“Oh, doll. You’re so pretty.” He leans out to inspect me, and I hold my breath. “Quit looking so damn scared. It’s only a joke. Smile for your man.”
The weak smile I give seems to convince him too much. Because he tightens his grip on my face and launches his lips onto mine. His rancid breath is bitter with the liquor he’s consumed. I choke on it, but I know better than to fight the kiss. So, I lean in and mollify the beast.
But I know it’ll only last so long before he reverts to mania. Before he’s making insane accusations. Before he’s hitting me again.
I make myself a promise. The next time will be the last time. I won’t give in again because I want to live. I want to live far, far, far away from here. Somewhere cold where there’s not such high humidity. Where I have the freedom to do as I please with no one ordering me around. Maybe I’ll even get a pet. Maybe a snake to scare men away.
With images of fierce snakes on my mind, I drift away.
I jerk up in bed, frantically searching the room as I try to ground myself.
I’m not Elizabeth Thompson. I’ll never be her again.
I’m Lizzy Lewis.
And this is my home.
In Boston, not Mississippi.
There are no men here.
Which is a fact that disappoints me a little, not relieves me. Because I’ve worked very hard to no longer fear men.He’sthe only one that ever hurt me. Andhewill never be able to hurt me again. I made sure of that.
It’s been six years.
Elizabeth Thompson is gone.
Lizzy Lewis.
Lizzy Lewis.
I’m Lizzy Lewis.
Once the fear subsides, I stretch and get out of bed. My phone shows it’s five-forty in the morning. I’m never up this early. The possibility of meeting my little shoveler motivates me enough to leave my bed. I throw on my robe and rush to the living room, but I’m disappointed to be greeted with no powdery fluff outside. Well, I guess I’m destined to never meet the kid. All I want is to say thank you face to face.
Since it’s not snowing, I debate going for a run. It’s still dark outside, but I can stick to the neighborhood instead of the trail.
Feeling pleased at the prospect of running, I rush to my room and get dressed. After wrangling my unruly hair into two French braids, I bundle up and head out the door.
By the time my first mile is done, the sun is rising. Neighbors are getting their newspaper, some even leaving early for work. I wave at the ones I see, never having grown out of my southern hospitality. Some stare at me inquisitively, but a few wave back.
It makes my run feel less lonely. However, it still feels more solitary than normal. It’s not the trees that I’m missing though. My usual running buddy isn’t trailing behind me. I almost feel like I’m cheating on him by diverting from our schedule.
Unable to stop myself, I make a left turn instead of a right and keep going. I end up on his street, roaming past his house. I slow to a crawl, still pumping my arms while I study it. I see the house daily, but never this close. There’s nothing special about it. It fits in with all the others in the neighborhood. But something about it calls to me.
His newspaper’s plastic wrapping reflects the sun’s glare into my eyes. Realizing he must not be up yet, I continue my run.
Only for twenty minutes later to end up on the same street. Still, the newspaper stares at me from his driveway. Sighing, I keep moving.
On my way home, I take a longer route, which somehow leads me down his street again. But this time as I pass his house, I see something different.
Walking down his driveway to retrieve his paper, is a sexy man in a navy robe. His hair is tousled as though he just rolled out of bed, and with those glasses, it gives him a sexy look.
I slow down and get to his house just as he grabs his paper.
I debate what to say. Should I bring up our runs? Make a comment?
But as I raise my hand to wave at him, he stumbles back a step. He loses his grip on his newspaper, but with bat-like reflexes, he catches it before it tumbles to the ground.
