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My stomach drops at the pain in her voice, and I patiently wait as she finds the strength to continue.
“I didn’t know. At least not until after that night I told you about, the one with the coffee table.” Her voice is shaky, and I wish she were here or I were there so I could hold her and comfort her through this horrid memory. “I think my body had just had too much. I started cramping really bad in the middle of the night, and when I went to the bathroom, I was bleeding. It felt like it would never end. I knew it wasn’t my period. I had never felt anything like this before. And it wasn’t. The next day when Trey was at work, I went to the clinic and they confirmed what I already suspected. I had miscarried.”
My fingers tremble with rage at what he did to her.
She continues, more anger than sorrow in her words this time, “I had to have been barely a few weeks along, five to seven at the most. If I had known—if I’d just known—I could have gotten both of us out. He took my baby from me, my poor baby that never even had a chance.”
Tears pool in my eyes from the pain she endured, but in addition, I’m sad for what she lost, for what my girl had to go through. I wish I could help her. I just have to prove to her every single fucking day that I am not him and I won’t ever become him. I don’t have a mask waiting to shift to show a dark and evil side.
I swear, if I ever get his name from her, I will find him, and I will break every single bone in his body. I want him to feel more pain than he could ever imagine. I want him to pay for what he did to her.
I can’t stop the wave of vulnerability from washing over me. “Thank you for telling me. I know how hard that must have been.” I wet my lips. I know the words might not mean much, but I offer them anyway. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Nikki. I wish you were here right now. I just want to hold you. I promise you that I will never—never—lay a finger on you that you do not ask for. I swear it. Do you understand? I will never hurt you in any way. And I am always here when you want to talk—always, Little Dove.”
She sobs, and her breaths are choppy. “I like you, Cam—I really do—and it scares the living shit out of me.”
I smile with a heavy heart. “Me too, baby. Me too.”
I take a deep breath, absorbing every second of the moment before saying, “Your turn to ask.”
She takes a slow breath to calm her erratic breathing. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Same question to you then,” she says.
I don’t have to think about what I want to share. She has been so open and honest with me, and I want to do the same.
“You already know the first part of this. My dad was abusive to both my mom and me. But if I took the whips he liked to give, then she wouldn’t be hurt. So, almost daily, I would kneel in front of the wall in our basement, and he would tell me what my lashings would be for. He would count them out and force my mom to watch.”
I shakily inhale and continue, “I had no escape from him other than school. Game nights were the worst. I would be punished for the errors I made and the ones he made up in his own head. Each error would total a different number of lashings. There’s almost no inch uncovered on my back. And I don’t let anyone touch them—I never have.”
“One night, after practice, the team and I grabbed a bite to eat, and I got home later than I should have. He was beating her. I tried to stop him, but he overpowered me. He broke my leg, and I couldn’t get to her in time. I couldn’t save her. He killed her…right in front of me. He is not only in prison for what he did to me. But he’s also in prison for murdering my mom.”
“Oh, Cam. It was not your fault at all. It wasn’t your job to save her. It was his job to not hurt you both. He is the failure—him. I can’t imagine that. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. No one should have to ever find their mother like that.” She hesitates. “I love that you want to protect me and keep me safe, Cam—I do. But please don’t burden yourself with the guilt of not being able to. The only person you can protect is yourself. And you did that. You protected yourself, and you made it out alive. And I’m so glad that you did, and I’m so glad that I met you.”
For a moment, we sit in silence after our trauma dump, no awkwardness at all, just respect for the pain we have survived.
“All right, let’s lighten the mood. Truth or dare?” I ask her with a more upbeat tone.
“Dare. And no more heavy stuff tonight.” she orders, and I obey.
“I dare you to tell me your favorite thing about me.”
She giggles and says, “Okay. Hmm. My favorite thing about you is…how tall you are. You can grab anything off of the top shelves that I can’t reach.”
I burst out laughing at the completely unexpected response. “You flatter me.”
She giggles. “Well, I have a hard time reaching things sometimes at grocery stores or shopping in general. You would be a great help.”
“I would love to go grocery shopping with you.” I laugh.
My phone dings and I check it quickly. It’s a text from Brett that my Twix have arrived early.
“Perfect.” She says with glee. “I also love your smile, and your eyes, and that you seem to be able to read my mind. Your hands are insanely attractive for no reason, and I swear, it’s annoying how pretty you are.”
My heart races, and I bite my lip to try to stop the full smile from breaking free, but it’s no use.
“Now, that is what you call flattery. I don’t usually like compliments, but, fuck, I love them, coming from you.”
