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“We both know that’s not true.” Troy’s voice is gentle, free of judgment. “Your friend who was stalked, that was really you, wasn’t it?”
I wince but manage to keep it off my face. Troy’s a smart man. Of course he would thinkyour friendis synonymous with me.
“No, I wasn’t the one who was stalked.” Not a complete lie. I told him my friend was stalked in college. That’s not when my husband began stalking me. “Nothing bad like that has happened.” It’s a good thing he can’t hear my heartbeat. He’d know for sure I’m lying. Why can’t he drop it? Why does he have to be like a dog with his favorite bone?
“Okay.” It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. His eyes and the way he’s looking at me tell me that much. “I won’t be long in the shower.”
He leaves, and I gulp down the water he gave me. I empty the glass, walk to the towels hanging on the oven door, and adjust them so the bottoms are uneven.
I grab Troy’s empty glass from the counter, wash and dry our glasses, and put them in the cupboard. The other glasses are arranged in tidy rows. I put the two glasses on the shelf, purposefully making them uneven with the others, and shut the door.
Butterscotch peers up at me, his head cocked to the side. I lower myself to the floor next to him and stroke him. His soft hair against my palm slowly begins to soothe me.
The tremor subsides after a few minutes, and I can breathe again. I’m tempted to leave, to not wait for Troy. But what if Troy’s extreme tidiness is the result of being in the military? What if it isn’t a warning sign of a dangerous man who needs to be in control all the time?
I think about when we took a break during the hike and he touched my chin. I’d flinched, and he apologized and let me take the lead when it came to him touching me. He hasn’t tried to do anything to control me or make me feel uncomfortable.
But neither had my husband in the beginning.
Troy returns wearing jeans and a clean T-shirt, his hair messy and damp. He walks past the towels without giving them a second glance. My husband couldn’t have done that. He would have stopped, straightened them, and made sure I knew he was displeased with my sloppiness.
“You’ll need to stay here while I go to Jessica’s house,” Troy tells Butterscotch.
“He can come too.”
“Are you sure? His breed doesn’t shed a ton, but he does still shed. It drives the woman who cleans my house crazy.”
“Someone cleans your house?” The timbre of my voice rises to a dry squeak.
Troy laughs, and the rich deep sound vibrates through my body and eases my fear. “My house isn’t normally this tidy. I’m not a slob, but I also don’t have much time for housework. So I hired a woman from down the street to come here weekly. She’s kind of a neat freak. Probably puts some of my anally-neat-freakish COs to shame. She doesn’t usually work on Saturdays, but something came up this week, so she came over today.”
All the fear and tension leaves me in awhoosh,taking the rest of the tremor with it. “I’m not a neat freak either. And I’m fine with Butterscotch getting his hair all over my house.”
“All right. As long as you’re sure.”
We drive to the restaurant to pick up the pizza and head to my house.
Troy and Butterscotch stay in the living room while I go upstairs for a quick shower.
In the bathroom, I pull my hair up in a loose ponytail and strip out of my dirty clothes. My body is a tangle of scars, some visible, others invisible to the naked eye. Some were the result of my time in prison. The rest are from a different hell.
In one light, they make me look weak, a victim. Easily broken. In another light, I look kick-ass, strong. A fighter. Not easily taken down. It all depends on the story told, and the backstory people choose to believe.
I spin around and look over my shoulder, inspecting the wound on my back. I haven’t needed to cover it during the past week. The stitches have dissolved, and the wound is now a healing red scar.
I turn the shower on and step under the hot water. Heat sinks under my skin, chases away the residual tension. I grab the soap and lather my body. A sweet strawberry scent mingles with the steam.
I close my eyes and inhale the soothing fragrance. An image of Troy stepping into the shower slips unexpectedly into my thoughts. Drops of water sliding down his tanned skin, kissing those golden muscles. My heart rate spikes and my breathing quickens. Why couldn’t this be the image that appears in my dreams instead of the usual nightmares that slither in?
I open my eyes and the image of Troy vanishes. I’m broken. Damaged. Troy’s only interested in me because he’s trying to help me. Being protective—it’s part of his DNA. He wouldn’t be interested in me that way if he saw the scars on my soul.
I finish in the shower and dry myself off. The foggy mirror hides my reflection, but I don’t need to see it to know I’m ugly. My husband married me because I was beautiful. Together, we were the picture of perfection.
I swiftly change into a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt and head downstairs to find Troy inspecting my kitchen. He turns on the faucet before I can warn him not to twist it too fast.
A disgruntled groan comes from the pipe, and a blast of water that would make Old Faithful proud erupts over Troy. The force of it causes him to take a step back, and a giggle explodes from me.
“S-sorry. I…I should have…warned you,” I manage to get out between giggles.
