Page 11 of Checking from Behind

Months passed, things continued, and I convinced myself that things weren't that bad. I made the excuse that he was under pressure from his career; in fact, I made excuses for everything, until the night he put his hand around my throat. That was the night I stopped making excuses for him.

We didn't have a fight, that was the part that still sat in the center of my chest. We were standing in the kitchen, and I had mentioned that I wanted to visit my parents the upcoming weekend. His hand was on my throat before I'd finished the sentence. He didn't squeeze; he didn't grab me hard enough to leave a mark or cut off my air; but it was hard enough to make me stop talking.

He let go of me five seconds later and glanced at his hand, appearing surprised that he had grabbed me. Then he took off into the living room and turned on the TV as if nothing had happened.

I stood in the kitchen for a while, not moving, my insides shaking. A while later he left to go to the store, I'd called Mila. We devised a plan, and then I packed my things, and once he'd gone to bed, I left.

I hadn't been back to Dallas since.

I pulled myself out of the memory and loosened my grip on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white and my stomach was rolling.

I let Cooper out the moment I got home then I changed into my sweats and curled up on the couch with my laptop. Cooper lay beside me, his warmth comforting. I opened my design software and worked on a mockup for one of the room categories at the boutique hotel while watching TV. Then I dove into the Henderson's project. A young couple who were expecting their first baby, and wanted an open-concept kitchen that would grow with their family. It was an excellent project with a modest budget, a clear vision, and, best of all, they trusted me.

The work helped. It always did. When my hands were busy and my mind was focused, the noise in my head grew quieter. Design was the one place where control was a virtue, not a trauma response. In a room, every element had a purpose, and every choice connected to another choice. The result was a space that made people feel happy and safe.

That was what I was building. Spaces where people felt happy and safe. Maybe I was good at what I did because I understood, better than most, what it felt like when your space wasn't.

It was seven when Mila called. I smiled at the photo that popped up: the two of us from her parents' Fourth of July party last year, both of us laughing, both of us holding sparklers.

"How was the meeting?" she asked.

"Bad. I blew it." I sighed.

"Define blew it."

"I spaced out in the middle of a question, which I tried to recover from, but then I rushed through the budget breakdown. I gave a ridiculous answer about my revision process when I had a killer answer ready to go. He checked out, and I spent the last ten minutes trying to resuscitate a conversation for an opportunity that was already dead." I paused. "He said, he'd be in touch but I could tell by the handshake he won't be."

Mila was quiet for a second. "Okay, well, that sucks."

"Yeah, it does. I needed that project."

The line went quiet. I was sure Mila didn't know what to say, but had so many things she wanted to ask at the same time.

"Was it the coffee thing?" She questioned, clearing her throat.

I didn't answer. I didn't have to because Mila knew me well enough.

"It was the coffee thing," she said, "which means you're doing it again."

"I couldn't get out of my head. He was right there in the coffee shop, and he didn't even see me. Just turned around and—" I stopped.

"Okay," she said, her voice shifting from sympathy to strategy, which was one of my favorite things about her. Mila gave you about thirty seconds to feel sorry for yourself, and then she handed you a plan. "One bad meeting doesn't define your business. You've got other clients. The Henderson kitchen is going to look amazing, and they're going to tell every parent in their parents' group about you. That's how it works, remember: word of mouth, one project at a time."

"I know." I sighed.

"I know you know. So stop spiraling." She paused. "Listen, I want to take you out this weekend for some drinks. A proper night out. You've been working nonstop since you moved here, and while I'm proud of that, I'm also worried about you."

"Why are you worried about me?"

"Well, because the last time you turned down a date with me for happy hour, you told me you had to reorganize your swatch library. While I know you love that type of thing, it's not something normal people do on a Friday night."

"It was the truth; my swatch library needed reorganizing."

"Lillah."

I almost said no. I wanted to say no because going out meant putting on clothes and talking to strangers. It also meant being in a room where I didn't control things. My therapist and Mila called it avoidance. I called it being selective with my energy.

I hated to admit that Mila was right. I'd been burying myself in work, and as much as I didn't want to admit it the loneliness was creeping up on me.