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“Oh, um… what do you want to know?” she asked, her eyes shifting away from me. I could see her body tense, her nerves beginning to take over.
“Whatever you can tell me. Do you know her last name?”
“Oh um, yes. Ruiz.”
I pulled out a small book from my back pocket and a pen and wrote the name down.
“What about an address? Family members?”
Phoebe took another long sip of her drink, draining it in fact, before setting the empty glass on the coffee table. I narrowed my eyes on her but remained quiet.
“I don’t know much, really,” she admitted, refusing to meet my eyes for longer than two seconds.
I’ve known Phoebe long enough to know this was a tale of hers. She was either lying or hiding something crucial. Something she knew would piss me off.
Instead of calling her on it, I went another direction. “Why don’t you tell me how you two met?”
“Okay, yeah…” she rested fidgeting hands in her lap. “She and I volunteered at the same women’s shelter.”
“Which one?”
She rattled off the name of a shelter in Carrollton. I wrote it down, then asked, “How long have you been volunteering?”
“Since I got out of the army. My therapist thought it would be a good idea to share my story with other victims of domestic abuse. She said it may help me deal with what happened as well as help someone else who had gone through the same situation as me or something similar.”
“Did it help?”
“Yes, it did, actually. It still does. It feels good to know I’m making a difference in someone’s life; every little bit helps.”
“I agree and I’m glad you find it rewarding. How do you spend your time volunteering? Are you a counselor?”
“Oh no, I’m not. I help with getting families settled with supplies they may need: food, a bed or a room if it’s a family settling in. I help during meetings, put out the snacks, stuff like that and occasionally I would share my story with the women there, hoping that hearing they weren’t alone would help them.”
I smiled, genuinely pleased with knowing how she coped with her past.
“Wow, that’s great. I’m glad you’ve found a way to give back to help others.”
“Thanks. Volunteering, being around strong women, survivors, makes it a little easier to believe that what happened to me wasn’t my fault.”
What? She thought that what happened to her was her fault?
“Are you shitting me? What happened to you wasn’t your fault,” I told her, my voice taking on a harshness I hadn’t intended. She leaned back from me, not in fear but shock.
I scooted closer to her and placed a gentle palm against her soft cheek.
“Phoebe, what happened to you wasn’t your fault,” I reiterated, doing my best to take the intensity from my voice. “He attacked you, he brokeyourtrust, he tried to break you. But he didn’t. Do you hear me? He could never break you. You’re too strong for that.”
The smile that warmed her face almost fractured my soul. To think she blamed herself for what that motherfucker did to her only added more fuel to an already charged fire. The next time I saw Schindler, I would make him pay for hurting her. For fucking sure.
“Thank you for saying that, Lock. And I know it wasn’t my fault. I just sometimes… when I’m low…”
She trailed off, and I leaned forwarded, pulling her closer until our foreheads touched.
“Whenever you’re feeling at your lowest, you call me. I’ll be happy to remind you of your worth.”
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pull her under me and show her just how much she was valued, cared for. But I didn’t. I needed to stay focused. There were some tough questions that I needed to ask and getting lost in this woman would only prolong the inevitable.
I released my hold on her and stood. I walked over to the bar, grabbed the bottle of Jack and another glass, and headed back to the couch. I filled her glass back up and made myself a drink too. I needed it after that shit.
