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“Get out? Or get away?”
“Both.” I hang my head in shame and tell him about Scott.
He doesn’t interrupt, letting me tell him at my own pace.
I cry.
I get angry.
I berate myself. That’s when he touches me, calming me down.
When I run out of words, Drake draws me into his embrace.
“You’re safe, Abby. No one will ever hurt you again.” He states it like a promise; a promise I know he’ll keep.
Scott’s a thousand miles in my rearview mirror. I’m free of his abuse. With my freak-out episode killing the mood, Drake and I dress in silence. He comes to me, pulls me into his arms, and does nothing other than hold me for what seems like forever.
In his arms, I feel safe.
In his arms, I feel his pain.
In his arms, we hold the trauma of our pasts, and it suddenly feels like less of a burden.
I’m no longer alone.
We pile into his truck and head back to town, saying little as the miles fall behind us.
The rest of the day, we goof off, winding up at Eddie’s Soda Shoppe, where we gorge on burgers, milkshakes, and fries. He takes me to Top Bar, where I order a glass of wine and he, of course, orders a whiskey. Neat.
With liquid courage flowing in my veins, somehow, he convinces me to join the crowd on the dance floor.
It takes a minute to learn the steps of the line dance, but before I know it, I’m laughing and dancing and having the best time of my life.
But all good things come to an end.
HOME
It’s nearly midnight when Drake drops me off at my house. He kisses me lightly on the lips. I invite him in, but he declines. He’s uncomfortable spending the night knowing my uncle sleeps just down the hall.
I get it.
And I’m okay to wait.
Today’s been a heavy day. Last night was a heavy night. We opened up to each other, sharing the pain of our pasts. We’re closer for it, but I sense he needs a bit of breathing space to internalize what it all means.
I know I do.
My step is light, heart pulsating with everything that comes with falling in love.
Falling in love.
It hits me. I’m hopelessly, head over heels in love.
My uncle must’ve gone to bed early. All the lights are off. I head into the kitchen, tiptoeing, as I don’t want to wake my uncle. As his disease progresses, fatigue pulls at him. He needs all the rest he can get.
Entering the kitchen, I catch something underfoot, kicking it across the floor. Sounding like broken glass, it skitters across the linoleum floor. I fumble for the light switch and flick on the light.
My eyes pinch when I see poor Boston on the floor, his pot shattered, blackened fronds crumbling, and roots sticking up.
