Chapter 8
Moving day was perfect.
Sunny.
Warm.
A soft breeze blowing through the big windows of my new apartment, carrying the smell of jasmine from the bush outside.
Dad was there, of course.
Mara was there.
My friends from the support group were there.
Even the barista next door showed up with a truck and a bunch of strong guys from his gym to help lift the heavy stuff.
We carried boxes up the stairs, laughed, argued about where to put the couch, ate pizza on the floor when we got tired.
By the end of the day, the apartment was mine.
Books lined the shelves.
My clothes hung in the closet.
A soft, fluffy blanket was draped over the new couch—the one I’d picked out myself, the one I could touch whenever I wanted, no one screaming at me not to.
Photos covered the walls: me and dad at the beach when I was 10, me and Mara at the bookstore, me and my support group laughing over coffee.
No photos of him.
No reminders of that life.
Just good things.
Happy things.
Mine.
That first night, I slept alone in my new bed.
The sheets were soft, the room was quiet, the streetlight outside cast a warm glow through the curtains.
I didn’t lock the bedroom door.
I didn’t sleep with a knife under my pillow.
I didn’t flinch at every little sound.
I just slept.
Deep.
Peaceful.
For 10 whole hours.
The best sleep I’d had in three years.
Life settled into a rhythm after that.
A good rhythm.
I woke up at 7 every morning, made coffee, sat on the balcony and watched the sun come up.
Walked to work, said hi to the barista, spent the day surrounded by books and people who loved me.
Came home, cooked dinner, read, took long baths, called dad every night to tell him about my day.
Went to therapy once a week now, not twice.
Things were getting easier.
Lighter.
Three months after I moved in, I met Liam.
He came into the bookstore one rainy Tuesday, looking for a poetry collection for his mom’s birthday.
He was tall, with soft brown hair and glasses, and he laughed when I accidentally dropped a stack of books on his foot.
“Sorry!” I said, panicking, kneeling to pick them up. “Oh my god, are you okay?”
“Never better,” he said, grinning, helping me. “I’ve always wanted to be attacked by poetry. It’s on my bucket list.”
I laughed.
A real, loud, unselfconscious laugh.
I hadn’t laughed like that around a man in… I couldn’t remember how long.
We talked for 45 minutes.
About books.
About his mom, who was a retired English teacher.
About my dad, who still cried at dog commercials.
When he left, he bought the poetry book, and a coffee table book about old cars for his dad, and he slipped me a piece of paper with his phone number on it.
“For when you want to talk about books more,” he said, smiling, and left.
I stared at the number for an hour after he left.
Scared.
Excited.
What if he was like him?
What if I was making a mistake?
What if I got hurt again?
Then I called dad.
Told him about Liam.
“Go for it,” he said, no hesitation. “What’s the worst that can happen? He’s a jerk, you never talk to him again. Big deal. But what if he’s not? What if he’s good? You deserve good things, baby. Don’t let the past steal your future.”
He was right.
I texted Liam that night.
We went on a date three days later.
To a small Italian restaurant downtown, with candlelight and soft music.
He opened the door for me.
He pulled out my chair.
He asked me about my job, about my dad, about my favorite books, and he actually listened.
He didn’t check his phone once.
He didn’t talk over me.
He didn’t get mad when I took 10 minutes to decide what to order.
When I told him, halfway through dinner, about my ex, about the abuse, about the divorce, about the restraining order, he didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look at me like I was broken.
He just reached across the table, took my hand, and said, “Thank you for telling me. I can’t imagine how hard that was. And for the record? Anyone who ever hurts you is an idiot. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”
I cried a little.
Happy tears.
Again.
We started dating.
Slow.
Easy.
No pressure.
He never rushed me.
Never pushed me to do anything I wasn’t ready for.
When I flinched the first time he raised his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, he stopped immediately, apologized, and never did it again without asking first.
When I had nightmares, he held me, let me cry, didn’t ask questions till I was ready.
He brought me mango sticky rice from my favorite stall just because.
He fixed the leaky faucet in my apartment without me even asking.
He met dad, and they hit it off immediately, talking about old cars for two hours while I sat there laughing, watching the two most important men in my life become friends.
For the first time, I learned what love was supposed to be.
Soft.
Kind.
Safe.
No yelling.
No hitting.
No lies.
Just respect.
Just care.
Just joy.
I wasn’t scared anymore.
Not of him.
Not of the past.
Not of the future.
May you like
I was finally living.
Really living.
