battle continuing for what feels like hours, the silence only breached by infrequent sniffles and the occasional hiccup.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am a monster.
10
Luca
I held her for hours.
She spoke every now and then, giving brief whispers of insight into her past.
She told me more about Abi. Reflected on what she wished she would’ve done better during her time held prisoner. She even admitted it felt good to cry.
And later that night as I laid in bed, I’d been pleased with myself. Like a stupid fucking chump over my so-called achievement.
I’d thought pushing her into facing her grief was a great idea. I’d convinced myself she would heal afterward.
But days later, there’s still no sign of improvement.
Instead, she no longer pretends to be happy. Those fake smiles that used to annoy me would be a breath of fresh fucking air in comparison to the overwhelming despair continuously plastered on her face.
Puffy red bags are now tattooed under her eyes. She barely eats. And those intermittent moments where she hid in her destruction-filled room have become one long stretch of isolation in between bouts of obsessive cleaning and cooking.
She continues to cry.
Fucking rivers.
Every morning.
I hear her in the shower, the gentle sobs echoing from the bathroom to punish me for what I’ve done.
I fucked up. I shouldn’t have pushed.
I tried making amends with a flower delivery, disguising the offering as a tribute to her grief. In reality, it was a sign of guilt. I’ve asked, no, demanded she watch a movie with me. Exercise with me. Fucking talk to me.
All I get are tears.
From a drought to flash flooding, the deluge still in full flow as Sarah pushes by me at the front door, granting herself access to my house.
“Have you forgotten how to wait for an invitation?” I scowl, locking the deadbolt behind her.
“Have you forgotten how to be polite?” She leads us to the kitchen and makes herself a mug of coffee. “I came when you called. Usually, that requires a thank you.”
“Thanks,” I grate, not feeling appreciative in the slightest. I wanted her advice, not her company. But beggars can’t be choosers.
“Before we do a deep dive on this,” she purrs, “I think we should put it in writing that you pleaded for my superior knowledge like a little bitch.” She settles into one of the stools at my kitchen counter, sipping from my favorite coffee mug with smug satisfaction.
“Don’t start.”
She grins. “So we’re just going to ignore my superiority?”
I glare, thankful Penny is outside on the deck and not bearing witness to my castration.
“Okay. Fine.” Sarah waves me away. “Tell me what’s happened since you aggressively forced me from your house the other day.”
I clench my molars, breathing deep until I’m no longer tempted to throw her back out the front door. “She hasn’t stopped crying,” I grate. “I thought forcing her to grieve would help. But this is just a different level of hell.”
“It was necessary. You know that.”
“Maybe. The question is—where the fuck do I go from here?”
“You need to tell her it’s time to move on.”
I scoff and slump back against the far counter. “Yeah, okay. No fucking problem. I’ll just tell her to get over herself, will I?”
“Yes.” She takes another superior sip of coffee. “Normal people have the luxury of grieving for months. Even years. But we’re not normal. With our lifestyle, it’s not safe to let down our guard for too long. She needs to be aware of that.”
“Problem is, she didn’t choose this lifestyle, Sarah. It was forced on her.”
“It was forced on all of us,” she drawls. “Nobody chooses to be here. That’s just the way the cards fall. The sooner she gets used to it the better.”
I don’t want Penny to get used to it. I want her to be saved from it. Sheltered.
“You need to take charge.” Sarah lowers her voice. “Push her.”
“Pushing her is what led to this mess. Look what the fuck happened.”
“You broke her down, soldier. It’s time to build her back up.”
I wipe a rough hand over my face, not wanting any of this. Not the breaking or the building. I’m not the man for that job. But she’s right. I made Penny this way; I can’t leave her now.
“I’ve tried talking to her,” I mutter. “I’ve asked—”
“Don’t talk. Don’t ask.” She screws up her face in disgust. “Demand. Assert your authority. Act like a SEAL, not a fucking pussy.”
My anger bites, the teeth nipping at my insides. “It’s not that easy.”