Pieces For You (32 page)

“Perhaps.”

“You say that as if it’s surprising.  I’m never wrong…ask my husband, I tell him all the time.”

Poor Mr. Thia.  I couldn’t begin to fathom what she would be like at home—he was either the luckiest man on the planet or he was karma’s bitch.

“Yeah, yeah.  You’re the bomb, a genius among idiots, yada, yada.  Even if you are right, does it change what he did?  He may realize he went from psych boy to psycho, but he still has the potential to flip that switch again.” 

“This is why I suggested you have a conversation with him, to find the answers you need.  I do not believe he is a danger to you.  Based on what you’ve told me, I don’t think he is capable of intentionally hurting you.  He is the only one who can explain what set him off and if there is a risk for a repeat performance.  If you want answers, you need to ask him.”

I nodded, hearing the truth in her words.

“Sam, you need to understand something.  You’ve likely heard this at TPC, but you need to internalize it.  Most rape is about control and power—sex has very little to do with it.  Rape, when coupled with extreme violence, is still about control and power, but the violence is often the hardest part for victims to process and overcome.  Exposure to extreme acts of brutality, even if they are necessary or justifiable, may always remain a trigger for you.  Even sports like boxing or mixed martial arts could trigger flashbacks.  That is why I am encouraging you to try to untangle the conditioned response versus genuine concern for Griffin’s potential violent outbursts.  Give it some thought over this next week.”

“I will, promise.”

“Okay, homework time.  Try to watch a boxing or MMA match on TV and see how you react, just invite Ev or Hunter to watch with you.  And have an honest conversation with Griffin.  Don’t worry, I will permit an extension next week if you aren’t yet ready to tackle that one.  Write a list of things you love to do, the things that comfort you or relieve stress.  Also—”

“Keep eating…I know, will do.  Thank you, Thia,” I said, gesturing to the now empty plate of food, “for everything…for not giving up on me.”

“My pleasure.  Like I said, you are one of my favorites…and you always pay on time,” she said, straight-faced, but I caught the telltale glimmer of humor in her eyes.

I left feeling heavier with the amount of information I needed to consider, but lighter for having verbalized my feelings and concerns about the beat-down.

The following night I invited Huntleigh over for a dinner of veal scaloppini and spinach salad with squash, gorgonzola, and garlic-infused olive oil.  Beating the crap out of the veal cutlets was incredibly therapeutic and served as my mental preparation for the night’s goal.  After dinner, Hunter found a channel broadcasting an MMA match—after only two punches and one kick I was shrieking for Hunter to turn it off, in the midst of a mini-meltdown.  After I calmed down and talked with Ev and Hunter, we turned the match back on and I was able to watch about two minutes before needing another time-out.  We repeated this process several times until I was able to uncomfortably watch five minutes of the match without losing my marbles.  I was shaken and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat anytime soon, but it was enlightening. 

Thia was right—acts of violence, even in the context of sporting events, were a trigger.  Too many sensory memories resurfaced and overwhelmed me.  It wasn’t the same level of breakdown as the night at The Stop, but I now understood the lesson she wanted me to learn.  I was still not prepared to dismiss Griffin’s sheer brutality and absolute loss of control, but I felt better able to compartmentalize the effects of his actions.

That night I fell asleep alone again, but this time I positioned my pillow parallel to my body, resting my head on it as if it were a person, a man…Griffin.

I spent the better part of the following week trying to make sense of the mess my life had become.  I saw Ev every day at work and while she was as supportive as ever, she refused any inquiry I made regarding Griffin.  While Ev declined to give me any details, she was happy, however, to
suggest
I talk to him, hear him out, cut him some slack, try to see his perspective.  Questions to Hunter were met with a simple, “Just talk to him.”  Despite myself, I was beginning to feel desperate to know how he was doing.  Three weeks after our last contact, fate intervened, answering my questions for me. 

Ev was stuck in a meeting with a supplier and I made a run to the Restaurant Depot in her stead.  I was pushing a platform cart loaded with an obscene amount of chocolate and caramel sauces, exiting the aisle, when I nearly crashed into another shopper.  As we exchanged the requisite apologies, my eyes saw him frozen a couple aisles down.  The way he stared at me, anguish etched across the beautiful face I loved and pure agony radiated from the eyes I’d once lost myself in, broke my heart.  I quickly turned back to finish apologizing for my almost collision, but in the second it took to clear my path, Griffin was gone.  Had I imagined him?  No, even my twisted mind couldn’t have conjured the raw pain openly on display.  I was haunted by our almost encounter and began obsessing like an addict.

When I arrived back at Higher Yearning, I unloaded my car in silence, hauling jug after jug of caramel and chocolate and slamming them into place in the storage room.  By the time I was done unloading, my arms ached almost as badly as my head and heart.

