Page 2 of At His Beck & Call

The trouble with being separated from my past mistakes is that the reality of the events begins to blur. It’s easy to selectively remember our time together when James was a decent human being. When he would laugh at my jokes, throw Henry up in the air, and smile like we were happy.

I can sometimes only remember the times when our relationship was good. That’s why I have the photos saved in the ‘hidden’ folder in my phone. Bethany insisted I never delete them.

Swiping my finger over the screen, I reluctantly open the Photos app and wait for the images to load. Swallowing, I stare at them in minute detail, reminding myself just why calling James about this is a really stupid idea.

The dark bruises across both my eyes are startling, the yellowing texture of my skin around my nose, and the dried blood on my face, unadulterated and raw. Even after a year, I can hardly believe the battered woman on the screen is me.

It shocks me every time. I buried this for so long—the repeated, endless violence of it. It wasnecessaryto do so in order to survive. But that isn’t an option any longer.

I got out for a reason. It took all my strength, but I did it, and I am not going back to him. That had been the deal I made with myself. No matter what. Not now. Not ever.

I brush a finger over my own face on the screen, remembering the mind-numbing pain, the moment I woke up in a hospital bed with Bethany beside me, her eyes red and her expression grim. I had tried to speak, my throat hoarse from begging James to stop.

It took an hour for a doctor to come and see me, and I was in so much pain I thought I would die. While I slept, Bethany took pictures of everywhere I was hurt. It wasn’t the first time she had done so, but that attack—that overwhelming agony—woke something up inside me.

There was a listless feeling in my body in that hospital bed, like I could drift away and never return. That terrified me. I couldn’t leave Henry alone. I had to fight to escape.

My parents died in an accident when I was just five years old, and I lived with my grandparents until I started college. They were wonderful people, and I was so grateful they took me in. They’re both gone now, though, and I don’t have many people I can rely on. Except for Bethany.

Putting my cell phone face down on the table, I stare at the letter. I will keep reminding myself, every hour if I have to, that James is not my salvation. Iwillfind another way.

I used to think that the decision to leave my husband was the hardest thing I would ever have to do. But now, listening to the faint sound of my son’s breathing, it’s clear I might have won the war, but the battle is yet to come.

Picking up my phone again, I open up my text messages with Bethany. We talk about a thousand different things every day.

The most recent messages are from a few hours ago, a silly exchange in which Bethany sent me a video of a woman pushing over a line of electric bikes outside Central Park. She had shovedthem over while screaming like a banshee, and they all collapsed one after another, like dominoes.

I smile at the angry emoji Bethany had sent along with the video. Apparently, she’d had a tough day at work and had gone off on a co-worker.

I look at Bethany’s profile picture. She’s radiant, with dark hair falling over her tanned skin, white teeth flashing. So different from me, with my pale skin, limp hair, and doe eyes that are too big for my face. Bethany is a goddess, and I’m a mere mortal by comparison.

I stare at the flashing cursor, swallowing nervously. I’ve been thinking about this all day, but I still don’t know whether to do it.

There’s no way Bethany will think this is a good idea.

Clicking on the message field, I start typing.

ME:CAN WE MEET TOMORROW?

Three dots appear immediately.

BETHANY:YES! LUNCH NEAR YOUR WORK?

ME:PERFECT.

BETHANY:EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?

I click on her message with a thumbs-up emoji and put the phone back down. This isn’t something I want to share in a text message. The idea of telling my best friend that one of her favorite people in the whole world has cancer over a text is unthinkable. I need to look her in the eye, even if I know all I’ll see is sorrow and pain.

I hold back the tears shimmering in my vision.

No. I am not going to fall into despair. I’m going to find a way to get through this.

I open Bethany’s Instagram, scrolling through the endless beautiful photographs, a familiar stab of jealousy hitting me squarely in the chest like it always does.

There are pictures of beautiful beaches, of her tanned body in the foreground, an endless ocean behind her. Another photoshows an amazing-looking, fancy meal and a large glass of wine. The next is a beautiful cocktail on a beach in Thailand.

Bethany has a lucrative job. Anextremelylucrative job. Very few of her friends know what she actually does for a living. But I do. Beth doesn’t keep anything from me.