Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance) (7 page)

But I had Bridget.

“Okay, I’m done talking about my pathetic life,” Bridget said.  “Unless you want to hear about some changes to the tax code…”

“No, not at all.”

Bridget smiled.  “Tell me about your life, Tessa.”

“My life.”  My brain had plenty to say. 
I think I felt someone touch me while I was in the tub.  Strange as hell.  I freaked out and left the bathroom.  I was scared to drop my towel because I felt someone staring at me.  Hey, did I ever tell you the story about when I was a teenager and had dreams about a shadow figure watching me?  And once… I caught it… out of the dream…

“Tessa?”

I blinked and looked at Bridget.  “What?”

“What’s wrong?  You seem… off.  Really off.  Like something’s eating you.  Did something happen at work?  Was it Brett?  It was.  Did he ask you out or something?”

I said nothing.  Sometimes it was fun to mess with Bridget like this.  I could just stare at her and she would make up these amazing stories, getting so far off track from the truth, it made me laugh.

“You’re afraid to tell me because I don’t like him.  It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s like he’s stuck in high school.  Long hair.  Ripped jeans.  I mean, cool, he plays guitar and can sing.  But is that a good life for him.  And you?  What if he got you pregnant… and then he leaves to sing… and…”

“Work was fine,” I said.  “I haven’t seen Brett in a few days actually.  I’m a little off tonight.  Bridget, what’s my name?”

“Your name?”

“My name.  First and last.  Go.”

“Tessa, short for Theresa.  Last name Smith.”

I smiled and nodded.  That’s the name the world knew me by right now.  Theresa Belle felt like a lifetime ago.  A lifetime that had suddenly started to tug at me.

“Why are you asking me that?  Is that not really your name?  Are you in like witness protection?  Did you murder…”

“Funny you mention that,” I said.

Bridget’s face turned white.

I couldn’t believe I was finally there, finally in
that place
to maybe tell someone a story or two about myself.  Whatever happened back at my apartment I knew had to be connected to my life.

“Do you know anything about my father?  Did I ever mention him?”

Bridget turned and crossed her legs.  Her mood became serious, matching mine.  Finally, we were on the same page in life.  She shook her head.

“I think you mentioned once that he left when you were thirteen,” she said.  “That’s why you lived with your aunt.”

“Yeah, that’s true.  But do you know why he left?”

“Because he was an asshole?  Sort of like my father, except he left when I was three, long before I could care.”

“I’m going to say this once, Bridget, so just bear with me.”  I paused.  “My father murdered someone.  And is in prison.”

There it was, finally out in the open.  It didn’t feel any better to admit that.  It didn’t feel any better saying it aloud.  I used to tell therapists that when I was younger.  All those appointments may have helped me then, but to talk about it did nothing.  It was sort of like wishing a deceased relative back to life by talking about them. 
Maybe if we talk long enough about her, or him, they’ll come back to us…

That’s not how life worked, that’s not how death worked.

I’ve seen both, and both are pretty scary in their own right.

“Oh my gosh,” Bridget whispered.  “I’m so sorry…”

“I saw it happen too,” I said.  “My father stabbed someone.”

I couldn’t believe I left it as
someone
instead of saying his name.  That part of me I wanted to keep a secret.  That part of me I wanted to hold forever.  And yes, that part of me wanted to talk long enough about it to bring him back to life.

I’d been trying for ten years with no luck.

Here’s to another ten, I thought as I gave Bridget time to absorb what I had said.

“You saw it all?  Who did he…”

“Someone I knew.  My father had a drinking problem.”  I could have added the physical – and mental – abuse, but that could be saved for another night.  Maybe.  “One night, I was down the basement with my friend and he came down in a fury.  Things got way out of hand and my friend ended up dead.  Stabbed to death.”

“Oh, Tessa,” Bridget said.  She started to move closer to me then quickly stopped.  She was partially off the couch and looked confused.  She didn’t understand what her next move should be. 

“It’s okay,” I said, allowing Bridget to sit back down.  “It was ten years ago that it happened.  I mean, it’s not okay, but it’s okay.  You know?”

Bridget nodded, and smiled.

She didn’t know.

And that
was
okay.

“He stabbed my friend on purpose though, he wanted to do it.  The friend was a boy” – but I wouldn’t share his name or the way I felt about him – “and my father thought we were… you know… being teenagers.”

I saw Bridget’s eyes light up, making the connection, finally, as to why I remained a virgin at twenty-three.  I wouldn’t admit nor deny a thing.  I simply continued the story.  Bridget was smart enough to put pieces together and make up her own mind.

“I was so young, Bridget, you know?”

“Of course,” Bridget said.  This time she moved towards me and put a hand to my shoulder.  “I’m so sorry.”

“I wasn’t sure what I saw at first.  It all happened so fast.  One second I was with…
the boy
” – I almost gave up Jack’s name.  No.  Never. – “… and the next my father was wielding a knife and…”

I knew the entire story.  I never told anyone I did.  I left it at ‘fuzzy’, a word I used dozens of times in front of lawyers, a judge, and a few doctors.  They all bought into it because they had to.  In reality, there was a time when ‘fuzzy’ existed, created into something I believed to be reality.  Until I started dreaming about the shadow boy.  He just stood in my dreams and each morning more and more of the truth came forward.  By then, it was way too late.

“He’s in prison?” Bridget asked.  “That’s good right.”

“Sure, I guess.  I don’t have to see him or deal with him.  Not that he could find me if he wanted to.  But it was what really happened.”

“What really happened?”

“Well, first off, my father isn’t in prison for the rest of his life.  He wasn’t convicted on actual murder charges.  It was a lesser charge, one that carried twenty years.”

