Hemmingway

My bravery fled long ago. I put on a facade as I was held in that dingy basement, never letting my captors see me as weak. I even bought into the act, thinking I was too strong to break. But as soon as I found freedom, I realized how wrong I’d been.

Dr. Sheraton helped me discover that it was okay that I lived that fantasy, that it was my coping mechanism, and my strong will is admirable. My predicament may not be a common occurrence, but women who’ve been in abusive marriages and relationships find ways to survive, and that dreamworld sheltered me and became my utopia.

No, I wasn’t in any sort of romantic relationship with the Admiral or Miller, but in theory, the circumstances were the same, full of abusive words and physical assaults. The mental cruelty and bullying was bad, and that’s what she feels brought on my survivor instincts. I lived in a make-believe world so that my mind and soul didn’t disintegrate. The therapist is impressed and has made it clear that she’s delighted I didn’t end up brainwashed or suffering from Stockholm syndrome, considering the amount of time they had me.

“That in itself proves how strong and capable you are, Hemmingway,” she stressed, turning the tides, and having me look at things from the other side of the mirror. From there, I started living again, this time, in the real world. What was once lackluster, is now filled with a rainbow of lustrous colors, causing my view of things to become radiant.

I found courage, which is why I’m confident while holding Tyson’s hand in the truck. We’ve done this before now. Usually, while watching a movie at night, we didn’t cuddle, there was some space between us, but it’s gotten less each time.

“What kind of food does this place serve?” I ask, excited about leaving the cabin. I haven’t ventured out many times. We’ve been scared of someone recognizing me, so this is a treat. Mostly, I walk the acreage surrounding us when the walls start closing in on me, but this is a different sort of adventure. I won’t be surrounded by strangers, but it’s a different setting, which has me euphorically bouncing in my seat.

“You look like a jumping bean.” Tyson laughs before saying, “They serve Italian food. You did say the other week that it’s one of your favorites and you miss the zing of the spice.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? And I can’t help the enthusiasm, Tyson. This is our first venture out.”

“It’s the first of many dates for us, Hemmi. I plan on wining and dining you, spoiling you rotten, and putting that zealous twinkle you have gleaming in your eyes now, every chance I get. I want you to be happy again.”

“I’m finding my happy, Tyson, and it’s all because of you.”

“You give me too much credit,” he argues, but I don’t miss that satisfied smirk that leaves his lips as quickly as it appeared.

“Maybe you don’t give yourself enough,” I banter, a sobering expression masking my face. He’s too damn hard on himself, he’s not a miracle worker, he can’t snap his fingers and make the impossible happen, that’s not the way life works. It sucks, but it’s true.

“Maybe I don’t,” he utters, white knuckling the steering wheel.

When we pull into the nearly empty parking lot, I start to squirm, the restaurant is ensconced with a breathtaking scene. Tall pine trees sprawl further than the eye can see, wrapping around the sides as if they’re hugging the establishment. The front lawn is professionally mowed and manicured. A variety of flowers are sprigging with life from their landscaped beds, the bursts of colors enhance the serene vibe—it’s picturesque, something you only see in magazines.

“Wow,” I gasp, trying to contain the tears that want to flow from seeing such beauty. “It’s magnificent. We’re surrounded by exquisiteness.”

“Yeah, we are,” he says, squeezing my hand. The gruff tenor has me turning my head, wanting to see the look on his face while he takes it all in, only to be shocked when his gaze is glued to me. “I’m surrounded by beautiful things. A man shouldn’t be so lucky, but if he finds that he is, he should treasure it as the gift that it is.”

“Tyson,” I whisper. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“No, baby, don’t cry. That wasn’t my intention when I said it,” he explains, reaching over and cupping my jaw. “Just sharing my observation.”

My palm automatically comes up and spoons his, my thumb affectionately rubbing the top side of his hand. “I could feel the tenderness of your words in my soul, Tyson.”

“It’s good you feel me, Hemmi, because your soul has seized mine, and I don’t want it back. I only trust you to care for it and not steamroll it.” He leans in as he pulls me forward, placing a gentle, affectionate kiss to the center of my forehead. “We’re going to be late. Are you ready to head inside?”

“Yes,” I answer, my throat parched from all the palpitating emotions, and the effort it took repressing all the words I wanted to say. I’ve never had a silver tongue, I usually show my emotions through actions, but Tyson has me wishing I was better at expressing how I feel. As he gets out and starts unbuckling Honor, I call out his name. “Tyson.”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“You make me feel alive, brave, and strong. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t believe that I have a possible happy future ahead of me, you’ve given me that. Thank you.”

