Not being with Hannah, not speaking to her for weeks, and now my father being on my back at this stuck-up event I shouldn’t even have come to is making me want to climb the walls.
I see Sinclair’s normally egotistical expression slip, and I think I’ve wounded him beneath his jaded, party-boy armor.
“Jesus, guess I’ll just leave you alone then. I don’t even know why I came tonight, thought it’d be nice to spend some time together.” His voice almost sounds sincere to me.
When he turns to stomp off in the opposite direction as my parents, I grab his arm. “Sin, I didn’t mean that. I’m just … I’m working through some shit.”
His eyes, the same blue as mine, give me nothing. “Aren’t we all?”
And then my brother stalks off.
Great, I think as I blow an agitated breath out through my mouth. Now I’ve managed to piss off my entire family, and the woman I love is barely talking to me.
Apparently, this new year is going to be shit if the beginning supposedly dictates what will happen over the next three hundred and sixty-four days.
20
Hannah
At the start of all this, after Shane was arrested in the stadium parking lot and my photos were leaked to the media, it still kind of felt like I was coming out of a very dark tunnel.
Getting away from my abusive husband, being able to live in a house with my girls that I could run however I wish. Having the freedom to get my own job, to make my own money. It all seemed like I was turning a fresh page, that I could finally come up for air after I was drowning for so long.
Now I remember why I was so fearful to jump off the ledge, because the chance of flying was only fifty-fifty. For a while, I thought I was flapping my wings, successfully motoring through the air. But it was a farce, a false sense of security. I was really only gliding, waiting for the first sign of a storm to knock me to the ground.
And it has. Over the past week and a half, since the holidays and into the New Year, I’ve sunk into a pit of my own depression. I can paint a smile on my face for the girls, and make it to work on time, but my mood is so low that I can’t see any kind of positives coming anytime soon. It feels like no matter what I do, how patient or reserved I am, that I won’t win. The odds are stacked against me—concerning financials, custody, security, and everything else—and it all feel insurmountable.
After the Christmas Eve debacle, I expected something to change in either of the cases pending against Shane. But unfortunately, as it’s his first offense and the judge on call for the holidays didn’t want to deal with paperwork—or so Laurel explained—virtually nothing changed with our domestic violence trial or restraining order. I was hoping his visitation would get cut, or maybe even limited, but all he got was a warning through his lawyer’s office.
It seems that because I never reported anything before, and the justice system could only go off of the he-said/she-said arguments that Shane and I had, that it was better to do nothing. And unless I am willing to bring my girls in to testify to their side of the story as Shane was screaming at Dahlia on the phone, which I would avoid at all costs, there’s nothing we can really do.
They were so shaken when they got home that I let them open two presents each on Christmas Eve, something that has always been reserved solely for Christmas Day. Noelle had been crying when she came in, clinging to me like someone might rip her away. Breanna just seemed shaken, though unaware of how serious it all had been. I had to fall asleep in bed with Noelle because she kept talking about Daddy yelling into his phone.
I thought it might be able to impact the divorce filing, but my attorney on that one said that it might not do anything.
And now I understand how the court system fails women like me every day. It doesn’t matter that we have a high-profile case, in some ways that even harms me more. But under the impressions I’ve gathered while going through the first stages of this process, I can just tell that it doesn’t favor the victim.
It worries me whenever I hear that divorce cases could take years, that Shane could drag this out over every dish in our kitchen, or whether or not he’ll pay for the girl’s schooling. And I can’t even think about Walker in this moment, how much my stupid flirtation and thinking I could have a happily ever after so soon after my nightmare has already cost me.
I’m washing a forty-something mom’s dyed blond hair when I hear them. Bridget is one of the hairdressers at the salon, a chic twenty-something who could have been me, once upon a time. She’s whispering to a client, but she isn’t doing a very good job at keeping her voice under the necessary noise level.
“Yeah, it is kind of strange having her here. Kind of like a local celebrity, or … more like a train wreck you can’t look away from.”
The client snorts. “Well, lord knows she’ll only be here until she gets her settlement. Or until he takes her back. Good lord, do you see the arms on that man? How could anyone let him go?”
I can’t see Bridget or her client, due to the stalls of the shampoo stations, but I just know they’re talking about me. My spine stiffens, and my throat goes dry. I don’t want to hear this, but deep down I know that some of the women here have the same opinions as Bridget. They see me as a spectacle, some kind of moron who just wants to punish her rich husband.
“I don’t know, honestly. Shane is just so hot. Anyways, she’ll probably go back to him. It just annoys me that she got hired here with a lapsed license and thinks it’ll turn into something. As if the rest of us haven’t been working our asses off to hone our craft and work endless hours. This is just a fallback job to her.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, because their words are so cruel. But also, it’s not as if I haven’t thought those self-deprecating things about myself a thousand times. It isn’t as if I haven’t doubted that I’ll go one hundred percent through with this, or worry each moment how I’ll put food in my daughter’s mouths. I’m furious that these people are debating my life as if it’s some meaningless soap opera or reality show. That they’re justifying the way my husband abused me. I’m angry that they have no clue what they’re talking about, but feel entitled to an opinion about my life.
