Trouble (2 page)

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey babe, how much longer are you going to be?”

He’s in a good mood. Thank god.

“Not too much longer. I just have the attic to finish, and then I’m heading home. That just leaves Oliver’s office to do tomorrow.”

“Shall I come over tonight?”

No.

“Of course.” I force bright and bubbly into my voice.

“I’ve missed you these last few days,” he says quietly down the phone.

“I’ve missed you too.”
Not once.

“We’ll make up for it tonight.”

Oh god.

“Can’t wait.”

“Great, I’ll come over at eight.”

“I’ll make us dinner.”

“I love you, Mia.”

“I know. I love you too.”
I hate you.

Oh a sigh, I hang up the phone, shove it back in my pocket and head back upstairs to make a start on the attic.

***

“Hey.” Forbes envelops me in a hug of expensive cologne and rich cotton.

Forbes is very handsome. Blond hair, six foot, built like a linebacker. He’s the all American boy, and physically, we suit each other. I’m blonde and slim, though Forbes often tells me I’m overweight. And I’m short. Five three to be exact. It puts me a severe disadvantage when things get rough with Forbes. Not that I ever fight back. Fighting back only makes things worse. I learned that lesson a long time ago.

He leans down and kisses me firmly on the lips. I taste the alcohol on his breath instantly. He’s been drinking.

My stomach sinks.

I used to love Forbes kisses in the beginning. Especially the alcohol free ones. I remember how I couldn’t wait to have the feel of his lips on mine. Now, it’s the last thing I want.

Don’t get me wrong; Forbes doesn’t need alcohol to set him off. He just ignites quicker when he’s been on it.

Forbes follows me into the kitchen, keeping hold of my hand, which is unlike him. He’s not usually tactile in private. Only in public, or when he wants sex.

I wriggle my fingers free from his to grab the pan handle so I can stir the sauce bubbling on the stove.

He frowns, then steps away, moving to the fridge.

He gets out a beer but doesn’t offer me a drink. Forbes doesn’t think women should drink beer, especially from the bottle. He says it’s unladylike to do so, but I drink it when he’s not around. He thinks I have it in the fridge for him, and I let him believe that.

He comes over and leans with his back up against the counter beside me. I turn the heat down to let the sauce simmer. I’m making Pasta Norma. Simple but delicious. Our old cook, Mrs. Kennedy, showed me how to make it. She used to teach me how to cook when Oliver wasn’t around. I missed her a lot when she left. Oliver had let her go when he’d overheard her questioning me about the bruises on my arms.

“I was thinking I should move in here.” Forbes words drop into the air like oil in water.

My hand freezes around the pan’s handle.

No. No. No.

“What do you think?”

I have to tread carefully here.

Keeping a neutral face, I turn to him. “I thought you enjoyed living with the guys?”

Forbes lives in a huge rental house two blocks over from here with four of his frat buddies.

“I do, but it’s loud. They’re always partying, and I need quiet to work. You know how it is. That’s why you live alone, so you can have peace to study.”

Actually no. I live alone because I have no girlfriends to room with, and I would never, ever want to live with a man again. Especially not you.

Taking the spoon, I start stirring the sauce again.

Unable to stop my next words, I try to get them out as gently as possible. “Don’t you think it’s a bit soon? I mean, we’ve only been together seven months.”

The length of pause tells me just the level of anger we’ve reached.

And it’s not good. Not good at all.

“Don’t you want to live with me?” His voice doesn’t sound hurt. Just angry.

Stupid, Mia.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“Of course I do, I’m just thinking of you. I don’t want you to feel tied down too quickly.” I’m speaking quickly, but it’s pointless. I know this.

“Bullshit.” He shoves the pan back off the heat, and grabs a hand full of my long hair, tangling his fingers into it. He moves behind me and slowly pulls my head back toward him. “Would
you
feel tied down if I moved in, Mia?”

“Forbes,
please
,” I say, swallowing hard.

“Answer me!”

“No, of course I wouldn’t.”

