We packed up after our honeymoon and trekked to the City of Angels to move into our new apartment. I restarted classes at the end of September, the same month Jake had his first professional match. The fight wasn’t the most brutal I had watched, but it was a waking nightmare for me. As soon as the first punch was thrown, I huddled into a ball, shivering in my seat, my eyes peeking above my arms. Each jab, each hook, sent me back to December in the VIP room. I could smell Allen’s leathery skin. Felt the sharp pain in my arms and legs where his knees pinned me to the couch. I saw the drywall crumble behind his head as I slammed him into it. And I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t leave that VIP room for days.
The next week, I stayed in bed under a cozy fog thanks to a few bottles of tequila. Jake found the booze when I was asleep. He didn’t say anything, just dumped it down the kitchen sink. He left three empty bottles on the counter so I’d know he was on to me.
Joke’s on you, Jake. I could get more. I was in the checkout line at the store when I scanned my wallet for my fake ID. It was gone. Just my stupid legal one with my real birth date that put me squarely at the age of nineteen. I sped home furious and sober and empty-handed, then tore the house apart searching for the fake: turning couch cushions over, flipping through books, sifting through every drawer. My hands in the trash, I glanced up at the tequila bottles on the kitchen counter. Jake, that book-burning ass I was hitched to for life, had cut the card into thick strips and slipped the pieces into one of them.
I turned it upside down, shaking and banging the glass, but only got two strips loose. The rest were adhered to the sticky insides. I raised the bottle behind me and smashed it against the edge of the countertop, closing my eyes against the thick shards flying across the tile and into the sink and onto the pretend wood floor. The soft pads of my fingers brushed the glass off the counter, clearing a space for me to reassemble the card. Bloody fingerprints smudged the plastic. I licked my fingers clean and kept at it. That was when Jake walked in.
There was nothing but a silent stare between us for a minute, him standing in the open doorway, the warm sun on his sweaty back, gym bag over his shoulder, and me—dizzy and desperate and bleeding while I pieced my ticket to a soft-lensed life back together. He scanned the books thrown from the shelves, the couch in disarray, and the debris on the floor. The mess was humiliating, sobering, like I had been caught screwing someone else. He finally said, “I’ll get the broom.”
I shut my eyes in relief, in that pain that only forgiveness stabbed with. There I stood frozen, barefoot, surrounded by glass, drops of blood drying on my skin. Jake returned with a broom, his shoes crunching on the shards on his way to me. He shifted his eyes down to my hands, then took them in his, running his rough fingers over the cuts, holding them up to the light to check for any pieces still stinging in my skin. He wrapped my arms around his neck, and he scooped me up to carry me into the bathroom. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks as he ran cold water to clean off the excess blood, then sat me on the closed toilet. He kneeled in front of me and tucked a shock of hair behind my ear. His fingers trailed to my wrists and wrapped around them, his tactile way of telling me he thought I was too skinny. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know.” Jake, come on, alcohol had calories. That counted for something.
Jake reached into the shower and turned on the faucet. “Take a shower. We’re going out for dinner.”
I nodded.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He shut the door behind him, which was odd since he was going to shower with me. I listened at the door as I took off my clothes. He was talking, but I could only hear half a conversation. He must have been on the phone.
“Sorry to bother you with this—”
Pause.
“She’s done this before but never like this. I don’t know if I should try to get her to go to AA, or—”
Was her me? Me in Alcoholics Anonymous? Weren’t those poor suckers not allowed to drink? Ever? Over my rotting corpse.
“So, it’s some kind of PTSD thing?”
Long pause.
“No, she hasn’t left the apartment.”
Pause.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll make sure she makes an appointment.”
Even longer pause.
“No, she doesn’t have any meds. Is she supposed to?”
Pause.
“Yeah, that’d be great. Anytime. I’m off this week.”
Pause again.
“Thanks, man.”
I was still in bed at ten the next morning when Jake welcomed someone into our home. Jerk. “Sawyer! Someone’s here for you!”
I forced myself out of bed, my hair tangled, Jake’s baggy shirt over his boxer briefs rolled at my hips. I squinted into the sunlit living room to see a familiar tall frame at the door. Cash crossed his arms and shook his head when he saw me. “You have therapy in an hour.” He tipped his head toward the hall. “Get dressed.”
Excuse me? Not even a good morning? Come on, Cash, your mama raised you better than that.
“No, I don’t. It’s Wednesday.” As if the day of the week made a difference. I hadn’t been to therapy in weeks.
“Jake scheduled it.”
I glowered at Jake. He crossed his arms, too. That really pissed me off. I went to get ready, and by that, I meant I put a sports bra on under Jake’s shirt and brushed my teeth, all while slamming dresser drawers and bathroom cabinets.
Jake drove me to my appointment, a car ride where I flipped him off with my unbreaking quiet. When we got home, there were six pill bottles on the kitchen counter next to a note:
Sawyer,
THESE are your medications. (Big, fat arrow included pointing toward the prescriptions.)
THESE are not. (Bigger, fatter arrow pointing to the empty bottles.)
We’re here. We love you.
Cash
Bursting into tears, I curled into Jake’s chest. I had Cash. I had Jake. I had everything. And I was an idiot.
I had both when I had to drop two of my classes that quarter because I couldn’t take the stress. I had both beside me at church when I was afraid, to keep me from drinking, to push me to therapy twice a week.
And I had Jake every sleepless night. When I was afraid those men would find me or when I couldn’t stop thinking about the videos they were still watching, I’d roll over, rest my head on his chest, and feel his hands glide through my hair. I closed my eyes to listen to his heart, that familiar thump-thump as I fell asleep. And when I was surrounded on Third Street, I’d listen for that sound and follow it to him, to a safer place.