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Chapter Seven
You have to grow from the inside out. None can teach you, none can make you spiritual. There is no other teacher but your own soul.
Swami Vivekananda
Melinda tapped her fingernails on the bistro tabletop. She lifted the half-empty water glass to her lips and drank again, even though she’d be running to the restroom two minutes after Melisa arrived.
Or I could just leave.There were only two other diners in the restaurant. A woman wearing too much paisley and a man staring at his phone from beneath his scratchy-looking orange beanie. They wouldn’t care. She toyed with the thought for exactly three seconds before abandoning it. She’d been the one to call Melisa the day before and ask to meet for lunch; there was no reason to chicken out now. Except every reason in the book.
Why had she wanted this meeting in the first place? Because she was going mad. But also, if anyone could understand post-kidnapping malaise, it was Melisa. Her mind switched gears. Post-kidnapping malaise ... “Post-Kidnapping Hollandaise?” It was catchy, but wholly inaccurate. The thought of rich sauces made her stomach revolt.
It had been a week since their rescue. A week since she’d been dumped into normal life. A week since their last snowstorm, and the streets were gray with dirt-crusted slush. It had also been a week since she’d seen Grant.
And if she were being honest, that was where the real mental instability lay. Did she want him? Or want him incarcerated? He scared the hell out of her. But why? The worst thing he’d done was erect a physical wall between them, which was so Freudian she almost laughed. After that, he’d begged her forgiveness, kept her alive and wooed her senseless. Her glass empty, Melinda got to work tearing her paper napkin to shreds.
Who the hell pushes away a ruggedly handsome, business-savvy lumberjack with eye crinkles?
He’s an egomaniac, she shot back, flexing for a mental tennis match.
Why, exactly? He gave you the best sex of your life and told you he had feelings for you. He’s clearly a monster.
All of that can be faked, she backhanded.
Says the pot to the kettle.Ooh, an ace.
He uses women. He said so himself! He’s a broken man, just like the rest,she lobbed.
He got vulnerable with you. Vulnerable is not the same as weak. He threatens you because he doesn’t need you to manage him, plus he gets you, and you don’t know how to deal with that.
If he’s so great, then why isn’t he beating down my door?She dove across the court for that one.
Loaded silence. She imagined her ego walking past its fans, tennis racket raised to acknowledge the cheers.
Why don’t you just talk with him?
Melinda ran after her victorious opponent. Because it is always better to be alone. It is never helpful to keep anyone close. Ever. Wasn’t that obvious?
Melisa had written her phone number on Melinda’s grocery list notepad that first night.
“I know you’ll want to go deep for a couple days,” she said. “Hibernate. Call your parents, tell your friends, all that. But if you emerge on the other side and feel a little confused, or want to talk with someone who knows a bit of what you’ve been through, give me a call. My schedule is flexible. Lunch dates work great for me. You’re choosing the restaurant, though.” She’d gestured at the expansive kitchen. “You clearly know a thing or two about cooking and I’m not putting my foot in my mouth by suggesting hot dogs at the gas station.”
Melinda had smiled wanly, accepted the other woman’s hug, and escorted her out the door. She’d ordered Indian food that night. She didn’t want to call her family but she could at least eat masoor dal with rice, chutney, and papadam.
It wasn’t as if Grant hadn’t reached out. The first night she’d gotten home, in fact, when she’d been wrapped in her chenille throw and staring out the windows at the blackness of Lookout Mountain Park, a text had arrived from a number she hadn’t recognized. She’d picked up her phone from the coffee table with a fluttering pulse, unsure if she wanted to see what was written.
Fortunately he hadn’t written You up? Or Feeling lonely?—pegging him for a player—though maybe it would’ve been simpler if he had. Instead, the ball was in her court, and her court was running scared.
“Did you make it home safely? If you need anything from me, let me know. I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this. Grant.”
She’d willed the words to unfurl into a letter, a novel, or at least a paragraph. And then she’d done nothing. She’d sent no reply, made no phone call. She’d stared at the message as if it was a snake on her coffee table. If she held still enough, it would slither away on its own.
Grant had excavated parts of her that even she didn’t know existed, and she felt exposed, raw, and totally lost.
Now, Melinda twisted her pendant as she scanned the menu without reading it. What Would Chandi Do? Were her own actions cruel enough to earn the wrath of the goddess?
Cold air rushed the restaurant as Melisa pushed through the glass door. She scanned the seating area, found Melinda, and smiled her way toward her. Melisa wasn’t scared of love or life or anything, Melinda guessed. She had experienced real terror and had emerged stronger for it.
Melisa set down her jacket and bag and moved to Melinda’s side to hug her.
