“I’m sure that’s not true. Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice slow and careful. I’ve learned to strip all emotion from my words when he’s like this. If I’m hurt, then he’s defensive. If I’m angry, then he’s self-righteous. If I’m sad, then he’s distant. It’s a balancing act that I’ve never entirely mastered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jason turned back to me, shaking his head and glaring at me like I was an imbecile. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Don’t ask stupid questions.
Fred winces beneath my touch, and I pull back, reentering reality.
“Uh, could you go a little lighter?” he asks kindly.
“Of course, Fred, I’m sorry. You’ve got some serious tension back here.”
“It’s sitting at that dang desk all day . . .”
After Fred leaves, it’s already lunchtime. I see Georgia, the other female massage therapist at this hotel spa, waving at me from behind the glass windows of the hallway. We have lunch plans to walk down to the neighboring strip mall and eat at a Mexican-American fusion restaurant—a personal favorite of mine.
But my thoughts aren’t on burrito bowls or potato-chip nachos . . . they’re trapped on an endless repeat of last night’s events. When Jason gets like that in public . . . well, I’m embarrassed and helpless, and nothing I say or do is ever the right thing.
Good thing Grant was there.
Since I moved to Seattle with Jason, I haven’t spent too much time with the team, and certainly not with their huge, beast of a team captain, Grant, so he had no reason to check up on me or intervene at all. But he did, and I’ll always be grateful. And then driving me home afterward . . . I should really send him flowers or something.
What do you send a wall of dense, sinewy muscle as a thank-you? A gym membership? Protein-packed chocolates?
After Georgia and I have placed our orders, we sit down across from each other at our favorite window booth. She frowns at me, her chin propped on two fists as she leans on the table with her elbows.
“Are you okay? You seem super quiet today.”
I sigh. “I’m exhausted. The banquet was last night and—”
“Oh my God, right! How was that? I’m sorry, you were just about to tell me. I’ll shut up. Go, go, speak.” Georgia cringes and waves me on with one hand while using the other to pick up her fountain drink and take a long, occupying sip. We joke a lot about her inability to keep her motormouth from running, but it’s nice to see her trying to control it. Emphasis on trying.
“It’s okay.” I giggle, finding myself in a much better mood. Bless this woman.
By the time our orders arrive at the table, I’ve filled Georgia in on the basics. Jason was in a shit mood all day, and he couldn’t shake it off for the event. He got too drunk, made a complete ass of himself, and one of his teammates had to intervene. I got a ride home and spent most of the night waiting up, sick with worry, waiting for Jason to stumble back in, which he only did at four in the morning. When I got up this morning to get ready for work, he’d already left for practice.
“Jesus Christ!” Georgia blurts, unable to control herself. “I don’t understand why he’s like this. He’s got a contract with one of the best teams in the league, he’s making good money, and he’s got an awesome girlfriend. What’s his problem?”
I smirk at her compliment. “He’s really hard on himself, so when he gets down like that, it’s difficult for him to snap out of it. It usually escalates, especially when there’s drinking involved,” I say, parroting a mixture of what I’ve read online and my own justifications for staying with him.
Georgia reads my mind, because her next question echoes the very thoughts I couldn’t shake last night, not long after Grant brought me home.
“Ana, babe. Do you really see a future with this guy? I’m sorry to ask, I just . . . I’m worried about you. I’m not convinced he’s good for you.” The little space between her eyebrows is creased with anxiety. “After hearing about last night, it’s obvious.”
I bite back my impulse to say something defensive, like, Why else would I be with him? Don’t you think I have the emotional wherewithal to think about that?
But that’s the difference between Jason and me. I can control myself and see things as they really are. Georgia is concerned, as she should be. She’s my friend. She’s just looking out for me.
“I don’t know anymore,” I hear myself say, heaving out a slow breath. It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud, and a chill of trepidation trickles down my spine. “Sometimes, I think about leaving and moving back home to be close to my dad. I could start over . . .”
When I pause, Georgia fills in the gaps like she always does.
“You’d rather run away than break up with him? I’m not a therapist, or at least a brain therapist,” she says with a little smirk. “But I think that’s a pretty big red flag.”
I swallow, unsure of where this conversation is going. Is Georgia trying to tell me to break up with Jason? Is that what I want?
“Well,” I say with a sigh, “as tired as I am of his tantrums, I’ve made my bed and I’m going to lie in it. At least until I decide what to do.”
I dig into my lunch, a signal to the ever-perceptive Georgia that I’d rather not continue this conversation. My gaze is glued on rice, beans, and protein when I feel a hand touch mine. Georgia squeezes my fingers between hers.
“Okay, Ana. Just tell me if you ever feel unsafe. I’m with you through all of this. You might still think of Seattle as your new home, but it is your home, and you shouldn’t be run out of here.”
My chewing slows and I meet her eyes. “Thanks,” I murmur through a mouthful of beans.
“And let me know if you ever need a massage. To alleviate some of that stress. Free of charge,” she says brightly with a wink. “I know someone, and I’ve heard she has magical fingers.”
I wash my food down with a cold gulp of water. We’re always offering each other massages, but neither of us has taken the other up on it. It’s just a simple way of saying I love you without really saying it.
“You too, Georgie.”
• • •
That afternoon, my keys rattle in my hand as I struggle to open the door while holding leftovers from lunch and a small grocery bag in my arms.
After finishing my shift, I dropped by the market to grab some ingredients for white chocolate and pomegranate cookies—a specialty of mine. Baking always relaxes me, and after a stressful day, I need to relax. I can hear Hobbes whining from his kennel on the other side of the door.
“Coming, baby cakes,” I call out. Hobbes is my Maltipoo mayhem machine, fondly named after the troublemaking stuffed tiger of comic strip fame. One of my mother’s favorites, to be precise.
When I make it inside, I drop the food in the kitchen and immediately head for the kennel. When he’s overexcited like this, I can’t leave him alone for a second too long or he’ll make a mess. I unlatch the kennel and Hobbes bursts out, running laps around the small one-bedroom apartment.
When I first moved here with Jason, he’d lost a lot of money in a bet. That catastrophe, paired with my own measly income, meant we could only afford something small. I actually prefer it. With the packed-to-the-brim bookshelves, secondhand furniture, and tight corners, our cozy little apartment reminds me of home. Or at least a slice of what life used to be.