Page 39 of Fight for Forever
“A friend?”
“No, I just give nicknames to the people in the buildings.”
“Why Jane?” I laugh.
She scrunches her nose and tries not to laugh. “Jane Fonda.”
“Because she works out a lot,” I grin, looking back across at the woman as she bounces about, waving her arms around. “Your place is nice.”
“Oh, it’s not as nice as yours.”
“Don’t do that,” I tell her as she turns to walk to the sofa.
“Do what?” she pauses and turns to me.
“This place is yours. You worked for it. All we really all want is to have that space that belongs to us, where we feel comfortable.”
“Safe?” she adds, her eyes holding mine.
“Yeah,” I look around her place, see the locks on her doors, the fact it’s high up in the building, the security at the main entrance. “Safe,” I agree.
Megan blinks a couple of times, then goes to sit down. She looks around, as if seeing this place through my eyes.
I walk over and sit down beside her. There is some distance, but not as much as there was in the back seat of the car. I could do more than reach over and touch her hand from this distance.
She looks down into her water. She had champagne at the event, but just one. Not that I’ve been around her much in social settings before, but at Angelina’s she only had a half glass of beer, then switched to soda. I guess she always wants to remain in control.
I’m not a big drinker either. Given I’m going full on tee total, with no vices allowed in just over a week, I’m happy to have a few beers now.
“This isn’t where it happened.”
I’m shocked she brought it up but I do everything I can not to show it. I don’t want her to think I’ve been desperate to know what happened that night, even if I am. I’ve always known this has to come in her own time. Part of me wants to fist pump, because just this one sentence means she trusts me.
“I never went back there… After.”
“No one would want to,” I say, after some thought about the best way to respond. I don’t want her to think there is anything odd about what she is saying. I don’t want her to feel singled out. “Lots of bad memories.”
“A lot.” She gives me a tremulous smile.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell her.
“I know that. But… I want to.”
My first thought is to ask why, but I nod encouragingly at her, letting her know I’m here, I’m listening.
“My relationship with… him wasn’t always the way it ended up.”
It usually isn’t, but I say nothing.
“A cliché, right?” she reads my mind. “All women in my situation are ever told is, why didn’t you leave? Why stay when the person you are supposed to love hurts you like that? Most people don’t understand though. It’s not love. It’s fear. Plain and simple.
“And it pisses me off, not because they don’t understand that. It pisses me off that the question they’re asking is why I did what I did. Or didn’t do. Why I stayed, why I let him hurt me. When the question they should really ask is, why did he hurt you? Why did he think it was okay to put his hands on you like that? Why is no one judging him?”
Damn, she is right. Everything she just said. I’m guilty of it too. You hear some guy is knocking his partner around and you instantly ask, why does she let him?
“And that puts into perspective why it’s so hard to leave. People judge you. Even when they’re trying to be supportive. It’s written all over their faces. You stayed, so that is on you. It’s never about the man doing something wrong. Like, he can be forgiven because you know he’s that way, so you have to take responsibility for your own situation.” Her head comes up, and she looks horrified. “I’m sorry, that was full on. I didn’t mean to say all of that.”
“Never apologize for speaking about anything to do with what happened,” I take her hand without thought and she lets me. “I’ll admit I’m guilty of that too, without even thinking about it, it’s true, that is how people react. And I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all of that.”