Page 40

JACK

What the hell happened to this girl?

I want to ask her flat-out, finally hear the answer to the question that has been on my mind since finding her unconscious on the side of the road, but I don’t know if now is the right time to tell her about when we met last year.

Rumi fled in the middle of the night from Evee’s dad because of Evee? There’s more to that story, more that I’m not sure I can handle hearing without getting into my truck, driving to Minneapolis, and bashing the guy’s head into the ground.

It takes everything in me to wait—wait for Rumi to say more.

She looks like she wants to, like she’s trying to figure out what exactly she wants me to hear.

She makes herself busy, using one of the lids of the containers I brought to put some fruit and the sandwich I cut up for Evee, setting it down in front of her, the bottle of bubbles forgotten next to her.

I want to tell Rumi that she can tell me anything and I’ll listen—that I would sit here for as long as she wanted to talk, that I would give her anything she asked for, that I would happily let her ruin my life if that’s what she wanted, but I also recognize we really haven’t known each other for that long, even though it sometimes feels like we have.

Is that what she meant when she talked about soulmates?

Regardless, I don’t want to push her.

She takes in another breath, and I recognize the deep breathing, knowing how much you need it when it feels like your mind is taking you back to the place that ruined you—how something as easy, as natural , as filling your lungs, becomes the hardest thing you could ever imagine doing.

Instinct, as well as how I’m sick of resisting the urge to touch her that I’ve had since the moment she got into my car this morning, brings my hand to hers, the one resting on her knee.

Wanting to ground her, help her remember that she’s here with me, not back in whatever place her mind is threatening to send her back to, becomes my sole focus.

When she looks at me, her eyes look less worried, less frantic, than they did a moment ago—like the moment the waves settle and the water calms again.

“The night of my accident, when I was in labor, was the night I left Trevor,” she explains. She looks down at the blanket we’re on, just past where Evee flips through one of her flappy books before reaching for the food Rumi placed next to her.

I watch Rumi carefully, noting how she seems to become detached from herself, like she’s about to tell a story that happened to someone else, not to her.

“I never thought I would get out of the relationship, but something happened that night that gave me the push I needed to get out of there, to leave him.”

Processing her words, fighting the assumptions that begin circling my brain, not wanting to make up scenarios about what this fucker did to make her feel like she was trapped in a relationship because it’ll make me start planning how to kill him before I even hear what she has to say.

I barely register that she slips her hand from under mine, settling her hands in her lap, my hand still on her knee. I give it a gentle squeeze before interlacing my fingers in front of me, wanting nothing more than to keep my hands on her but giving her the space she needs.

“What happened that night, Rumi?” I try to keep a hold on my patience.

I need to know why she almost died on the side of the road with nothing but her unborn baby and her pink satin nightgown.

“It was almost midnight, and I was already in my pajamas, brushing my teeth in the bathroom. I had just gotten home from my 10-hour shift at the restaurant I worked at, and I had been looking forward to laying down since waking up that morning. I had been having contractions because Evee’s due date was only three days away. ”

The scene forms in my brain, only it’s in my bedroom at my house; the image of Rumi getting ready for bed in her nightgown, stretched around her swollen stomach, comes so naturally to me—the thought of her so domestic, so comfortable, so safe , in my space.

She continues, “Trevor was getting drunk or high, or probably both, while watching whatever was on the TV. Usually, I knew when it was coming. I could feel it in the air, sense it in his demeanor—skills I had acquired growing up with my dad—but there was nothing that night.”

The image in my head rips down the middle, the fantasy shattering into a million pieces, and a slow heat creeps up my spine. I can feel the sharp edges of my patience fraying as my interlocked fingers tighten around themselves to the point of pain.

I try to keep my features schooled, but Rumi is still staring at the same spot on our blanket. Fighting to keep my voice even, I ask, “Knew what was coming?”

“Trevor wasn’t spewing his normal insults about my weight gain or how no man would want to fuck a ‘pregnant slut’, which he said to me almost every night.

He didn’t even say anything,” she says, ignoring my question—I don’t even think she heard me—her voice almost robotic.

“I heard him get up from the couch, walk over to the bathroom, and then saw him come up behind me in the mirror above the sink.”

A small part of me wants to put my hands over my ears, not ready to hear what I think I know what she’s about to say.

The other, stronger part of me, is anxiously waiting for her to say the words—waiting for her to give me just one reason to bash this bastard’s head into the ground right next to her dad’s.

“I rinsed out my mouth and put my toothbrush back in the glass next to the faucet, and was about to ask him what he needed. I assumed we were out of beer or he wanted me to make him something to eat, but, before I could say anything, he grabbed me by the back of head, tangling his fingers in my hair, and shoved me to the ground.”

There it is .

This fucker is dead.

“I didn’t even have time to scream,” she explains indifferently, her voice just as detached as the rest of her.

“I scrambled to my feet, ready to stand my ground and take it—like I always did. I felt the familiar smack of his hand against my cheek, the bloom of pain in my hip and crack in my elbow when my body met the tiled floor, angling myself to protect my stomach from the impact.”

Each word hits harder than the last, and I feel the anger rising like a slow-burning flame, tightening my chest and clouding my thoughts—I watch as she closes her eyes, wishing she would look at me.

Maybe, just maybe, the water in her eyes would settle this blaze growing inside me, but she keeps them closed.

“All of it was to be expected, and I already knew that he would apologize for it all in the morning, the same way he always did—so I got up again, bracing myself for whatever was coming next. A slap, a kick, maybe even a punch, but none of it came.”

She opens her eyes, and she shakes her head as she looks at her hands in her lap.

“He reached for me, and for a second, I thought I saw his eyes soften.” Her voice lowers, cracking, making my anger melt away for a moment—my sole purpose no longer making this son of a bitch pay for what he did to Rumi.

I watch a tear fall down her cheek, and my own heart unravels—helpless and aching, wishing I could take her pain away, pile it on top of mine, and carry it for her.

“His face looked like it did when he would wake me up in the morning and run a hand down my cheek, ignoring the cuts or bruises, and apologize for letting his anger get the best of him.”

Another tear falls, and I push myself up, moving to sit next to her—wanting to be the comfort she needs.

“For a moment, I thought maybe I’d get off easy.

” Her voice is no more than a whisper. “I wasn’t naive enough to think he would actually ever stop.

I knew the cycle of abuse—I knew enough to know I was tumbling through—but his eyes drifted from mine to my belly, and I thought maybe he was going to let me off easy because I was so close to giving birth to our daughter. ”

Rumi’s eyes lift to Evee, her daughter so engrossed with the scene just a handful of yards beyond us as she munches on her PB&J—the kids running in the grass and through the colorful playground, trees swaying in the warm breeze, the sun shining overhead.

“I wanted to reach for him. At that moment, I wanted to hold him and tell him it was okay.” She looks at me, her eyes clouded with tears, more escaping down her cheek that I can’t help but wipe away with my thumb, my hand finding its rightful place on the side of her head as she leans into my touch.

“Isn’t that ridiculous? He beat the crap out of me, and I wanted to comfort him .

” Her shoulders shake with a sob, and I pull her into me, her face warm and wet against the side of my neck, my arms wrapping so tightly around her with no intent to ever let her go.

“Then, it all happened so fast,” she whispers after a moment, the words followed by a sniffle.

“Tell me what happened, baby,” I say before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

A small sob escapes from her, and I tighten my hold around her.

“He—” She starts but then stops, her face burying further into my neck.

“I got you,” I tell her. “You’re safe with me. I promise.”