Cindy looks stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. Her blue eyes are glassy, and she starts blinking fast, as if she’s trying to ward off tears.
The kitchen becomes as silent as a funeral home. She just stares at me, blinking wildly, the fingers of one hand toying with her sleeve.
After what feels like an eternity, she gives a shaky nod and whispers, “Thank you.”
Heat blasts from the air vents when I slide into the driver’s seat. Hannah has started the engine and she’s already buckled up, as if she’s as desperate to get away from here as I am.
I put the car in drive and speed away from the curb, needing to put distance between me and that brownstone. If I’m lucky enough to play for Boston one day, I plan on living as far away from Beacon Hill as possible.
“So…that was kind of brutal,” Hannah remarks.
I can’t stop the laugh that shudders out. “Kind of?”
She sighs. “I was trying to be diplomatic.”
“Don’t bother. That was a nightmare from start to finish.” My fingers curl around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. “He hits her.”
There’s a beat of silence, but when Hannah answers, it’s with regret and not surprise. “I thought that might be the case. Her sleeves rode up in the kitchen and I thought I saw some bruises on her wrists.”
The revelation sends a fresh bolt of anger whipping through me. Damn it. A part of me was still hoping I might be wrong about Cindy.
Silence settles between us as I head for the highway ramp. My hand rests on the gearshift, and Hannah covers it with hers. She strokes my knuckles, her gentle touch easing some of the pressure in my chest.
“She was scared of me,” I mumble.
This time, Hannah does sound surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“When I was alone in the kitchen with Cindy, I took a step closer and she flinched. She flinched, like she was scared I might hurt her.” My throat clogs up. “I mean, I get it. My mom was jumpy, too. So was I. But…fuck. I can’t believe she thought I was capable of hurting her.”
Sadness softens Hannah’s voice. “It’s probably not just you. If he’s abusing her, then she’s probably scared of anyone who comes near her. I was the same way for a while after the rape. Jumpy, nervous, suspicious of everyone. It was a long time before I was finally able to relax around strangers, and even now, there’s still things I won’t do. Like drink in public. Well, unless you’re there to play bodyguard.”
I know that last line is an attempt to make me smile, but it doesn’t. I’m still preoccupied by Cindy’s reaction.
In fact, I don’t feel like talking anymore. I just…can’t. Fortunately, Hannah doesn’t push me. I love that about her, how she never tries to fill silences with forced conversation.
She asks if I’m okay with music, and when I nod, she plugs in her iPod and loads up a playlist that does make me smile. It’s the classic rock set I emailed her when we first met, though I notice she doesn’t start it from the first song. Because the first song happens to be my mother’s favorite, and I’m pretty sure that if I hear it right now, I’ll burst into tears.
Which just goes to show that Hannah Wells is…amazing. She’s so fucking attuned to me, my moods, my pain. I’ve never been with anyone who can read me so well.
An hour goes by. I know it’s an hour because that’s how long the playlist lasts, and when it ends, Hannah puts on a different mix, which makes me smile too because it consists of a whole lot of Rat Pack, Motown and Bruno Mars.
I’m calm now. Well, calmer. Every time I feel like I’m relaxing, I remember Cindy’s fear-ridden eyes and the pressure squeezes my chest again. As uncertainties eddy in my gut, I force myself not to dwell on the one question that keeps pricking at my brain, but as I speed off the exit ramp and drive toward the two-lane road that will take us to Hastings, the question pops up again and this time I can’t bat it away.