Page 23 of Chalk It Up

For a lot of women, there's peace and security that come with being married. Having a loving partner to share and carry burdens with, feel unconditional love, and support in all your endeavors no matter how outrageous. And for some women that's exactly what marriage is. I’m not blind to that and I don’t think marriage is a shackling institution. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’d rather be alone than miserable. Not lonely, but alone.

And I’m self-aware enough to understand the other side of that coin. I’m not abusive, but knowing I could succumb to my anxiety and panic at any moment feels to me like I’m doling out abuse. Causing someone to live on edge and in fear of each moment. It’s paralyzing and I refuse to make anyone feel that way.

All that considered, I regret this date. I regret thinking that I could have that companionship and security when I don’t feel like I have that to offer. I know one date doesn’t equate to marriage, but typically marriage only comes from dates. Resolved and content in my single status, I feel guilty having somewhat led Emmett on. I’ll tuck that regret away in the back of my mind and pull out the reminder when I start feeling hopeful to date again.

August doesn’t say anything to me while we drive to my house on the other side of our town’s lake. I’m thankful for the surprisingly companionable silence because there’s nothing he can do or say at this point to resolve anything that happened.

I sit up a little straighter and take quick glances at August in my periphery. His outfit looks more relaxed than usual, a fitted white tee and simple black joggers that accentuate his thigh muscles very well. I take a deep sigh hating this even more because I clearly interrupted what must’ve been a relaxing evening for him, and that’s when I realize there’s something off about this car ride.

“Where’s Adeline?” I ask genuinely curious but selfishly as a distraction from my internal crash out.

August raises his eyebrows seemingly in surprise that I’ve decided to initiate a conversation and I don’t blame him. “She’s with Wilma, her nanny.” And now I feel even worse because this was definitely supposed to be a relaxing evening that August obviously planned for himself, but instead of taking care of his daughter he’s having to take care of me. And that train of thought leads me to the next very obvious question.

“How did you even know where I was? Or that I needed help?” And why did you come? I want to know the “why” even more than the “how” but these seem like safer questions to ask.

“Thea told me you called her and that it was an emergency. She said she would’ve come herself, but something about your dog and too much cheese came up and she couldn’t leave her alone by herself. You asked me that in the gallery, but you were just coming-to so you might have forgotten.” Well great, now I’m worried about Maple and some obvious lapse in memory.

That stinking dog, I swear she’s made of half cheese and it wrecks her stomach every single time. I already know the mess I’m going to find when I get home. That would cause some people to stress out, but for me, that’s a situation I can actually control. Clean up and move on. Simple and easy to put into a mental box. Messes are no big deal, something I’ve learned from my years teaching small humans who thrive creatively by making messes.

“Well, thank you for picking me up. I’m sorry, I’m sure I ruined your night. I’m definitely not your responsibility and…” I’m cut off by a gentle but firm grip on my leg and every part of my body is suddenly attentive and hypersensitive. I whip my head in August’s direction to find him still staring through the windshield. I was kind of hoping for some eye contact, a real moving moment here where he was already looking at me, but I guess I can’t complain about safe driving.

We pull down my driveway and I regret that we don’t live in a big city that takes forty minutes to drive to the other side. August parks himself next to my car, gets out, and is around to my door before I can even process it. How very gentlemanly of him. Holding out a hand he politely helps me out of the car. This contact feels more comforting than electrifying and I’m baffled that this same hand can produce two very different feelings. August seems to subconsciously meet me where I need him but I just chalk it up to the caretaker in him.

“Thank you, you didn't have to do that. All of this.” I motion with both hands around us like that somehow encompasses all he’s done for me tonight. “It really wasn’t your responsibility, but I’m very appreciative.”

“You may not technically be my responsibility, but you’re my daughter’s teacher and a great tutor to her, so I suppose it’s in my best interest.” August stands so close to me outside of my passenger door, and despite being out in the open on a crisp, clear evening, everything right now feels hot and stifling. He seems to be battling something within himself and I know as a teacher that I need to give people time to think through their thoughts without prodding. So that’s what I let August do, despite the slightly uncomfortable tension bouncing off invisible wires between us.

He takes a single step closer to me effectively backing me into the car, seeming to have reached some resolve in his mind. My heart is racing and I’m horrified that he’s going to hear it slamming inside my chest.

