He stalks toward me, stopping when we’re a mere foot apart. For a second I think he might actually strike me. I almost want him to. That way I can strike back. I can smash my fists into his pathetic face and show him what it’s like to get beat on by someone who’s supposed to love you.
But my feet stay rooted in place, my hands pressed tightly against my sides. Because no matter how badly I want to do it, I will never lower myself to his level. I will never lose control of my temper and be like him.
“You need help,” I choke out. “Seriously, old man. You need some fucking help, and I really hope you get it before you hurt that woman any more than you already have.”
I stagger out of his study. My legs wobble so hard it’s a miracle they manage to carry me all the way to the kitchen, where I find Hannah rinsing plates at the sink. Cindy is loading the dishwasher. Both women glance over at my entrance, and both their faces go pale.
“Cindy.” I clear my throat, but the massive lump remains. “I’m sorry to steal Hannah away, but we have to go now.”
After a long beat, the blonde’s head jerks in a quick nod. “That’s fine. I can do the rest.”
Hannah shuts off the faucet and approaches me slowly. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “Can you go wait in the car? I need to talk to Cindy for a moment.”
Rather than leave the kitchen, Hannah walks back to Cindy, hesitates, then gives the woman a warm hug. “Thank you so much for dinner. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Cindy murmurs with a strained smile.
I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket and extract my keys. “Here. Get it started for us,” I tell Hannah.
She exits the room without another word.
Taking a breath, I cross the tiled floor and stand directly in front of Cindy. To my horror, she reacts with that tiny, fearful flinch I’ve been witnessing all night. As if this is a like father, like son situation. As if I’m going to…
“I’m not going to hurt you.” My voice cracks like a fucking egg. I feel sick that I even have to assure her of that.
Panic floods her eyes. “What? Oh, honey, no. I didn’t think…”
“Yes, you did,” I say quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not taking it personally. I know what it’s like to…” I swallow. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here, because I need to get the hell out of this house before I do something I might regret, but I just need you to know something.”
She uneasily lets go of the dishwasher door. “What is it?”
“I…” Another deep gulp and then I get right to the point, because really, neither one of us wants to be having this conversation. “He did it to me and my mom, too, okay? He abused us, physically and verbally, for years.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word.
My heart squeezes as I force myself to keep going. “He’s not a good man. He’s dangerous, and violent, and…sick. He’s sick. You don’t have to tell me what he’s doing to you. Or hell, maybe I’m wrong and he’s not doing anything—but I think he is, because I see it in the way you act around him. I acted that way too. Every move I made, every word I said…everything I did was rooted in fear, because I was desperate for him not to beat the shit out of me again.”
Her stricken look is all the confirmation I need.
“Anyway.” I inhale deeply. “I’m not going to drag you out of here over my shoulder, or call the cops and tell them there’s domestic abuse going on in this house. It’s not my place, and I won’t interfere. But I need you to know a couple things. One—it’s not your fault. Don’t you ever blame yourself, because it’s all on him. You did nothing to invite his criticism and his verbal attacks, and you didn’t fail to meet his expectations because his expectations are fucking impossible to meet.” My chest seizes so hard my ribs ache. “And two, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to call me, okay? If you need to talk, or if you want to leave him and need someone to help you pack or move or whatever, call me. Or if he…does something and you need help, for fuck’s sake, call me. Can you promise to do that?”