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"Can I have a glass of water?" I asked Jeff. My mouth was so dry.
"Yeah, sure, hold on. I will grab it for you," Jeff said as he walked back to the fridge. He continued speaking, "Can you please tell me what happened?"
I knew there was nothing I could do but tell him everything. Jeff knew Brad was not the greatest guy. He knew Brad was jealous, possessive, and controlling. Jeff would see Brad at the bar sometimes when we worked.
There were times a customer would flirt with me, and because I was working mostly for tips, I flirted back. I tried to explain to Brad all the time that it was just part of the job, and it never actually meant anything. Brad never believed me. He would just grab my arm and pull me closer and whisper in my ear, usually to tell me that I was a slut or a piece of shit.
I knew Jeff saw it, and sometimes he could even hear Brad utter the disgusting comments. But Jeff never saw Brad hit me, nor did I ever tell him that Brad had beaten me.
There were a few times I had a black eye or bruised arm, but I became pretty good at coming up with an excuse about how clumsy I was. There was the time I told him I tripped over my guitar and smacked my face against the wall or the time I told him I slipped in the shower.
When Jeff came back into the room and handed me the glass of water, he asked again for me to tell him what had happened. I took a long sip of water and decided to just tell him.
"Brad hit me," was all I could say.
"Fuck that. He did more than hit you; he beat the shit out of you. Look at you."
"Please, Jeff," I begged.
"No, enough with the lies. I want to know the truth. I sat around watching you show up to work with bruises and you asking me to hide money for you for almost a year. I deserve to know the truth," Jeff said with anger coursing in his voice.
And he did. He deserved to know it all. He was right. I had been asking him to hold a portion of my tips without giving him any reason why, and because Jeff was such a great guy, he did it with no questions asked.
"Tell me, Kenna, please," he pleaded.
"I got out of the shower," I started, with new tears stinging my eyes. "Brad was there," I said.
As I replayed what happened, Jeff's face turned to sympathy for me, and then as I continued with everything, his face turned to anger. He got up from the sofa and started to pace, and then I heard the crash. Jeff had taken the table lamp and thrown it against the wall. I jumped, and Jeff immediately ran over to me.
"Kenna, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just—fuck, I don't even know what to say or do right now. This is fucking crazy. I knew he was hurting you; I knew you were feeding me a bunch of bullshit. You are not going back to him. Please tell me you are not going back to him," Jeff pleaded.
"No, I'm done. If I don't, it will just keep getting worse. God, I don't even know how I could let it get this bad. When we met, he was so sweet, caring, and affectionate. I can't even tell you when it started to change," I cried.
My mind drifted to how I met Brad. I was writing songs in college for local musicians in the city. I actually got a pretty good name locally. I had bands reaching out to me for help with songs.
Sometimes I would write the songs, and sometimes they just wanted help with a song they were writing. There were times I performed duets with some of the local bands, and I even performed with them at some of the college bars around the city. I even performed in the shithole I worked at on numerous occasions.
One local band and I wrote a few songs together that were duets. They had been hired to perform at a wedding at a fancy country club right outside the city. I think the guitarist was the brother of the bride. I remember at a few of the gigs.
Brad was good friends with the groom. I remember Brad coming up to me at the end of the night when I was packing up my things. He had a flower from one of the centerpieces. He told me my voice was amazing.
We talked for a few minutes, and he asked for my number. I thought he was cute, so what the hell? I gave him my number, and a week later, we went out on our first date.
Jeff dragged me out of my thoughts, "Kenna, I think we should go to the cops and file a report and hopefully get a restraining order. I can't imagine you getting denied one."
I lifted my eyes up at Jeff. I know the statistics I knew a restraining order was just a piece of paper, and I also knew Brad’s parents would do what was needed to keep their son from getting arrested or having charges filed against him.
“No, I need to leave.”
“What do you mean leave?” Jeff asked.
“Jeff, I need to leave Massachusetts. I need to go home,” I said, tongue and cheek.
“Home, you are going to go home? To Florida?”
“Yes.”
“Shit,” Jeff whispered, looking down and then back up into my tear-filled eyes. “When?”
