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“He was.” I incline my head, attempting to keep all nervousness from leaking out of my voice. “I met him after one of my solo nights, kind of like a showcase. He was sweet at first. He drank a lot, still does. I didn’t like that, so I ended it. He wasn’t happy about that, and he started following me. After the show, he left me alone because I’m sure he knew Dayton would have kicked his ass. But I still saw him, even though it was a cleaned-up version. He started using his degree, dressing nicely. He was polite and never talked to me long. Complete turnaround.”
“Is that what appealed to you? His change?”
“I liked him in the beginning. I just didn’t like how he got when he was drunk.”
Ariel nods after jotting down a few notes, before meeting my gaze once again. “And how was that?”
“Controlling, yelled a lot.” Memories of Ben beating me, controlling me, start to flood my mind, but I have to press on. I close my eyes, willing them to go away, pushing them to the farthest recesses of my brain until it’s time to dig them out.
He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m safe.
“Stress?” Ariel asks, and I’m brought back to the present—away from my past. For now.
“I don’t know much about his life. He wouldn’t talk about it. I met his father once, but they’re complete opposites.”
“Go on with the story,” Ariel urges.
“Dayton’s drinking started getting bad. It was the cause of many of our fights. The night of the accident, I just couldn’t stay anymore. Yeah, it was a dick move writing a letter. It was even worse showing up here during the show. I ruffled a lot of feathers doing that.”
“Why did you show up?” she asks, tilting her head and listening intently.
“I don’t even know.” I shrug, and it’s true. I honestly don’t have an answer as to why. I just did without thought or reasoning. “By then,” I continue, “I was with Ben again. Then, Dayton showed up to get closure, and Ben allowed it.”
“Allowed it?” Ariel arches a questioning brow.
“I’ll get to that. After the accident, I left Dayton. Easton was there for me, helping me. He got me back to dancing in no time, except I was chorus and not front and center.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“Maybe . . . a little. Pissed my parents off since I had been principal. I could have been relieved as well. And I thought there could be something with Easton, but then Ben started calling. He came to anything I was in, would talk to me afterward, and ask me to coffee. Like I said, it was the cleaned-up version. It was nice. Soon, he told me he wanted to take care of me, so I quit dancing. I believed every word. My parents even loved Ben. They would laugh when they saw a bruise, told him to keep me in line.”
I have to stop for a moment and collect myself. This hurts to talk about. To relive. To know my parents couldn’t care less if a man beat the shit out of me. Parents are supposed to protect their children—not allow harm to come to them. Unfortunately, mine are enablers, and I can’t say they ever loved me—not like they should, or at all if I think about it.
“That’s how much my parents didn’t love me,” I continue, refusing to shed a tear for them. “They only loved what I could do for them. Eight months became about who I could talk to, which was no one. He took my phone, keys, and wallet, told me what I could wear, that it had to cover my bruises. As I said, my life was controlled, manipulated—even with food. It was like living with my parents but with beatings. And it didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual. First, it would be suggestions about what to wear or eat. I thought he was being nice.” I shake my head at the thought of Ben being “nice.” Please. “It started to get worse, and then the beatings started. The night I left . . . I knew I had to get out of there. I knew if I stayed, he would have killed me.”
“You didn’t want the cops called?”
“We tried to get a restraining order,” I inhale a deep breath and exhale before continuing, “but it was only one time, according to him and his statement. I let it go. I’m trying to move on.” I’ve come to understand that if I practice controlling my breathing, I’m able to speak without my emotions taking over completely. Yes, they’re still present, but they’ve become more manageable. As long as I concentrate, breathe, and stay focused on the discussion, I’m able to think rationally. It’s an everyday, concerted effort, though. One I’ll be working on for a long time to come.
“I think you’re brave.” Ariel sets her pen and paper down, leaning forward, clasping her hands together. “I’ve seen the change since you’ve been here. You’re really coming along. I think it has something to do with the two men waiting in the kitchen.” She winks.
“Is it weird to like two guys?” I ask somewhat nervously.
“I don’t think it should matter. I mean, you’re lucky in the sense that they’re both awesome guys and they care about you.”
I sigh almost wistfully, flopping my arms at my sides dramatically. “I feel like I’m floating on air.”
“Use that feeling. Now, let’s get food.” Ariel smiles as she rises from her chair.
After every session with her, I feel better and better, like I can go on living.
