Eleanor leans forward. “How deep?”
I hesitate. “Deep.”
The word felt like jumping off something high.
Mel groaned softly. “This is exactly why the power dynamic thing matters.”
“I know.”
“You can’t lose yourself in someone who hasn’t unpacked his ghosts,” Mel said.
“I’m not losing myself.”
“You drove away in the middle of the night,” Mel said pointedly.
I don’t have a rebuttal for that.
Eleanor reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Did he ever tell you what happened?” she asked gently.
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“How could I? How was I supposed to know to even ask? I feel like I don’t know him at all.”
There was a long pause.
“Then you don’t have the whole story,” Eleanor said carefully.
Mel looked at her incredulously.
“You’re not actually defending him,” Mel said to Eleanor.
“I’m not,” Eleanor replied. “I’m saying grief makes people behave badly sometimes. Especially when it’s buried.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” said Mel.
“No, it doesn’t,” Eleanor agreed. “But it might make it understandable.”
I stared at my coffee again.
“I was scared,” I whispered. “Not of him hurting me. Just . . . of not knowing.”
“That’s fair,” Eleanor said.
Mel leaned back in her chair, studying me. “So what do you want?”
The question landed heavily.
What do I want? To feel safe. To not feel small. To not be yelled at in rooms full of ghosts. To be loved without secrets.
“I want the truth,” I finally said.
“Then get it,” Eleanor replied gently.
After a deep, reluctant sigh, Mel nodded once. “But if he roars again,” she added firmly, “you walk.”