And I’m ashamed and embarrassed that a lot of the people in here probably think the same thing about me.
It also makes me regret everything I’ve shared with Walker thus far. Because if I really let their poison sink into my wounds, they’re right. I am trading one famous, rich man for another. If things work out with me and Walker, would I not abandon my career once more if he asked me to? Wouldn’t I care more for my family than my individual wants? My track record shows that’s what I would do.
“Excuse me,” I say to the client whose wet hair is in my hands.
Then I dart for the bathroom, almost knocking over a display shelf on my way. I’m only in there for two seconds, my breakdown starting as my shoulders shake and tears fall, before a loud pound comes from the other side of the door.
Ginny knocks and then just walks on in, not even considering that this is a single stall bathroom I could very well be doing something other than crying in.
“What happened?” she asks as soon as she walks in.
I wipe the tears from my burning hot cheeks, trying to breathe through my anger and hurt. “I just overheard a conversation Bridget was having with one of her clients.”
“Let me guess, she was talking about you?” Ginny rubs my arm comfortingly.
A hiccup bursts from my throat, which is only more embarrassing. I’m a grown woman, a mother, and I’m crying over some sticks and stones type shit in the bathroom of my employer. In front of my employer.
“Saying something about how I was just here until my abusive, rich husband decided he wanted me back. That I’d gotten where I was by …” I gulp, because the words are so vile I want to puke them up, “lying on my back.”
Ginny makes a tsk sound, shaking her head at Bridget’s cruelness. I think maybe she’s going to sympathize with me, or say that
she’s going to talk to Bridget about her attitude or the things she said. Maybe Ginny is about to tell me she’s going to fire her.
But instead, her eyes slant down with sympathy, but fill with something else. Grit, I’d have to call it.
“You’re going to have to suck it up.”
Her words feel like a slap, and I inhale sharply.
“I’m not trying to be mean, or pour salt in the wound, but in this situation, you might need some salt. You’re a strong-ass woman, Hannah. I’ve seen glimpses of it. Hell, you’ve lasted this long not going back to that bastard, which is a hell of a lot longer than I did the first three or four times I tried to leave my ex. But, honey, people are going to talk about you for the rest of your life. They’re going to point, speculate, say awful things, some of them even directly to your face. Long after this trial is over, and you’re divorced, they’re going to bring it up. It’ll be an anniversary special on some sports network. You’ll be a footnote in history. And that’s just the goddamn truth because of who you’re married to and how the scandal came out. You can either continue to run from that, hiding in bathrooms crying, or you can pull on your big girl panties and show the world just how much of a victim you are not.”
That little speech feels both like a poke between my ribs, stealing my breath, and a torch that just lit my soul on fire. Because goddammit, Ginny is right. Bridget might have been the first person I personally overheard talking about it, but that doesn’t mean thousands of people aren’t talking about me. About how weak I am, or how I wanted this to happen. How shitty of a mother I am, or how I don’t realize how lucky I am to be married to the Shane Giraldi. I’m sure Internet trolls are roasting me this very second, and even some of my closest friends from high school are gossiping via private Facebook messages.
Up until this point, I’ve put it out of my head, because that’s a whole other layer of stress I don’t need. But once Bridget’s conversation floated through my ears, I could no longer be blissfully ignorant.
I have to let this tidal wave crash, and then swim to the surface, just like Ginny is suggesting.
“You’re absolutely right.” I square my shoulders, as if it’s just one more dragon I have to slay.
“Good, now get out there and wash some hair. And if it’ll cheer you up, I have a root touch-up coming in at three. You can assist.” Ginny swats me on the butt.
I wipe my tears, splash some water on my face, and walk out of the bathroom pretending I’m wearing a new set of armor.
21
Hannah
Two days after my breakdown in the Siesta bathroom, I’m home alone after Dahlia brings Noelle and Breanna to their scheduled visit with Shane.
My nerves are through the roof, because of what happened on Christmas, and the fact that Shane has been spotty even trying to get this on the calendar. It’s been almost two weeks since the girls have seen him, because he’s been making excuses about why he can’t take them this day or that day. I’m pretty sure the novelty of trying to come across as a good parent through the divorce proceedings has worn off for Shane, and now he doesn’t want the responsibility of caring for the girls.
My confidence in the fact that I can and will survive this, come out of this season of my life, as a whole person is waning. Even with the pep talk from Ginny, and lots of late night consoling from Dahlia, I can’t seem to find the inner strength I need to pull myself up by the bootstraps. I can’t seem to find the spite and ire to say, as my sister has put it, “fuck the haters and get my ass in gear.”
I guess this is the dip they talk about in therapy. I’ve been going to sessions less frequently now, which is probably part of the problem, but I just don’t have the time between work and motherhood. My therapist keeps telling me that those around me won’t thrive if I’m not giving one hundred percent to my mental health, but what is a single mother barely keeping a household afloat supposed to do?
