Page 10 of Hate to Love You
“Get help.”
“Stay away from him when he’s angry.”
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Here’s a fucking thought: why doesn’t anyone just tell the abusers to not put their hands on their partners?
My late husband hated that I joined this club. He bitched about any time I spent away from our prison of a penthouse, our marital home that was a gift from his wealthy parents.
He had no idea this was the beginning of the end for him.
I owe this book club more than most people realize. My life really. Because if I’d never come to a meeting, then I wouldn’t have checked out the book on plants… and Garrett Adams would still be alive.
Funny, because I like him better dead.
But as a widow, I have a different reason for coming here these days.
This is where I fish for my next mark.
Abusers. Stalkers. Rapists.
I never know who it’s going to be, or what they do. And honestly, I don’t care. They prey upon women. They are monsters.
Which makes them my target.
The police can only help so much, and usually only if a woman has evidence. But unfortunately, mostvictims don’t have presence of mind to start recording when their attacker starts wailing on them. They are left to fend for themselves, because no one steps in to help.
No one…until me.
I do what I do because of what was done to me. And nothing will ever stop me.
The library is warm, the smell of books soothing my splintered soul.
Every time I come to these meetings, my fractured heart cracks a little bit more. I don’t actually participate in the meetings anymore; I just linger in the library listening to the conversations taking place.
But I show up every month, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, I can save another woman from what I experienced.
Dr. Downing was the one who told me about my “accident.”
My little trip down the stairs. He explained in detail how I must’ve lost my footing and tumbled down two flights of stairs, landing directly on my stomach.
My pregnant stomach.
He also told me all about how my panicked, flustered, “doting husband” brought me in, yelling for help as he cradled me to his chest.
Garrett never did win an Oscar for that performance.
The doctor told meI was so lucky to have a husband so willing to support my healing. But then hedelivered the devastating news: that I had lost my unborn child as well as my ability to conceive in the future.
I head down the aisle that houses the self-help books, trailing my finger across the spines until I finally pull out Your Time to Thrive, from the shelf, hugging it to my chest.
As I get to the end, I stop, leaning against the wall. This is my favorite spot in the entire library, its central location allows me to hear everything around me, and I can see through the gaps in the shelves.
I twist my capsule necklace in my fingers, biting my bottom lip.
Who will it be tonight?
However my attention is pulled to a thin, petite lady, cowering nervously in the corner, dressed in high end clothing.