That little speech feels both like a poke between my ribs, stealing my breath, and a torch that just lit my soul on fire. Because goddammit, Ginny is right. Bridget might have been the first person I personally overheard talking about it, but that doesn’t mean thousands of people aren’t talking about me. About how weak I am, or how I wanted this to happen. How shitty of a mother I am, or how I don’t realize how lucky I am to be married to the Shane Giraldi. I’m sure Internet trolls are roasting me this very second, and even some of my closest friends from high school are gossiping via private Facebook messages.
Up until this point, I’ve put it out of my head, because that’s a whole other layer of stress I don’t need. But once Bridget’s conversation floated through my ears, I could no longer be blissfully ignorant.
I have to let this tidal wave crash, and then swim to the surface, just like Ginny is suggesting.
“You’re absolutely right.” I square my shoulders, as if it’s just one more dragon I have to slay.
“Good, now get out there and wash some hair. And if it’ll cheer you up, I have a root touch-up coming in at three. You can assist.” Ginny swats me on the butt.
I wipe my tears, splash some water on my face, and walk out of the bathroom pretending I’m wearing a new set of armor.
21
Hannah
Two days after my breakdown in the Siesta bathroom, I’m home alone after Dahlia brings Noelle and Breanna to their scheduled visit with Shane.
My nerves are through the roof, because of what happened on Christmas, and the fact that Shane has been spotty even trying to get this on the calendar. It’s been almost two weeks since the girls have seen him, because he’s been making excuses about why he can’t take them this day or that day. I’m pretty sure the novelty of trying to come across as a good parent through the divorce proceedings has worn off for Shane, and now he doesn’t want the responsibility of caring for the girls.
My confidence in the fact that I can and will survive this, come out of this season of my life, as a whole person is waning. Even with the pep talk from Ginny, and lots of late night consoling from Dahlia, I can’t seem to find the inner strength I need to pull myself up by the bootstraps. I can’t seem to find the spite and ire to say, as my sister has put it, “fuck the haters and get my ass in gear.”
I guess this is the dip they talk about in therapy. I’ve been going to sessions less frequently now, which is probably part of the problem, but I just don’t have the time between work and motherhood. My therapist keeps telling me that those around me won’t thrive if I’m not giving one hundred percent to my mental health, but what is a single mother barely keeping a household afloat supposed to do?
Anyway, I’ve been to a few group sessions over the last few weeks, of the ones I could make it to. It’s about six women, a private gathering in my therapist’s office, all of whom are domestic violence victims. Initially, I was comforted by their stories, and encouraged by the ones who seem to be further along in the detachment process than I am. But now, they’re like the mirrors I just don’t want to face. Each time I explain what is going on in my life, they are quick to remind me that I’ll be in a low period for a while. That it gets much worse before it gets better. That there will be days I’ll be so close to calling this all off and going back to him, I’ll hate myself for the weakness.
I don’t want to be this person, this emotionally crippled, feeble woman that Shane turned me into. Yet, here we are.
The doorbell rings unexpectedly, and I jump. If it were Dahlia, she’d use her key. But she told me she wouldn’t be home until late, talking about some shift she picked up at a bar nearby just to make some extra money.
Chills run down my neck at the thought that this could be Shane, either alone or with our daughters. Would he seriously violate the restraining order because he can’t handle being with the two most precious little girls for a few hours? It’s sad that my answer is yes.
Except when I glance through the peephole, there is a different man waiting on my front porch.
“Hi …” I say, somewhat phrasing it as a question as I open the door for Walker.
He holds out a beautiful bouquet of pale pink roses, and I can’t help the small smile that stretches my lips.
“I missed you.” That deep voice echoes in my heart, and all the parts south of my waist that have missed him tremendously.
Speaking of those traitorous, no-good parts, they’re all on high alert now that Packton’s golden man is walking into my house as I step back, letting him enter. My goodness, does he look edible. I haven’t seen him since before Christmas, and he’s grown his beard out. Paired with the short buzz on his head, the intensity of his blue eyes I seemed to forget about, and the way he’s almost smirking in that “I’ve seen you naked” way … I think my panties just caught fire.
I take the flowers. “This was sweet of you.”
We stand in the tiny foyer of my condo, and you could cut the tension with a knife.
“You mentioned earlier in the week that the girls had a visit tonight, so I wanted to come keep you company.” He runs those big hands up and down his biceps nervously.
“You didn’t have to do that.” My voice breaks in the middle of that sentence.
Walker sighs, casting his eyes down and back up again.
“Hannah, I’ve given you space. I respect that you want to keep things private, and I can do that—”
I sigh, because I know he’s going to say something so perfect and I just can’t hear it. “Walker, you really don’t know what’s been going on.”
“Because you won’t talk to me.” I see the hurt in his sapphire orbs. “Listen, I know you’re going through some shit. Really horrible, frustrating shit. But I want to be here for you, no matter what that looks like. I want you to unload all your stresses on me, or celebrate the good moments. If you need a day where we don’t talk as much, I understand that. This is a roller coaster for you, Hannah. I’m not asking for it not to be. I just … I want to ride the ups and downs with you. I feel … I have real feelings for you. I think you know that.”
“I do.” My voice is almost a whisper. “It scares me that I have those feelings for you, too. It all seems so quick, at a moment in my life where it would definitely be easier to be single.”
“Let me take care of you.” He brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone.
I lean into it, sighing at the slight touch. God, I’ve missed him, too.
So I spill it all. I fill him in on Christmas Eve, on everything I’ve been keeping from him. Walker listens without judgment or interruption.
“So you see, I take his threats seriously. I don’t want to give Shane any more reason to hate me, though most of them are all irrational and narcissistic. I know that. But this is my custody of the girls on the line, I can’t risk that.”
“I would never ask you to. So if we need to keep this private, if we need to be more pre-meditated in how we spend time together, then I’m in. I don’t want spectacle and PDA. I just want you.”
Stepping into him, I wrap my arms around his defined waist, as he envelops me in a strong embrace. The pieces of me that have fallen apart over the last few weeks seem to glue themselves back together. Maybe not perfectly, but enough to make me feel somewhat whole again.