I nod. She can't see me, but she can feel me.
"I wonder if the person who said it had ever lost someone." It's not a question.
I find my voice and answer anyway. "Probably not. Loss fucking sucks."
"Yeah. It does. I still feel guilty. Like I did something wrong, you know. The doctor's said there was nothing I could've done differently, but I still feel like it's my fault, the miscarriage."
I squeeze her hand again. "Miscarriages happen a lot. It's not your fault. How did fucking Michael take the news?"
"I texted him the next day and told him because I thought he deserved to know. It was the first contact I'd had with him since our split. It was from a new phone number he didn't have. He called me back within minutes and left message after message telling me how sorry he was. That his wife found out about the affair and left him, which I doubted was true. He told me how much he loved me. How much he wanted to see me again. That went on for a week. I changed my number again and never heard from him until he showed up here a few weeks ago."
"And you went with him this time."
She sniffs again. "I did. I'm not proud about that. I think I just needed closure. To everything. I wanted to end it on my terms once and for all. That, and despite it all, a little piece of me still loved him."
"How'd that go? The closure?"
She squeezes my hand like she'd rather do that than talk. "Same as always. I got fucked and fucked over."
I'm seething now. "That sonofabitch."
"No. It's my own fault. When I left his hotel room, I knew without a doubt in my mind it was over. That whatever old feelings I'd had for him, it wasn't love. It was more like habit, if that makes sense. It was something I'd done so many times that I'd associated it with love, when that's not what it was at all. It may have started out that way in the beginning, at least for me, but it morphed into something else entirely. So, when he came by earlier today, I met him only to tell him it was over. Because for me it finally was. Obviously ... he didn't take the news very well."
I drop her hand, because now I'm fucking raging. I need a physical release for this fury and I don't want to be anywhere near her when it happens, so I leap from the bed. My hands are clenched into fists and I want to hit something so fucking bad, preferably fucking Michael's face. "Motherfucker. He did that to you, didn't he?" I'm pointing to the bruises on her face.
She nods and the tears are in her eyes again.
I'm pacing the room. "What kind of sick sonofabitch hits a woman?" And then I turn back toward her. "You need to get a restraining order. He was just here looking for you."
She looks terrified. I hate that she looks terrified. "What? He was here?"
I nod. "When I went to get the ice, he was banging on the front door. Drunk off his ass, looking for you. I told him to leave you alone or I'd fuck him up. I should've beat his ass."
She doesn't say anything this time. Her eyes are as big as saucers.
And now I'm scanning her room. "Where's your phone?"
She looks to her nightstand first. That's where she always charges it. It's not there. "I think it's in my purse." She crawls off the bed and picks up her purse off the floor by the bathroom door and rifles through it. When she finds her phone she types in her passcode and she hands it to me.
She has thirty-two missed calls and fifty-three text messages. I start scrolling though the texts. They're all from him. I swear the dude is psycho. Over the past few hours he's ping-ponged back and forth between threatening her, to declaring his love, to telling her to fuck off, to groveling. Again. And again. Throw in the random dick pic, too. This guy is sick.
I open up the missed calls and recognize his number. All thirty-two calls. I nod to the phone. "Restraining order should've happened yesterday with this dude. He's certifiable. Put your shoes on. We're going to the police station. After we stop at the ER."
She shakes her head. "Police station, no ER."
She files a report for the physical abuse first. They record her statement and take photos. After that she fills out the necessary paperwork for a restraining order.
It's three-thirty in the morning by the time we get home.
He will never touch her again. I promise.
Sunday, November 5
(Scout)
When I open my bedroom door at noon there's a plate of peanut butter saltines and a glass of grape juice on the floor. The sticky note from Gustov on my door reads, Let me know if you need anything.
I pick up the food and set it on my nightstand before writing him a note. Thanks. For everything. I stick it to his closed bedroom door before I return to my bedroom, close the door, and eat the most thoughtful meal I've ever eaten.
Thursday, November 9
(Gus)
Impatient's been quiet all week. The bruises are fading, but her spirit is the thing I'm most worried about. She already had a lot on her emotional plate. What happened to her was trauma: physical, emotional, and psychological. I can't erase it. I wish I could, but I can't. So, I'll be here for her, even if she doesn't want me to. She's not pushing friendship away when she needs it most.
I leave a note on her bedroom door before I go to sleep. Mancala. Pizza. Tonight. Be there or Spare Ribs and I will hunt you down and force you to play with us. That would take the fun out of it. So, how about we keep this easy and you just meet us in the living room at 7:00?