the videos or Adam’s latest family scandal, but either way, it’s exhausting. And it feels like being draped in shame I don’t deserve, like there’s some sort of scarlet letter on my chest.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
Adam quickly waves down the waitress, asking her to box up our breakfast, then pays the bill. A few moments later, we’re heading out of the restaurant, bags of food in hand and Adam’s arm draped protectively across my shoulders.
It’s a short walk to the apartment, but we’re quiet the whole way.
And quiet still as we eat our cold food at the linoleum table in my tiny apartment. I don’t get much down and by the time my stomach starts to turn, the food lands heavily in my gut, the sky has turned gray and rain pelts the large window in my living room.
I point to the bedroom and toss my uneaten food in the garbage. Without another word, I crawl under the heavy duvet in my room and beg my mind to quiet so I can sleep.
Just as recurring images of that monster with his hands around my windpipe start to play across the insides of my eyelids, I feel the bed dip with Adam’s weight. He settles himself behind me, wrapping an arm around me as he holds me close, his lips in my hair.
“I’m here,” he whispers, and my hands tighten around his forearm.
It sounds silly, but it makes me feel safer. Not that Adam can scare away my nightmares, but with his firm embrace, I’m able to drift off to sleep with ease.