“Twenty years for killing someone?”

“Claimed it was self defense.  And won.”

“But you saw it.”

“Or so I thought.  At the time.”

“What does that mean?”

By now Bridget had casually lifted the remote to her television and muted it.  I gazed at the bottle of water on the table and wished I grabbed something a little stronger for a conversation like this.

“That means I was manipulated by my father and his team of lawyers to believe something different.”

“And it worked.”

Not a question, but a statement.  A non-judging statement, something I had truly feared for a time like this.  I always thought people would judge me if they knew the truth.  But what was I supposed to do?  I was thirteen at the time, abused and confused, and my young mind was easily squeezed like a sponge.  Empty what you don’t want and fill it up with something else.

“It worked,” I said.  “The lawyers basically confused me enough that when I had to take the stand, I scrambled.  They worked the consoling angle, trying to explain how terrible it was someone I knew had died but the fact remained that an unwelcomed stranger was inside the house, near me, and my father just tried to defend himself.  And me.”

“Defend.”

“It was true,” I said.  “My friend punched my father.  For various reasons.  There really wasn’t much of a case because the only other person who could have helped me was dead.  And he had no family.  Nobody there but me.  And I… I don’t even know if I was there.”

“Tessa, why didn’t you tell me before?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  I didn’t respond.

“Why tell me now?”

And there it was.  The question. 

Why had I just shared that with Bridget?  Maybe because time was moving forward.  Half my father’s sentence was over.  He would get out of prison and I’d only be thirty three.  I could be married, with a family of my own.  He would be in his sixties, possibly with a lot of life to live.  I had no idea how prison treated him, if he had visitors or ventures inside or out.  I had no idea what prison he was in and I didn’t want to know.  The less I knew, the better it was to let it slip away.

“Tessa?”

“I’m still here,” I said.  I felt like apologizing for sounding so cocky, but honestly… whatever.  “I was just thinking about things.  Ever have a day, I should say night, where random things just come to you?”

“I guess.”

“I was taking a… shower… and all of a sudden I had a feeling.  I never talked to anyone about this so I figured why not.”

“I’m glad you did,” Bridget said.  Her voice became soothing, almost motherly.  “I wish you told me sooner.  Not that it changes anything, but it is good to know.”

“It doesn’t help me by talking,” I said.  “I mean, I can’t go back and change anything.  It all led me here, right?”

Bridget nodded. 

“If it didn’t happen, and my father didn’t go to jail, who knows where I would have been.”

There was more I intended to say but immediately after my sentence I heard a word being spoken, but not in my voice.  I could almost see the word, like a faint wisp written in cloud.  It had broken lines, was terribly written, and if I hadn’t heard the word, I wouldn’t have known what the written word said.

The word was simple.

Mine.

“Well, I just want you to know, Tessa, that you can talk to me about anything.  I’m serious.  I know a lot of my problems are petty but don’t be afraid to talk to me.”

“I know that,” I said.  I looked at Bridget.  “I know.  Can I sleep here tonight?”

“You want to sleep here?”

“If I don’t, you’re going to stay up and worry about Timmy.”

“That’s true.  And we’re in luck…”

“We are?”

By then Bridget was already on the move.  She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a second later holding a bottle of wine.  One hand gripped the top while the other held the bottom.  Her face was priceless, looking like a model for wine.  If they have those.

“I could use wine,” I said.

“It was supposed to be for me and Timmy… but since he’s
so busy
tonight, we can enjoy it ourselves.”

Enjoying meant pulling out the sofa bed, having a glass and a half of wine, and then finally admitting the day and night were over.  I had work the next day, a morning shift, so I couldn’t have burned the midnight oil if I wanted to.  All I really wanted was the night to end and wake up with some sense of normal inside me.  Going to work made sense.  A schedule, a purpose, and maybe I’d be able to see Brett.  I’d get to get there early, make coffee, enjoy its warm, bitter awakening smell, help to get some of the baked goods ready, greet the morning crowd of adults rushing to work, college kids rushing to class, and the staggering few artists who were either up early for inspiration or hadn’t gone to bed yet because of inspiration.

Bridget and I always enjoyed sleepovers.  That stemmed from college where we shared a dorm.  Now any time we could have a night to spend together, we did.  Tonight just so happened to fall into place. 

“You going to call Timmy?” I asked, smiling in the darkness of Bridget’s apartment. 

“No,” Bridget said.

I gave it a second before opening my mouth to ask the next question.

“I text him,” she said with a hint of shame in her voice.

That was my next question.

“Did he reply?”

“Not yet.”

“He’s probably sleeping.”

“Or cheating.”

I sighed.  “Or just sleeping.”

Bridget waited and changed the subject.

“I’m really sorry about everything,” she said.  “I know it doesn’t change anything.  But just know I’m sorry.”

“Me too but life gives you that sometimes.”

“Sorrow?”

“No.  Change.  It could happen over time or within it.  Freaky.”

“You really are a writer.  Have a good night.”

“You too.”

We fell silent and I rolled to my side.  My eyes were open, seeing nothing.  Half of me wanted to keep seeing nothing, appreciating it for all it was worth.  The other half wanted to see something. 

I saw nothing.

I closed my eyes and opened them quickly. 

Again, I saw nothing.

I told myself to relax and let my body fall asleep.  Let time seep in and bring me to another day, like it was supposed to do. 

As I settled, I picked up on Bridget’s gentle breathing.  It wasn’t a snore, not yet at least.  Maybe that’s why Timmy wanted a night alone.  Sometimes Bridget’s snoring would get so loud that it can wake a person out of a sound sleep.  Trust me, I’d know.