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The next several days progressed surprisingly uneventfully. I managed to return to work and not one person inquired regarding my thoughts about my former boyfriend being indicted on a litany of federal charges. I was glad they felt awkward about the subject and left me alone. If coworkers saw me in the copy room, they greeted me kindly, but avoided eyesight. I imagined the rumors swirling about me and didn’t care. They may have wondered if I knew and turned him in or if I was a fool and never had a clue or even if I had been involved. The last thought actually brought me a little chuckle. Yes, perhaps they even had a bit of fear that I was Travis’ Bonnie, and he was my Clyde.
The one person I had neglected to contact was my latest pursuit in love, Daniel. It was Wednesday morning, and I still hadn’t told him whether I would go with him on that day trip to Chicago. Since that awful night at Travis’, I hadn’t been alone with a man and still had some fear. I wondered if it would always be difficult. I pictured myself spending the rest of my nights reading books and crocheting blankets in an effort to avoid the pain of reliving the past.
I had to respond to Daniel’s request, one way or the other. I wanted to say yes, but just couldn’t take it upon myself to send him an affirmative text. The hours ticked by and the closer it got to the end of the day, the more pressure I felt to respond. One moment, I pictured getting in the car with Daniel and enjoying the day as he had planned. The next, I pictured him passing the exits to Chicago, heading north to Wisconsin, and stealing me away to a cabin where I would never be found. Clearly, I not only had endured a traumatic, life-changing event, I had watched too many Lifetime movies.
At about 3:00, Tim came in my office, grabbed my coat off the hook, and held it out to me. I panicked at the thought I had missed a meeting and quickly opened my calendar to see the entire afternoon was open. I looked up but wasn’t sure what to say.
“Put your coat on, Miss Chloe,” he said with a smile, “We are going to Mrs. Curl’s for some ice cream.”
This was no request, so I immediately obliged. He helped me with my coat, grabbed my neck scarf, and wrapped it snuggly around my neck. I picked up my purse and pulled out my keys.
“Oh no,” he said, “You’re not driving. I’m now an expert at the roundabout and want to show off my superior road skills. Put your keys in your purse and let’s go.”
The receptionist gave us the “I know you are up to something” look, and Tim quickly said as he punched the button to the elevator, “We’ve got an important meeting, Lois. See you later.” He then grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me in as the door opened.
We got in his car and he promptly turned on the radio. The soft rock of the 70s enabled us to ride in the car without conversation. As he approached the roundabout, I reached my hand to the radio dial to turn it off, remembering his stern direction for complete silence the last time we endeavored to traverse through it.
“Keep it on,” he said as he reached out his hand to stop me, “I’ve improved, Chloe. I made it a point these last couple of months to drive through this rounded beast every chance I could. Now that I have it mastered, I actually feel like a racehorse being let out of its stall every time I enter the circle.” We were both smiling, but I could see he was still being very careful.
We arrive at Mrs. Curl and are the only customers, which is no surprise given how frightfully cold it was outside.
“You stay in the car,” he said as he opened his door, “I’ll be right back.”
After a few minutes, he came rushing back with two soft swirl cones, gesturing with one hand for me to open the door. I leaned over to open his door and he shook his head and motioned for me to open mine. Of course, he was ever the gentleman. I opened my door, he handed me my cone, and then traversed to his side of the car and got in.
We sat for a few minutes licking our cones until he finally said while looking forward, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“What’s your biggest problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Trust, Tim. I don’t think I can trust anyone ever again.”
He knew when I referred to “anyone,” I meant men.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then you’ll be able to trust again. Keep driving through the roundabout and some day it will get easier. I promise. Do you suppose you can do that?” he asked.
“I suppose so.”
He started up the car and as he began to drive out of the parking lot, I pulled out my cell phone and began to text.
“Who are you texting?” he asked.
“Oh someone,” I responded, “I’m going to Chicago with a friend on Saturday and need to tell him what time to pick me up.”