After rinsing my body off, I wash my hair with shampoo that smells like strawberries. I inhale deeply, loving the new scent over the coconut Kenneth made me use. I scrub my scalp and rinse, then just stand under the waterfall and tilt my head back.
I’m in paradise.
I close my eyes and begin to replay the dream I have.
My toes are in the sand. The sun is hot against my skin. The waves are crashing loudly in the distance and people are laughing with friends. I’m with friends too. None of them have faces I can describe, but I’m not alone.
A few guys walk by with surfboards and one winks at me, but a hand squeezing my ass and a loud growl has them scurrying away toward the water.
“I should drown them for looking at you,” Whistler says, kissing the spot between my shoulder blades.
I giggle and sip on my Tropical Storm Rachel we made up after mixing our own drinks. “No need for that. They know I’m taken by the hottest man here.”
“Damn straight you are.” His mouth crashes against mine…
I snap my eyes open and clear my throat, lifting my head to let the water wash away the forbidden dream.
Why do I feel guilty? Why do I care that I’m thinking about Whistler when I know Kenneth has affairs? When he hits me for no reason? He calls me stupid, ugly, a bitch, worthless, and yet I feel guilty for thinking about Whistler when I shouldn’t.
I wish there was a part of me that was a bad person, one who didn’t care about other people’s feelings, one who didn’t think twice or feel shame, one who went with the flow of things and never apologized.
But that will never be me.
I’ll always feel guilty for anything, for everything, because I always figure out a damn reason to care.
Kenneth, for instance, didn’t always hit me. I remember the times when everything was perfect between us, when he’d open my car door instead of closing my foot in it. It’s those little bits of memory that keep me from letting go, that keep me chained and broken.
Maybe Whistler can show me how to let go.
I press the off button on the touchscreen, snag the towel from the shelf, and dry my body off, then flip my hair over and twist it in the towel.
I notice deodorant sitting on the counter. Old Spice. It has to be Whistlers. I do something frowned upon and take the red cap off, smell it, and my eyes almost roll back when I scent him. It’s fresh, yet wild, nothing too heavy but not a delicate smell either.
And I lift my arm and put some on, then my other, then place the cap back on it and set it where it was before I picked it up.
Some people frown upon sharing deodorant, but I don’t have any here so that’s my excuse. I slip on his sweatpants, grey of course, and now all I can think about is his bulge. My cheeks heat again, and I wish I never would have seen it.
Okay, that’s a lie.
Bulges in sweatpants are a woman’s a-dick-tion.
I snicker to myself at my own joke, but the chortle falls short when his sweatpants fall to the ground. I click my tongue as I try to figure out how I’m going to do this. I pull them up my legs again and tie the strings as tight as they can go, then roll the waistband about ten times. Next, I tug the forest green shirt over my head and tie the extra material in a knot over my hip. It’s worn and soft. He must like this shirt more than the others.
That makes me feel warm and fuzzy in my heart, the one place I shouldn’t feel anything for him at all.
Letting my hair down, I hang the towel up to dry and dig through the drawers for a comb. It doesn’t take long. I find what I need in a plastic bin under the sink along with hair-ties. Mercy really did think of everything when he thought about what he wanted this place to become.
A safe haven for women exactly like me.
My eyes water as I brush my hair, and I blow out a shaky breath knowing I’m that woman. A woman I never thought I’d ever be. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but here I am, swallowing one hard truth after the other.
Luckily, overdosing on the truth isn’t a thing or I would have died the moment I got here.
I throw my hair up in a messy bun and don’t bother giving myself a once-over. I can’t care how I look for Whistler. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is figuring out what is next for me and how I can get away from here.
I’ll go to the beach, and I’ll be alone because being alone is better than being with someone who installs fear in me every day.
The soft tap of my bare feet patter against the floor as I tiptoe to the doorway. I press my hand against the solid wood trim and look left to see where I’m supposed to go. I notice sunlight coming in from the other side of the hallway, so I go in that direction, passing a few closed doors. I come to the grand staircase that’s familiar to me since I’ve seen it from the main floor which gives me a sense of direction.
My hand slides down the rail as I timidly take each step until my bare feet hit the bottom. I hear noise coming from the kitchen and I twist my hands together anxiously. I’m not sure if I want to go in there. Won’t there be a lot of men? I don’t want to be around a lot of men. I don’t know them.
I need to get out of here. I begin to breathe heavily, and my mind becomes a confusing mess. I can’t remember which way is out or in. I spin in a circle and whimper when I feel trapped. I hold my hand against my chest when it feels like there is a weight on it. I gasp for breath and the room begins to spin. I stumble and grip a chair, but it clatters to the ground and cause a bunch of noise.
The kitchen doors swing open, and I hear my name being shouted in the distance.
His hands are on me, cupping my face, and I don’t jerk away.
I know those hands. I know that touch.
“Whistler,” I sigh and drop my head against his shoulder, calming while I match my breathing to his. The rise and fall of his chest is comforting.
“What happened, Cupcake? Did someone bother you? Who was it?”
“No, it’s stupid. I’m fine. It was just a silly reaction.”
He lifts my chin with his finger again. “Don’t ever put down your feelings. You aren’t going through something simple. You’re trudging through a trauma. Talk to me or I can’t help.”
I ring my fingers together again. “I heard a bunch of men talking and I became afraid.” I sound so small as my voice breaks.
I hate how weak I am. I can’t let Kenneth win. I have to get stronger for myself again. I need to change.
“That’s normal. And every man here will protect you, but it’s just me, One, and Mercy right now. No one else.”
“No one?”
“Well, there’s you.” He boops my nose and gives me a playful grin. “Hungry? You feel up to eating or do you want to rest for a minute?”
The man has the patience of a saint and I’m the damn test that tries him.
“I could eat. Is there coffee?”
“Oh, Cupcake. There is always coffee here. Always. If there isn’t, run far away.” He guides me into the kitchen where the smell of coffee, bacon, and eggs has me inhaling deeply.
There are big tins buffet style along the counter with metal tongs in each for us to help ourselves. I lace my fingers together again and ring them like I would a rag. I’m so out of place, so nervous, but having Whistler here brings me comfort.
I bet he has that effect on a lot of people.