Page 37 of Checking from Behind

"You were right. I came to Boston because I was running from something. I dated a baseball player for three years." She said. "Brett, he played for the Rangers."

His name landed between us like a stone. I watched as her shoulders pulled back slightly and her eyes focused on one spot on the table, bracing herself.

"He wasn't a good guy."

Her voice was steady and controlled, like she'd rehearsed this enough times that the words came out stripped of emotion. She sat with her hands on the table, completely still.

"Lillah, you don't need to say anymore." I said, but she shook her head.

"It's okay. It started small. Little comments about what I wore. He'd mention how short my dress was, or ask why I needed to wear so much makeup. He always wanted to know who I was trying to impress. Then he would wonder who I'd spend time with and where I went when he wasn't around. He wanted to know every little thing. At first, I thought it was because he cared, and it took me over a year to understand that caring and control aren't the same.

My jaw tightened. I could feel anger building in my chest at where this was going.

"He often told me that interior design wasn't an actual job and that I'd never amount to anything on my own. He told me I was only good for looking pretty at events and keeping my mouth shut when his teammates and their wives talked about things that I wasn't smart enough to understand."

I watched as she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her chest rising and falling quickly before continuing.

"Soon, I believed him. I think that is the part that makes me angry. Not what he said or the things he did, but that I believed him. For three years, I allowed a man who couldn't hang a picture frame tell me I wasn't talented enough to design homes and businesses."

I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. Her fingers were cold and I was glad she didn't pull away.

"The night he put his hands around my throat was the night I left."

The room went still. Even the noise from the back kitchen where Paulo was cleaning up went quiet. She looked at me, her eyes clear, not teary like I'd imagined they should be. She had told this story before, and she'd told it enough times that she no longer shed tears.

"Lillah." I gripped her hand in mine. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"It's in the past. I'm mostly past it. Some days are better than others. Most days I wake up feeling strong and ready to take on the world. Other days I flinch when someone raises a hand too quickly. It's probably the one thing I hate about myself."

"Don't hate yourself for that. These things take time to get over."

"I am working on it, one day at a time."

We were both quiet for a moment.

"That will never happen with me." I said.

I wanted her to know that. I wanted her to know she was safe with me.

"I would never, not in a million years, ever raise my hand to you. Nor would I ever try to control you. I want you to know that."

She laced her fingers with mine.

"I know. I think I knew the morning you made me coffee and didn't ask for something in return. You are nothing like him. But the fear is still there, and I need you to understand and be patient with that. I need you to know that when I pull away or get quiet, or react to something that doesn't seem like a big deal, it's probably not even about you. It is about what came before you."

"I can do that." I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I want you to know that your safety isn't something you need to fight for with me."

As we sat there looking at one another, she squeezed my hand and smiled. That was when things between us stopped being new and started being real. We finished dinner, talked about lighter things like her project and my upcoming road trips. Soon we'd emptied the bottle of wine, and the heaviness from our earlier conversation had lifted. I hoped she knew it was something she could always share with me because I never wanted her to feel like she was dealing with these things alone.

The streets were quiet as we drove home. She sat in the passenger seat with her head tilted against the headrest, looking at me, a softness on her face that I wanted to hold in my memory.

When we got to her front door, I leaned in and kissed her, slow and soft, my hands resting on her hips as hers rested on my chest.

"Thank you for tonight. For listening and not running away."