I joined Meg behind the counter and made myself a latte.

“I’m guessing it would be a bad time to mention I just used the last of the caramel sauce,” Meg said.

I shot her a death stare.

“I thought so.  I’d go grab one, but I’m afraid of what you might do if a customer tried something crazy like, I don’t know…order a drink.”

“Someone took her funny pills today,” I said sarcastically.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Not according to the chocolate and caramel.  I overheard them in the back saying ‘puta es loca,’ and you know chocolate never lies.”

“Chocolate does not speak Spanish…French maybe,” I argued for the sake of arguing.

“The earliest records of chocolate are from the Mokaya in Mexico—chocolate definitely speaks Spanish,” she said with triumphant laughter in her voice.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Chocolate is the great love of my life.”

“That is either the saddest or smartest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Smartest.  Chocolate has never let me down and it’s brought me a lot closer to the elusive-O than any man ever has.  Tastes better, too.”

“Okay, that is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, but she made a valid point.

She shrugged as if unconcerned, which I found impossible to believe.

“Enough about my love life.  What happened?”

I sighed heavily.  “I just saw Griffin at Restaurant Depot and he looked about as good as I felt.  He ran off before I could talk to him…not that I’m sure I even
wanted
to speak with him.  I don’t know.  Everything is so fucked up.”

“I understand why you freaked after all you’ve been through, but what is stopping you from working it out now that the drama has mellowed?”

“How can I trust him not to lose it again?  How do I know he won’t hurt
me
one day?”

“Do you really think he could ever hurt you?  He looks at you like
you
are the reason he draws his next breath.  It is as if he’d do anything for you—even kill to protect you,” she said emphatically.  Her point was not lost on me.  “I know bad men, Sam…dangerous men.  I know men who put themselves before anyone else.  I know men who hurt for the sake of hurting.  I know the darkness you are so afraid is hiding in Griffin—it’s not there, I’d recognize it.”

Okaaaaaaaayyyyyy.  Happy, sweet, beautiful, easygoing Meg has danced with darkness.  You would never suspect, she had no tells.  I guess we all have our stories and our demons.

“Meg, are you—”

“Oh no you don’t.  I’ll tell you my story one day, but you are not redirecting this conversation, lady.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be bossy.  But you were so sad and skittish when you first started working here.  Then you were so happy you glowed.  Now you’re sad and so-not-glowy again.  I liked it when he lit you up and made you glow.  You deserve happiness after what you’ve been through,” she finished quietly.

“Thanks.”

“Let me ask you this—if someone shot Griffin in cold blood and he almost died, then the same son of a bitch was standing in front of you, threatening to do the same thing again, what would you do?”

“I’d kill the bastard,” I answered instantaneously.

Meg looked at me expectantly.

Well damn, I saw her point.

“I don’t think Griffin sees a distinction between the guy who…hurt you…and your ex.  He holds them both responsible.  Seeing Robbie forcing himself on you, restraining you, scaring you shitless—it was as if he was there when it all happened.  What man worth loving wouldn’t turn into a homicidal maniac when the woman he loves is in that situation?  I wouldn’t respect him if he didn’t do everything in his power to protect you, and he sure as hell wouldn’t deserve your love.  I’m not in love with you and even I probably would have tried to stab the punk.”

Blood thirsty, wasn’t she?

“No one can understand the scars left on your soul, but you can’t believe you are the only one who bears scars from your suffering.”

She was right.  Those closest to me had all been changed; they had all suffered alongside me.  It never occurred to me that Griffin was as marred as Hunter and Ev—that he might feel the same depth of grief, regret, bloodlust, and vengeance as they did.

"Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fires."  -Francois de La Rochefoucauld

I didn’t know if I was the strongest man alive or the biggest pussy ever.  Maybe both.  I had been obsessing over that very question for the past six hours, since the moment I saw Sam at Restaurant Depot…Restaurant-fucking-Depot.  For the past three weeks I had taken every possible precaution to avoid her, including painstaking planning and inconvenience, as well as changes to my daily routine to guarantee a run-in didn’t occur.  One hasty decision to pick up pickles and all my efforts were wasted.  Was there nowhere I could hide from her?  I decided to make the Restaurant Depot trip to escape Sam’s ghost that haunted me everywhere I looked at The Stop.  I had practically moved into my office, sleeping on the couch because my house was filled with her memory, her scent, her belongings—pieces of her I couldn’t bring myself to let go of and return to her.  I was sleeping with her goddamn robe clutched in my hand like a little kid with a teddy bear—I was pathetic.  I didn’t deserve those small connections to her.  I was only able to justify their comfort because of the pain they brought in equal measure.