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She walks my way with a smile that must cause her pain.
“Yes, sir?” she asks, her eyes darting from me to the menu on the coffee table, probably thinking I want to order something else.
In the past, I’ve found directness is best in these situations. I pick up the card I’ve dug from my wallet and hand it to her. On it is the web address for Susan’s shelter and her direct phone number scrawled on the back. This woman needs help. Today.
Her brow scrunches in confusion until she reads the lettering on the front. Less than a second passes before clarity has her face screwed up in anger—one of several reactions I’d expected.
Hell, I was angry for a long damn time, too. Mostly, it was to hide the shame I felt.
“What is this?” She waves the card in my face, pinching a tip as if it will combust at any moment.
“It’s a lifeline for you… and your kids, if you have them. Call that number and they will help you… without questions. That is, until you’re ready to answer them.”
She throws the card in a show of disgust. It flutters to the edge of the coffee table.
Sweat breaks out on her forehead as she blusters. “What do you know about my life? What kind of man are you?” Her low tone is rife with ire as it rises shrilly at the end of each question.
I look her in the eye. Using a dull, matter-of-fact voice to calm her, I give the only answer that will deescalate the situation. “Just a man who has suffered through abuse.”
Her eyes nearly spring from her head as she looks me up and down, taking in my size, my designer clothes, and my expensive watch. Despite this, she recognizes me for what I am. Whatweare.
Her mouth trembles. She clutches her sides as tears well in her eyes. “Y-you?”
I nod as I hold her gaze, struggling to keep my head high and not dip it in embarrassment like I want to…have done. Same as with this woman, my former self is the weight I carry on my shoulders.
And sometimes, it’s more than I can bear.
She wipes at her tears, darting her eyes to see if anyone is looking. I stand and place a hand on her shoulder for reassurance, squeezing it as I talk. “You don’t have to keep living the life you are living. People can help you.Iwant to help you. Just know, you are not alone.”
She nods, speaking to the floor. “My friends have begged me to leave him. If my dad were alive…” She raises her face to mine, determination shining in her gaze. “I’ll call. I’ll call today.”
Sin slides past the server to sit on the couch and digs in her bag for her phone, acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
I’m grateful she doesn’t launch into an inquiry. It saves the server from an awkward exchange.
Once again, I pick up the card and hand it to the woman. “Sharon, the woman who runs the shelter… this is her number on the back. She will provide everything you need to help you... a ticket to wherever you want to go.”
“Thank you, sir.” Giving me a genuine smile, she straightens her shoulders and walks away. Her limp is still noticeable in her gait, but lighter than it was before.
As I sit beside her, Sin continues to play on her phone. She has yet to look at me, and I don’t know what she must be thinking. Her face is a blank page.
“Don’t you want to know what that was all about?” I ask, tensing myself for a confrontation. Sin must have heard the tail end of my exchange and I hope she hasn’t misconstrued things…
She shuts off her phone and puts it back in her bag. Turning to me, she says, “You’re helping her, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say hesitantly, unsure of where this is going, as Sin’s expression still hasn’t changed. “I saw her bruises through her makeup before she even got close to the table.”
Sin and I have never talked about the Grayson Foundation and why it’s so important to me.
I guess I should have brought it up before now, but there was never a proper time. This last week she was with me, I’d spent a few hours at the office while she rested, and while I was at the gym, the masseur came by to help with her shoulder.
At breakfast and dinner, the meals we ate together, our talks consisted of colorful tales about her parent’s work on a sheep farm a million miles away, sites I still needed to see in Austin, and all the different pictures she could take in New York. I even mentioned a few galleries she could show her portfolio to.
I have to admit; I didn’t care what we talked about as long as I could hear her voice.
But if I want to move forward with her, I need to come clean to Gramps.
And let the chips fall where they may.