Anyway, I’ve been to a few group sessions over the last few weeks, of the ones I could make it to. It’s about six women, a private gathering in my therapist’s office, all of whom are domestic violence victims. Initially, I was comforted by their stories, and encouraged by the ones who seem to be further along in the detachment process than I am. But now, they’re like the mirrors I just don’t want to face. Each time I explain what is going on in my life, they are quick to remind me that I’ll be in a low period for a while. That it gets much worse before it gets better. That there will be days I’ll be so close to calling this all off and going back to him, I’ll hate myself for the weakness.
I don’t want to be this person, this emotionally crippled, feeble woman that Shane turned me into. Yet, here we are.
The doorbell rings unexpectedly, and I jump. If it were Dahlia, she’d use her key. But she told me she wouldn’t be home until late, talking about some shift she picked up at a bar nearby just to make some extra money.
Chills run down my neck at the thought that this could be Shane, either alone or with our daughters. Would he seriously violate the restraining order because he can’t handle being with the two most precious little girls for a few hours? It’s sad that my answer is yes.
Except when I glance through the peephole, there is a different man waiting on my front porch.
“Hi …” I say, somewhat phrasing it as a question as I open the door for Walker.
He holds out a beautiful bouquet of pale pink roses, and I can’t help the small smile that stretches my lips.
“I missed you.” That deep voice echoes in my heart, and all the parts south of my waist that have missed him tremendously.
Speaking of those traitorous, no-good parts, they’re all on high alert now that Packton’s golden man is walking into my house as I step back, letting him enter. My goodness, does he look edible. I haven’t seen him since before Christmas, and he’s grown his beard out. Paired with the short buzz on his head, the intensity of his blue eyes I seemed to forget about, and the way he’s almost smirking in that “I’ve seen you naked” way … I think my panties just caught fire.
I take the flowers. “This was sweet of you.”
We stand in the tiny foyer of my condo, and you could cut the tension with a knife.
“You mentioned earlier in the week that the girls had a visit tonight, so I wanted to come keep you company.” He runs those big hands up and down his biceps nervously.
“You didn’t have to do that.” My voice breaks in the middle of that sentence.
Walker sighs, casting his eyes down and back up again.
“Hannah, I’ve given you space. I respect that you want to keep things private, and I can do that—”
I sigh, because I know he’s going to say something so perfect and I just can’t hear it. “Walker, you really don’t know what’s been going on.”
“Because you won’t talk to me.” I see the hurt in his sapphire orbs. “Listen, I know you’re going through some shit. Really horrible, frustrating shit. But I want to be here for you, no matter what that looks like. I want you to unload all your stresses on me, or celebrate the good moments. If you need a day where we don’t talk as much, I understand that. This is a roller coaster for you, Hannah. I’m not asking for it not to be. I just … I want to ride the ups and downs with you. I feel … I have real feelings for you. I think you know that.”
“I do.” My voice is almost a whisper. “It scares me that I have those feelings for you, too. It all seems so quick, at a moment in my life where it would definitely be easier to be single.”
“Let me take care of you.” He brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone.
I lean into it, sighing at the slight touch. God, I’ve missed him, too.
So I spill it all. I fill him in on Christmas Eve, on everything I’ve been keeping from him. Walker listens without judgment or interruption.
“So you see, I take his threats seriously. I don’t want to give Shane any more reason to hate me, though most of them are all irrational and narcissistic. I know that
. But this is my custody of the girls on the line, I can’t risk that.”
“I would never ask you to. So if we need to keep this private, if we need to be more pre-meditated in how we spend time together, then I’m in. I don’t want spectacle and PDA. I just want you.”
Stepping into him, I wrap my arms around his defined waist, as he envelops me in a strong embrace. The pieces of me that have fallen apart over the last few weeks seem to glue themselves back together. Maybe not perfectly, but enough to make me feel somewhat whole again.
After a few minutes of him holding me, I glance up. “Thank you for coming over. I needed this. I needed you.”
“Good, because I have an idea.”
I’m almost one hundred percent sure he’s about to suggest taking me up to my bedroom, but then he pulls out a deck of cards.
I thought we could play cards.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and part of me thinks he’s hoping to place some bets on these games.
“That might take my mind off of some things. What were you thinking?” I smirk.
“Poker?” Walker suggests, toeing out of his shoes and sitting on the carpet like he’s made himself at home a thousand times.
I join him, sitting across the coffee table cross-legged. This is companionship, another facet to a relationship which I haven’t enjoyed in so long. Walker knew I’d be lonely and upset, so he came over to cheer me up. Sometimes, a gesture like this means much more than flowers or chocolate or great sex.
Though I am hard up for the great sex that he so selflessly provided.
“Don’t know how to play, sorry.” I shrug.
Walker begins to shuffle the deck. “That’s all right. How about blackjack?”
“With two people, that might get old quick. Plus, what’re we betting with?” I ask.
“I’ll get to that.” His grin could make the canary stroke out. “All right, go fish?”
Stealing Home (Callahan Family Book 2) Page 12
