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“I’m sorry.” The solemn note to his face is not one I've seen before. “By the time you started talking, I didn’t know if I should interrupt.”
Of all fucking people in this place, it just had to be him, didn’t it?
I don’t speak, my indignation and humiliation at his eavesdropping keeping me mute. I would be more annoyed, but he doesn’t have his usual penetrating stare or that godforsaken poise of his. In fact, he looks positively ashen.
Without waiting for my permission, he walks slowly towards me, carrying two bottles of champagne in the fingers of one hand. He places them onto the small round table beside us before taking a seat in the armchair opposite me.
If I had a voice, I’d be tempted to give him some sanctimonious speech about not making his presence known, but there’s a solemnity in his eyes that stops me.
He stares down at the floor between us, his chest rising and falling so heavily that it’s as if his whole body is moved by some internal ocean wave.
As his gaze finally makes its way back up to my face, his lips part as if to speak, but he says nothing, searching my eyes.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Indie. I really didn’t.”
I want to muster up something biting to scoff at him, but I don’t.
“Your ex,” he says. “That guy who was at Carrie’s that last day?”
I shake my head. “No. That was Kohl. This is… someone else.” I can’t say his name to him. I don’t want him to hear it.
I contemplate whether to engage in this conversation, but I’m so exhausted at feeling alone and helpless, and Grey’s expression is so stern, as if desperate to know, that I can’t help the words which pour out.
“I dated him a year ago. It lasted just under six months and it… wasn’t healthy. I ended it and he didn’t take that well.”
“He’s in prison,” he says, and I realize he must have heard that part of the conversation. It’s also one of the most embarrassing parts of the story. Telling people you’re being stalked by an unhinged ex who is now incarcerated makes you look like a woman who can’t read the signs, who likes dangerous men. In reality, as I've found out, something like this can happen to anyone.
“In jail,” I clarify. “Awaiting trial… or a plea bargain.”
“For what he did to you?”
“No,” I reply. “For beating up a guy in a bar. Really, really badly.”
“And to you…? Did he… He hurt you?”
I stare down at my hands, only just now realizing that tears are still dripping down my face. I swipe them away before nodding, not meeting his eyes.
I vaguely see his head dropping, his palm wiping backwards over his forehead to the sound of audible breaths.
He doesn’t lift his head. “Did you ever file a complaint?”
I bristle at the question, not least because I ask myself how someone smart and feisty who fights for women’s rights can be so afraid that she’d rather try to make this all just go away than have to face the consequences of having him arrested.
“No,” I reply firmly, finding his eyes. “Most women don’t. And if you’ve never been in this situation, you can’t understand. I've seen with my friends how the system is stacked against women who accuse men of abuse, especially powerful ones. I know what will happen. It’ll be my word against his. I didn’t go to the police straight away. We didn’t collect the evidence we needed. If I do accuse him, the chances of charges being filed are slim and there’d be absolutely no protection for me.”
I hear the desperation in my own voice, the desperation to have someone understand.
“There’s a huge backlog of cases so it could take a year or two or three, during which time, my life would be on hold and I’d have to live with the fear of my family or friends being targeted by him. I've seen someone close to me go through this, so please don’t judge me. You can’t unders—”
“I do understand,” he growls. “I do. I… I've seen it myself.”
I frown, wrapping my arms around myself as his body tightens. “What do you mean?You?”
“No. Not me. But someone… close… to me.” Am I imagining it or are his eyes misting over? “I know how this works, Indie. I understand.”
I can’t explain why and I hate that I’m doing it, but something about his words makes me drop my head, causing silent tears to fall onto my dress, the droplets disappearing from focus as his hand appears, wrapping around my wrist, squeezing it tightly.
“It’s going to be okay.” His words make me close my eyes, feeling tears leak out from under my lids. “I promise you.”
