I told her that I got off on his telling me what to do just so I could do the exact opposite. Drives him and me crazy . . . and we like it like that, apparently.
But she escapes, and Tiff winks at me. “Now that that’s handled . . . one or two?”
Knowing the right answer, I tell her, “Two.” I watch with delight as she commandeers Scott’s kitchen—I mean, our kitchen . . . still not used to that. A few minutes later, she brings me a foamy mess of ice creamy goodness, and I take a tiny sip and moan at the deliciousness.
“Damn, girl, you barely took a taste and are acting like it’s damn-near orgasmic. You that thirsty?” Tiff wiggles her eyebrows at me, laughing at her own joke.
“Just taking it easy on the cold ice cream. I definitely do not want a brain freeze post-concussion,” I say matter-of-factly. “Actually, yes, though . . . getting pretty desperate for the D, living with Scott and not able to do anything about it. He’s always walking around shirtless and taking showers naked to torture me,” I say overdramatically.
Tiff laughs. “Would you rather the man take a shower with his clothes on?”
“Maybe . . .” I say, then giggle softly, still careful with my voice and my head. I’m definitely feeling a bajillion times better than I was a week ago, but certain things still trigger a headache, like loud noises or flashing lights. So no TV and no crazy laugh fest like Tiff and I would usually do.
Instead, we’re chill, curled up on the couch as we catch up.
“What’s the latest on . . . Rich?” She pauses before she says his name, unsure of my reaction. But I’m fine now, moving beyond the fear and into the anger portion of my recovery, even if I do have occasional moments of panic. But Scott’s always there to talk me through it, or I have mantras I tell myself over and over on a loop.
“Still in county jail,” I tell her. “When the DA arraigned him, they denied bail, so he’s sitting there until the trial, and by the time it’s all over, Rich won’t be getting out for a long time. They got the whole thing . . . car chase, hitting my car, the choking . . . from multiple angles on various security cameras. So there’s no way he can deny it. They’re mostly just arguing over a plea deal sentence because Scott is adamant that Rich gets the maximum sentence. I tend to agree.”
It’s a relief, one I never thought I’d get. Rich’s manipulations and abuse were always so subtle, so sneaky, I never thought I’d see him actually punished for any of it. I hate that it had to get so bad for him to be caught, but I’m glad he’s at least not free to do it to another woman.
Tiff nods. “I hope he rots there myself, but I’m glad to hear you feel the same way.” She takes a long lick around the rim of her float, catching the drips of suds before they can run down the cups she brought with her to ‘keep it real’. “So, how’re things with Mr. Moneybags?”
I grin, laughing at the nickname because Scott’s money is really the last thing I care about with him, but it’s the flashy thing most folks see first. “Really good. Great, actually. He’s been taking great care of me, and we’ve had some pretty deep conversations about the future and the past . . . mostly about how messed up we both are. We’re making our edges a little more obvious to each other, as awkward as fuck as that is, so that we can keep from getting cut.”
Tiff has a moment of wisdom. “Daddy issues, Mommy issues, trust issues, control issues, insecurity . . . you two are a veritable cornucopia of therapy waiting to happen.” It’s ugly when she says it like that, even though she’s half-kidding, but she’s not wrong.
We are pretty fucked-up people, but at least we can be fucked-up together and help wipe away the dirt, reveal the shine underneath the pain we’ve each had, maybe even heal some of the damage with love and a spit polish. It’s not a pretty process. It’s a bit two steps forward and one step backward, which Scott says is my favorite dance, while his only move is forward, full steam ahead. But it’s our dance.