“Is there someone else you want to live with, Mia? Another guy? Are you fucking someone else?” His hand is tightening on my hair, pulling the roots. My eyes water from the pain.

“No, of course there isn’t. There’s only you I want to be with. I love you.”

I hate you.

“I don’t believe you! You’ve been fucking someone else, haven’t you?”

He turns me around and slams me up against the fridge. Pain bites up my back.

“No, I haven’t. I swear.” I’m breathless, and my mouth is dry. A tear runs down my cheek because I know what’s coming next, and there’s nothing that I can say or do that will stop it from happening.

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, then why the fuck are you crying?” His face is in mine. I can tell from his eyes that he’s gone. The nice Forbes that arrived has stayed at the door.

He yanks me forward, then slams me back hard against the fridge again. My teeth clatter together as my head makes impact.

“I’m c-crying b-because I don’t want you to hurt me.” The words wobble from my trembling lips.

I don’t want him to hurt me
– that’s what I say. It’s a stupid thing to say because that’s all he ever does, and it’s not about to change because I say the words.

“C-crying,” he mimics, letting out a sharp laugh.

Then his face darkens and I know exactly what’s coming next, so I close my eyes and brace myself.

I feel the familiar hard sting of his hand hitting my face.

A sharp tang of blood flows into my mouth.

Happy. Think of happy things, Mia.

The feel of the sun on my face. The scent of the flowers I keep in my window box. Lowering the roof on my car on a warm day, loving the way the wind feels as it blows through my hair. I’m a bird. A bird flying free in the sky…

Music. Think of a song, Mia. Sing it in your head while you fly away…

“Be a shame to waste those tears of yours.” Forbes slaps me across the face again. “Keep crying, Mia. And I’ll keep giving you a reason to cry.”

I’m not crying anymore, but that doesn’t stop him. Nothing ever stops him. Forbes is done when he’s done.

So I fly away to a safe place. One filled with happiness.

***

I come to, unsure of how much time has passed.

I’m alone on the kitchen floor.

Picking myself up, I get to my knees. The tiles are hard and unforgiving against my shins. My head is throbbing, and pain is radiating down my side. I hold my hand to my ribs. Not broken, just bruised. I’ve had broken ribs before, so I know how bad they feel. I clutch my hand around my ribs in an attempt to contain the pain as I get to my feet.

Seeing the heat is still on the stove, I move quietly to turn it off. The click of the knob echoes loud in the silence. I freeze. Making myself invisible is what counts right now. I don’t want to attract Forbes’ attention.

Turning my head, I see him in the living room, through the crack in the door. He’s sitting on the sofa, beer in his hand, staring down at it.

I know what will come next. We play this role regularly.

Moving lightly on my feet, I open the door carefully and slip down the hall, heading straight to the bathroom.

Closing the door quietly behind me, I pull the first-aid kit from the cabinet, then check my face in the mirror.

No bruises. Forbes doesn’t usually hit me hard enough in the face to leave a bruise, just like Oliver didn’t.

People question bruises on the face.

I check my lip. Spilt on the inside. Caught on my tooth.

I down a couple of Advil to take the edge off the pain in my ribs, then get some antiseptic cleaner out and work it onto a cotton swab.

Pulling my lip forward, I dab the antiseptic against the cut.

“Shit,” I whisper.

A tear of pain leaks from my eye. I rub it away on my forearm.

When I’m done, I throw the cotton swab away in the trashcan, close up the first aid kit up, and put it away.

With care, I lift my shirt so I can examine my ribs. My skin is red and swollen. There will be a bruise showing in a few hours. A bad one.

Movement in the doorway catches my eye.

Forbes.

I freeze. My shirt drops from my grip, covering me. Covering what he did to me.

“I did that to you.” Regret is in his voice. Tears in his eyes.

I hate you.

“God, I’m so sorry, Mia.” He rushes me, grabbing me, pulling me against him.

