The Best Next Thing

You think it’s fucking funny? You’re my wife, there are expectations. You never told me you were a whore!

“I was so shocked,” she whispered, after repeating Blaine’s words verbatim. “Not just because of what he was saying but because of the language he had used. I mean, I could swear like a trooper, but after Blaine and I got serious, I toned it down because he was such a boy scout, you know? Darn and shucks and gee whiz, that kind of thing. Hearing that kind of language from him threw me for a loop. I think I must have done something… laughed maybe. I don’t know. Something.”

“You bitch, you fucking cheap little cunt! What’s so funny?” His voice increased in volume. It was shrill, and high, and almost feminine in pitch.

Something struck her. Hard. And her legs gave way, the shock more than the pain stealing the support out from beneath her. She was on the floor, staring up at the man looming above her.

“I fell.” Her words were filled with astonishment. He leaned toward her, and she gratefully reached for his hand. She wasn’t sure how she wound up on the floor, but despite his unfathomable fury, her beloved Blaine was there to help her up.

Only…instead of helping, he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into her stomach. She doubled over in agony and fought to breathe.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and she futilely batted away his arm in an attempt to get him to release his painful, punishing grip. Her feeble efforts were no match for him. He yanked her to her feet by her hair, slammed her into the wall and held her there, while his other hand closed around her neck and squeezed.

Slowly and purposefully.

Breathing became an impossibility.

Her eyes were wide, panicked and glazed with terrified tears. She stared into his face, searching for the loving man she had married just that afternoon. But she was unable to find him in the features of this hateful, terrifying stranger who now had her helplessly pinned against the wall.

He was screaming at her. Saying horrible things. Calling her despicable names, while his hand continued to tighten around her throat. Black dots swirled in front of her eyes, until his face was obscured by them. His voice was fading…

She was dying. She was sure of it. And that absolute certainty terrified her.

But he released her abruptly and stepped away from her. Without his support, she slid down the wall and collapsed into a limp heap on the floor.

Seconds later, he was on the floor beside her. Crying with her, holding her, apologizing. Begging her to forgive him.

“I played it over and over in my mind afterward,” Charity’s voice was barely a whisper in the dark, and she wasn’t sure if Miles could hear her. “What did I do to set him off? What did I say?”

“He was going to do whatever the hell he was going to do, Charity. Regardless of your actions and words,” Mile’s harsh voice startled her out of her safe confessional and yanked her back to the present.

“He said he was sorry.” Charity’s voice was thick with tears. She was dimly aware that Miles’s free hand was tightly latched onto hers. “Said that he had been so very disappointed to discover that he wasn’t my first, and he hated how I had dismissed and mocked that disappointment. My tone of voice had just triggered something inside of him. I would later understand that it was a pattern with him. I suppose it’s a pattern with most abusers. He’d apologize profusely while reinforcing that it was actually my fault he had reacted the way he had. He was so so sorry but, I shouldn’t have done this, or said that, or worn whatever.”

She became aware that the SUV was no longer moving and looked up in surprise.

“Oh. We’re home.”

“Yes. For several minutes now.” His voice was quiet, as if he were afraid of startling her.

Charity cleared her throat self-consciously and tugged against his grip on her hand. He released his hold on her immediately.

“I need a shower. I’ll see you in the morning. Thank you again, for a lovely evening.”

Miles disliked the distance and formality in her voice and demeanor but he understood her need for space. Listening to her soft, almost dispassionate, recounting of such a harrowing example of abuse—the first of many such incidents—had been absolutely heartbreaking. He had hated hearing about it, had wanted to plead with her to stop…but he had also recognized that he was probably the only person that she had ever told.

That trust meant everything to him. It felt sacred and he would be damned if he would flinch away from it just because he felt fucking physically ill to hear her speak of her trauma.