“It’s been my pleasure, darlin’,” he returns, his facial expression surmises how deeply my words hit the mark.

And that’s all I need.

I may not be verbally suave, but the deep meaning of what I couldn’t say was understood. That acknowledgment starts releasing the irritation and loathing that had been building in my chest.

* * *

“Tyson,” I hiss. “There are no prices on this menu. That’s usually an indication of how expensive the meals are.”

“And your point?” he asks, bouncing Honor in his lap.

“My point is that I don’t know what to order.” I groan. “The salads don’t even show a price tag. What’s up with that? And he’s just eaten. I’d watch how hard you’re jostling him. Baby puke is smelly business, and I swear it sticks to your clothes no matter how many times you spin them through a wash cycle.”

“Where’s one of those burp things you toss over your shoulder after you feed him? He’s cranky and only stops whimpering when I do this,” Tyson conveys, a panicked, spooked look stitched onto his face.

“We’re the only ones here. What does it matter if he’s fussy?” I probe.

“Because this is our first date, Hemmi, and I want everything to be impeccable,” he confesses, causing my heart to gallop.

“Even if they’re both throwing a fit, it’s perfect, Tyson,” I swear. “The three of you make everything spectacular. I don’t need a fancy setting, or high-ticket, fancy food, just y’all. Relax, Tyson, we’re here to enjoy ourselves, not be stressed over mundane things.”

“You’re right, but I still don’t like seeing him get all riled up. Could you hand me one of those napkins?” I look down at the purple fabric sitting across my lap that he wants me to hand him to use as a burp rag, and then I begin to panic. These things probably cost more than what I earned as a weekly salary while being on active duty. Without answering, I bend over and start combing through the diaper bag until I find one of the burping clothes he asked for.

Handing it across the table to him, I swoon when I see the way Honor is staring at Tyson. Such love and trust radiates from my little guy toward the man who’s started changing my outlook on all things, but most importantly, my future. My younger fantasies and longings are nothing in comparison to experiencing the real deal. I used to think he was perfect in all ways, only now, my eyes are open and I realize he’s perfectly imperfect, which is okay, because his flaws make him less dreamlike and more surreal.

The next two hours zip by. We spend it talking, taking care of the twins, and connecting on a richer, more covalent level.

* * *

As we continue to heal and grow closer, the days and weeks have melted away. Thanksgiving and Christmas passed in a blur. Tyson has been uptight and cantankerous since getting off the phone with Pops a couple of hours ago. I know that earlier last week they called in one of the doctors on their roster and had intravenous antibiotics, as well as a surgical procedure performed on the Admiral, along with some other medical interventions since they still didn’t have the geographical location of their cult’s complex. Father and son are using that, only giving small hints away, as a bargaining chip to prolong seeing their doomsday. This mood Tyson is in, seems to go deeper than the usual discontentment he comes home with after visiting the two, and I use that term lightly.

“Tyson?” I hesitantly call out his name. When he stops his pacing, and pivots his head in my direction, I ask, “What’s going on? Why are you so edgy? Do we need to relocate or something? Have we been compromised?” It’s a lot of questions to fire off at once. However, if it affects us, they’re things I need to be aware of.

“No. You and I are solid. We’re still good where we are.” He looks unsure of how to broach the topic of what’s bothering him, and rather than pushing him to tell me what’s going on, I let him work it out in his mind. “Some fucked-up things are happening with the club,” he finally says. “It’s bad, and I need to tell you about it before you see it on the news.”

Instant pain hits me, stealing my breath, and flashes of light dance behind my eyelids. My brother, his wife, my two nieces and nephew, the men I’ve grown up around, their old ladies, all of their faces flash through my mind. My heart rate accelerates as I think about the fact that I haven’t had the chance to meet my sister-in-law, her daughter, Juniper, and their adopted son, Nash. I’ve only heard about them from Tyson since I’d already gone missing around the timeframe my brother got together with his now wife, Aspen.

Using the breathing technique that Dr. Sheraton taught me, I manage to calm myself utilizing this pattern of breathing so the fog clears, and I can think rationally. “How bad are we talking about here?” I probe, comprehending that if he’s this wound up, it’s worse than what I could imagine it as being.

It’s hardly past noon, so when Tyson opens up the liquor cabinet, and grabs two shot glasses, it hits me that my world is fixing to change on its pinnacle, picking up speed, and I’m going to become dizzier than I’ve ever been.

“Shit.” My sigh doesn’t fall on deaf ears, Tyson grunts in response, his hands shaking as he pours the alcohol until it touches the inner layer of the rim. “Double shit.”