He doesn’t care that I wince from the pain in my ribs. All he cares about right now is himself. All he ever cares about is himself. Making Forbes feel better, no matter the cost to me.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mia. So sorry.” He’s pressing kisses over my face, along with his insufficient words.

His tears wash against my skin. They make me feel angry. Used. Weak. Consumed.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

Scripted. My life is one big goddamn script.

“It’ll never happen again. I promise you. I love you so fucking much, Mia. I just get so jealous of the thought of you with another guy, and I’ve been under so much pressure lately, with my dad and…”

I switch off to his empty excuses and apologies, just ensuring I speak in all the right places.

“It’s okay, Forbes. It’s going to be okay.”

“I love you,” he breathes. “I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

I feel his mood shift, and I know what’s next. It always happens after he beats me.

His hand moves to my jeans and he starts unzipping them, slipping his hand inside, and into my panties. “I love you so much, Mia. Let me make this better.
Please
.”

I close my eyes and nod my assent.

I don’t fight him on this. I don’t fight him on anything.

So I close my eyes and let Forbes strip my clothes from me. I let him have sex with me against the wall because it’s all I know.

And as wrong as this sounds, a part of me craves to feel good. To feel loved. Even if it is fake … but for this moment, here, listening to Forbes tell me how much he needs me, how there’s no one like me, how he could love no other—I can close my eyes and pretend that it’s real; that I’m being loved in the way I can only dream of.

When Forbes is done, he carries me through to my bedroom.

Lifting the cover back, he lays me down and climbs in behind me, pulling me up tight against him. His arms cage me in.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ll never hurt you again. Never.”

I close my eyes, and force the words out, “I love you too.”

After a time, I feel Forbes’ breaths even out, so I slip out from under his grip.

I walk into the dark kitchen, not bothering to turn the light on, and open the refrigerator door. The light glows through the room. I stare at the contents, pain and self-loathing stabbing like needles in my skin.

I just want to escape. I want to be free.

Free again, like I was the day Oliver died.

I felt like a giant that day. Like I could do or achieve anything.

But all I’ve managed to do was replace Oliver with Forbes. What does that say about me?

It says that I’m screwed up. Damaged.

Things I already know.

And I can’t get away from Forbes. It’s not like I can just break up with him. Women like me don’t get to break up with men like Forbes.

I’m only free when he says so.

And he won’t.

I know this because I’m ideal for the life he wants.

I’m pliable. Controllable. Visually, I look the part. I come from money, and I have the right breeding as I overheard his father telling him once. I’m training to be a doctor, a surgeon like Oliver was. It wasn’t my chosen career path, but Oliver told me I was going to be a surgeon, so I’m going to be a surgeon.

All of these attributes work perfectly for Forbes.

Men like him choose a woman like an employer chooses candidates for jobs—cold and methodical. Love has nothing to do with it, even though Forbes probably makes himself believe that love is a part of it.

Then one day, in the not too distant future, I’ll become Mrs. Forbes Chandler. We’ll have kids, and Forbes will continue to beat on me regularly as an outlet for his anger and failings.

On the outside, we’ll have a perfect marriage. And behind closed doors we’ll be everything that could be wrong with a marriage. Day in and day out I’ll wear the façade. I’ll be the perfect wife to Forbes just like I was the perfect daughter for Oliver to parade around.

Then degrade and beat senseless the moment the doors to our house slammed shut.

Forbes has never asked about my past. Never questioned the scars that mar those secret parts of my body.

I remember being so afraid the first time we made love. Afraid he would ask about them, but he never did. Part of me was relieved but disappointed.

I encouraged myself to believe that he hadn’t asked because he didn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable, or upset me by highlighting them.

Truth is, he didn’t ask because he didn’t care. My scars probably validated that I was exactly the right girl for him.

Maybe he saw it in me the second our eyes met in that bar that night.

Like knows like, right?

Reaching into the fridge, I start pulling out food, setting it on the counter.

Leaving the door open for light, I turn to the cabinet to get more food. When I’m sure I have enough to see me through, I tear off the foil from yesterday’s saved chicken. And I start eating.

***