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“I’m fine,oh.”
Tom pressed himself against my back, wrapping an arm around my waist. “You’re not dying of hypothermia on my watch.”
I lasted all of five seconds until I melted against him, grateful for the warmth.
“Fine, then. I won’t.”
My eyelids slowly blinked. A little bit of port and being cocooned in the sleeping bag with Tom, listening to his breathing, was lulling me to sleep.
It was still very early even if it was now pitch black outside. Despite being up since before dawn, I needed to talk.
“Richard was controlling. He demanded I share my work calendar, tell him where I was going at uni all the time. He corrected my work in front of others when beforehand, in private, he said my work was fine.”
Tom sought my hand and threaded his fingers through mine, squeezing. “You don’t have to—”
“I want you to know everything.”
He nodded against my hair, his breath hot against my neck.
“After Granny Lynn’s funeral, I popped into Turner’s Creek to speak to Ryan about broken slashers but he was sick. Talked a bit with your mum about things with Richard then, and a few times after that. Do you remember asking me at the funeral if I was happy with Richard?”
“I remember,” he murmured. “You weren’t. I could tell.”
“No. But I didn’t know why. I felt guilty that I didn’t feel happy. That Richard seemed embarrassed about us sharing we were engaged.” I swallowed hard. The darkness and facing away from Tom made it easier to make my confession. “Richard and I hadn’t slept together for over a month by the awards night. I’m certain he was sleeping with others.”
“Rosie.” Tom squeezed my hand again, and I held on tight.
“I didn’t mean to speak to your mum. I was hoping to catch Ryan about repairs to our slasher before I headed back to campus. But he wasn’t well. She was feeling better after a gastro bug. I made her tea and we talked. And I found myself telling her everything. My parents only praised Richard. I tried to talk to mum about him, but she said I should be grateful.”
I let out a shuddering breath.
“Grateful. For him controlling my life? Stealing my research? Cheating on me?” Tom squeezed my hand again, his chest vibrating with a low growl. “He never physically harmed me, but it is abuse. I didn’t really know until your mum pointed it out. I knew it wasn’t right, but she was the one who gave his behaviour a name. Coercive control.”
I sniffed. Tom was breathing hard.
“Are you okay?”
“Am I—” He abruptly stopped, sitting up on one elbow, his eyes looking deep into my soul. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.” And I smiled. “I’ve felt lighter ever since that awful awards night. Relieved. Someone else had seen through his lies, and it was exposed. I felt free, even if my parents didn’t see it that way.”
“Why don’t they believe you?”
“Because they were swindled by him as well. They don’t want to believe or admit they were deceived.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“That you’re hurting. That he drove a wedge between you and your parents.”
“I’m okay.” Or I will be. “Every day I’m more okay than the day before.”
“What can I do to help?”
The silence now felt charged, anticipatory, as if what we said next had the power to change everything between us.
“I asked you before if there was anything I could do to help.”
