The Real

“Some would say I know better for you and others can suck my cock.” He grinned spitefully and shut the door behind him with a thud.

I was still kicking myself for admitting it to him. The Band-Aid had been pulled off, but I never told a soul about Kat’s abuse. Even when I was going through it, I was in a constant state of denial that she meant to hurt me. I knew the woman attacking me wasn’t the woman I married. That was my frame of mind at the time.

It was the day I realized it was Kat that I left. And a few months after that to fully leave her emotionally. The rest of the time I was trying to make sure she didn’t hurt herself or anyone else. And damn near every time I went to help her, she attacked me verbally or otherwise. It was a vicious cycle, but I could never bring myself to report it, to report her and it was mostly because I didn’t want to admit it to anyone, let alone a lawyer or any fucking judge. I’m six-foot-three with an athlete’s build. I dwarfed Kat in size. It was a ridiculous notion that she could do so much damage.

But women can scar, they can always scar, if you

let them.

And Max was right. She took advantage of the fact I wouldn’t hit her back.

It was a nightmare on a consistent and predictable spin cycle.

Foolishly I checked my phone and saw that I had nothing to look forward to. Instead, I stared at the screen saver, a picture of us on Abbie’s front porch on New Year’s Day, the day she reached her goal of five miles. It was my favorite picture and had the opposite effect it had the day before. Raw inside, I gave into temptation and flipped through more pictures while my heart hammered as a reminder that in no way was it over for me. Even as angry as I was with her refusal to listen, or that she slapped me, I couldn’t believe we were done. But I needed peace. It was the only thing keeping me sane. And I needed a distraction because Abbie was far too angry, and I had too many fresh bruises.

For the first time when it came to her, I didn’t trust my judgment to make any call.

I had games to coach. My only saving grace.

I’d barely toweled off from my shower when there was a knock on my door. My hopes of who was behind it dashed when I opened it and took a step back.

“Dad?”

“Hey son,” he said casually, a smile briefly touching his lips. “I know it’s early. Hoped you might be up.”

He’d lost a few pounds since Christmas. He seemed smaller in stature, his hair in need of a cut. He looked lost, as if he was uncomfortable standing there.

“Can I come in?”

“Sorry, yeah,” I said, opening the door wider to let him in.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks,” I said holding the knob as I watched him walk around. He looked completely out of place in my living room.

“I would have come sooner but I wasn’t invited,” he said dryly as he studied the picture of me, my mom, and Max that sat on one of my end tables.

Ignoring his sarcasm, I shut the door. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. What happened to your face?”

I shrugged. “Got rough on the court.”

He eyed me warily and I moved toward the kitchen his sarcastic timber unmistakable. “I don’t recall basketball being that hands on.”

“Shit happens,” I said with a shrug. “Want some water?”

“Sure.”

Pushing the dispenser on the fridge I stalled, reluctant to let him get a good look at me. Walking over to him, I handed him a glass and made a quick excuse. “I’m just going to go throw some clothes on.”

My father nodded as he continued to inspect my apartment.

Minutes later and freshly dressed in sweats and a hat that I felt confident would cover the bruise next to my eyes, I walked out to join him in the living room. Leaving the ball in his court, I waited as he looked out the window watching the passing traffic. “You like living here?”

“Sure.”

He absently smirked at my answer while he kept his attention outside.