I want to fall into August when he’s this close to me. So much happened tonight with Emmett and it feels like too much to process on my own. August seems like a safe place. Everything I’ve seen between how he cares for and interacts with his daughter, and has even taken care of me when he didn’t need to, tells me enough about his character to know that he is genuinely a safe place to be.

But there’s a bone deep part of me, that when I’m backed into a corner, I submit. That part is trained, it’s almost instinctual, and it’s everywhere. It’s the riskless reaction. If I keep my eyes down and words few, nothing will harm me. Tears start to well on my eyelines, entirely unbidden. Nothing has even happened to cause them except that August took one step toward me and he’s taller than me, and my compulsions tell me to cower.

I’m apprehensive for no reason and it’s making my skin clammy and my breaths few and short. I feel like all of the emotions from the night are manifesting themselves right at this exact moment.

August must have noticed something shrink in me because it’s then that he gently grabs my chin between his thumb and index finger, and guides my eyes up to his. Not a forceful guidance, no, this is equivalence. With care and tenderness, and in true August fashion–few to no words–he is showing me we are equals. “Evie.” He breathes my name like oxygen and takes the pads of both of his thumbs and wipes away the tears that started dropping from my eyeline. I just stare without fear into the eyes of my most favorite shade of green. “Who did this to you?”

chapter 17

August

“Who did this to you?” I’m desperate for answers because I just watched, in real time, a woman I’ve come to care about deeply shrink to about half her size in a matter of seconds. We’re right outside of my car and the frustration I’m feeling is enough to want to smash this car in with my bare hands. The breezy night air is a balm to my burning skin, but I don’t let that level of anger show. I attempt to keep myself slightly composed for Evangeline because someone in her past didn’t. I’ve never wanted to mutilate someone before so I don’t know what that desire feels like, but I’m fairly certain I’m toeing the line of that desire right now.

I see her cower and it practically rewrites my DNA. That kind of reaction isn’t something someone is born with. That reaction is bred. At some point, someone, probably her worthless excuse for an ex-husband, took this beautiful, colorful, compassionate, and patient woman and broke her down to rubble to rebuild at his bidding. It feels like someone has reconfigured her to fear people and I’m deciding now that I want to help Evie regrow into the brilliant, thriving woman she was born to be. Her tears that sit on my thumbs carry pain she was never made to have and I viscerally pity the man who did this to her if I ever meet him.

“August, I-” She cuts herself off and shakes her head out of the light grasp I had on it. She steps back the most infantismal amount before the back of her legs hit the bottom of the car’s door jam and it might as well be a chasm of space for how far away she feels now. “I’m sorry for crying.” She shakes her head again and looks back down, something I won’t stand for. She is a force and she will look me in the eyes. She said she partners with her student’s parents, and I know this wasn’t the capacity she was talking about, but I will help this woman feel like a partner, an equal to me.

“Why are you apologizing for crying?” I don’t pull her chin back up to me again despite how much I want to because someone else forced their hands to Evie before and made her this way. I won’t think I’m righteous in forcing her, but in the other direction. I’m going to give her a safe place to decide that this is the move she wants to make. And my heart explodes when she does. When she hears my question melt over her heart and warm her enough to look up at me again with her most beautiful, blue doe eyes.

Evie seems to mull over all her possible answers in her mind and I’m praying she’s not looking for the answer I want to hear, but rather whatever the truth is. Something inside of me tells me she’s been groomed to give the answers that placate people rather than her truth. I hope that despite all my jaded shortcomings, I’ve somehow shown her that I’m a refuge for her honest and broken answers. Touch seems to put her on edge right now, but I’m desperate to hold her even a little. I want to give her something solid to hold on to if that’s what she needs.

“Evie, can I hold even just your arms? If that’s too much, I understand. But I’m here for whatever you need and want to think through.” She nods the slightest amount and I could fall to my knees in relief, but she needs strength right now so I can’t do that.

This is such a different Evie than the one I playfully sparred with in my driveway. It must be an overflow from everything that’s happened tonight and it guts me.

I gingerly set both of my hands on either of her biceps. I want to pull her into the deepest embrace and hold her there until all of her pieces fit back together seamlessly. But we’re not there at the moment, and more importantly, Evie isn’t there. And I don’t want all of her pieces together as if they were never shattered, that’s not the true Evie. I want to help put back together the most beautiful mosaic of her life. I want to put her broken pieces back into the captivating picture of herself, and help her reignite the rays of light behind it.

“Which question do you want me to answer first?”