But extinguishing other people’s flames before that point never happens...
People don’t call for help preemptively. Unfortunately.
“I need to learn to protect myself,” she muses with a nod.
“I’ve told you I’d help with that. We can start whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, please,” she says, sounding sleepy.
“Home, now?”
“First, kiss me.”
Leaning down, I do just that. The spark I’ve felt between us all night reignites. Strange, how connected I feel to her. How I already think of her as part of my life. Lou is important. I don’t believe in fate or any of that woo-woo shit that hippie types love to talk about at the summer farmers’ market.
But I don’t have another way to explain how I feel about Lou. Or how I feel like she was thrown into that house next door by more than chance.
Fifteen
Lou
“You can best fight any existing evils from the inside.”
Hattie McDaniel
The last time I came like that, I fell in love with a bad man.
The difference between the two men is stark, though. Whereas Pierre flooded me with expensive gifts, luxury travel, and so many false affirmations, Grady is simply himself. A blue-collar guy, a normal dude who takes me to a dingy bowling alley and fucks me in the back seat, pulled off the side of the road.
Grady is real world while Pierre tried to be larger than life.
But mostly, the difference between them is that Grady isn’t blowing any smoke up my ass. He’s not making promises to me that are impossible to keep. He isn’t showering me with compliments about how I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. There’s nothing but green flags, here, even as I desperately search to find a red one.
He’s a divorcée. His ex-wife cheated on him. Surely, that should come with some unresolved baggage. A sense of bitterness or indignation. Yet, I haven’t seen that from him. He doesn’t badmouth her. He’s expressed frustration that he doesn’t get as much time with Paige as he’d like, but that’s only a sign of being a good dad.
He also doesn’t show any signs of wanting to be in control. When I look back on the earliest time of my relationship with Pierre, I can see the small things. The way he’d plant ideas in a way that I believed the choice was mine to make. It wasn’t. But he’d word everything in such a way that what he wanted sounded like the most desirable or logical suggestion. He never asked where or what I wanted to eat; it was always suggested.And the suggestion came with a compelling reason. Same with travel. Same with everything.
It was never about me. Always him. Only him. And only how I could make him look better.
“I heard they dropped the charges,” he says after we’re dressed and driving again.
“It’s not what I’d hoped for, but it’s what I expected,” I say. “All I get is a protective order, which we all know doesn’t do much.”
“No,” he agrees. “Except maybe keeps him from being as bold in his contact.”
“It hasn’t stopped him, yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He emails every day. Multiple times, most days.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. It’s the only way open for him to contact me. He won’t stop. Not until he finds something new to obsess about, I guess,” I say.
