Page 40 of Mack

She took one without comment.

He settled back onto the bed, close but not crowding her, and unscrewed the cap on his bottle. They sat in the quiet for a while. It didn’t feel like silence as it usually did with someone new. With her it just settled between them, easy and undemanding, like it had always lived there.

He thought about what she’d told him. About waking up still braced for punishment almost four years later. He’d known men like Troy. Had watched up close what they left behind. The damage was never the most visible kind. It was quieter than that, and it lasted longer, and it rewrote how a person moved through the world without them even realizing it was happening.

He looked at her sitting there, knees drawn up, working at the label on her water bottle with her thumbnail. One of the strongest people he’d met, and he didn’t hand that out easily. Still carrying all of it though, quiet, and alone, because that was what she’d learned to do.

It made something in his chest ache, and he didn’t have a word for.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

She glanced at him. “Yes, though I might not answer it.”

“Fair enough.” He turned the bottle in his hands. “Did anyone know? When it was happening?”

She was quiet long enough that he thought she might not answer.

“My mother had her suspicions,” she finally said. “I denied it. I was good at that.” She sighed. “I was ashamed. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t my fault, I know that now. But at the time I couldn’t separate the two.”

“That’s not stupid. That’s just what it does to you.” He turned the bottle in his hands. “I’ve seen a lot of domestic abuse in my line of work. That’s how I was able to spot it with Juliette. Her boyfriend, a couple years back.” He kept his voice even; he’d learned to when he talked about it, because the alternative was anger and anger wasn’t useful right now. “I watched her disappear into herself for two years before I understood what was happening. By the time she let me help her she barely recognized herself.”

Something changed in Mallory’s face. The wariness didn’t leave but something else moved in beside it.

“Is she okay now?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Took time. But she’s good. She’s the strongest person I know.” He glanced at her. “Present company giving her a run for her money.”

Mallory looked away at that, like the compliment was too difficult to accept.

“Point is,” he said, “I know what it looks like from the outside. Watching someone make themselves small to keep the peace.” He shook his head. “Helpless feeling, not being able to do anything about it.”

She’d stopped working at the label on her bottle. She was just watching him.

“We’re a pair,” she said quietly.

“Maybe.” He met her eyes. “Or maybe we just know some things other people have to take on faith.”

She didn’t look away this time. And when she shifted, just slightly, just enough to close the distance between them by an inch or two, he felt it like a door opening.

He didn’t move toward her. He just let her come.

Her shoulder came to rest against his. That was all. Just that.

He stared at the far wall, kept his breathing even, and didn’t make a thing of it, because she’d bolt if he did. He knew that about her now. She needed to be able to do something without it being examined, without him treating every small step like a milestone worth marking. So, he just sat there.

The room had gone dark around them, the only light outside was the streetlight, and neither of them had reached for a lamp. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to do a single thing that might remind her she was supposed to be afraid of this.

He thought about Juliette. About the year he’d finally understood what was happening and the rage that had come with it, white and total, the kind that had nowhere useful to go. He’d wanted to burn the whole thing down. Instead, he’d sat on his sister’s couch, let her talk, and kept his face neutral when every word she said made him want to put his fist through a wall. He’d gotten good at that. Letting people move at their own pace.

He hadn’t expected it to matter this way, with this woman, in this context. But here he was.

Mallory shifted beside him, just slightly, and he felt her exhale, long and slow, like she’d been holding something and had finally decided to set it down.

“I don’t do this,” she said. Not defensive. Just honest.

“I know.”

“I mean I really don’t. I haven’t let anyone—” She stopped. Started again. “It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone this close.”