Page 36 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

I watch the scene from behind the living room curtain. The house is old, the windows have never been replaced, so I hear most of everything they say through the single-pane glass that separates me from them.

When Willa came in to tell me someone was here, I expected it to be my father.

It being Derik was infinitely worse. For the first time since Willa told me Tyson was coming to Maine, I felt no apprehension about it.

I’m glad he’s here. Also, I’m afraid of what could happen to him because of this—not what Derik can do physically.

It was perfectly clear Tyson dominated in the altercation.

But the legal ramifications that may come later…

I’d hate for him to get in trouble for standing up for me.

Damn, it was hot. He’s always so caring with me that I forget he has this side of him—as if the Tyson Murphy on the ice and the Tyson Murphy in my life are two different characters.

His dominance in the situation was a great distraction from the traumatic flashbacks my stupid brain was conjuring. I can never forget. Not all the words he said.

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

That was a lie.

The feeling of his hand on my chest, forcing me to still while he unfastened my pants, will never leave me.

Ever. Nor will that first sharp pain, or the tears that silently spilled from the corners of my eyes.

Or the screams that were only loud in my own head because I was too stunned, confused, and terrified to vocalize them.

Those are things I’ll live with my entire life.

I hope his nose breaking under Tyson’s fist lives with him forever. If it does, it’s not enough. We’re not even. The scales can never be balanced. But it helps—that small amount of justice. It helps.

Willa stands behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist, her chin resting on my shoulder while she watches the scene with me.

“Tyson’s okay,” she says when Derik’s car drives off. “Are you?”

“I think so,” I say, trying to take stock of myself. My pulse is racing, my toes curled, I’m trembling, but not uncontrollably. “I’m not alone anymore.”

“Never again, bestie,” she says, leaning her head against mine.

My eyes don’t waver from Tyson as he walks back toward the house. He stops just short of the porch. Damian comes back in, but nobody follows. When I look back to the window, I see Tyson walking toward his car.

“Tyson,” I call, running outside to him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, turning to face me.

“Are you leaving?” I ask, nodding. There’s a red spot low on his cheek; I touch it with tenderness. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, grinning. “If anything, I’m disappointed he didn’t put up more of a fight so I could have gone at him longer. And yes, I’m leaving. I’ll go to the motel, and you’ll call me if you need me.” He gives me a pointed look, and again, I nod.

“Can I—” I start, then stop to compose myself. Looking down at my sock-covered feet, I laugh. “I don’t have shoes on. But can I hug you?”

“Of course.” He wraps me in a big bear hug, lifting me off my feet and walking us back toward the house. When we reach the porch, he sets me back on my feet. “It’s been a long day. Go get some rest.”

“Okay,” I say, staring up at him. My emotions war with each other inside my chest. “Goodnight, Tyson.”

“Goodnight.” He presses his lips to my forehead. I don’t move back into the house until he’s gone and I’m certain he’s not coming back.

“He left,” I say when I’m back in the house, the door locked tightly behind me.

“He didn’t want to trauma bond,” Damian says.

“What do you mean?”

“A part of you wanted him to stay, right?” I nod, and he continues. “Was that because you want him here, or because you want the safety he provides?”

“Can it be both?” I ask, because I don’t really know the answer.

“Absolutely. But he doesn’t want you to forgive what he did last night because of what he did tonight. He’d protect you, even if you never speak to him again.”

“And wanting that protection from him shouldn’t be a factor in whether you two work things out. Or not,” Willa adds.

“He’s being a gentleman. Again,” I say.

“Yeah, babe,” Willa says. “He knows you’re fragile from everything going on. He doesn’t want to take advantage.”

“That’s good. I’m not sure I like it, right now, but it’s good,” I say, pouting a little—which only underscores what they’re saying.

I’m not ready to have the conversation with him about calling me by another woman’s name, but what he did for me tonight was what I’ve dreamed of a man doing for me for as long as I can remember.

I hate to think of myself as a damsel in distress, but everyone needs a support system. I never felt I had one, until tonight, when three people showed up for me in huge ways—no questions asked.

“Emotions are hard,” Willa says.

That’s the damn truth. Today has completely wrung me out. It’s probably a good thing I have friends here to help me keep my shit straight.

The following day, we get to work cleaning out the house. Luckily, my grandma was tidy and didn’t like clutter. We move from room to room, sorting piles for donation, trash, and a small stack of things I want to keep.

There’s a meager teaspoon collection that I know was her mother’s, a coffee mug that I made her in a pottery class I took in the tenth grade, and a small box of her family pictures.

There are more from her childhood than there are from mine, reinforcing my thoughts on her adult life. She didn’t lead a happy one.

It makes me sad for her. For women like her, who get trapped in unfulfilling or abusive relationships.

It makes me sadder for the children trapped in those situations.

It’s the cycle of thought I repeatedly end up with.

Like always, I remind myself that I got out of the situation.

I found a way to live on my terms, by my rules.

I’m no longer anyone’s victim. And as much as I wish I could have changed my grandmother’s situation, she made her own choices.

My phone chimes with a text, bringing me out of my depressing thoughts.

It’s a message from my father, telling me that the funeral home will have her ashes ready to inter inside the same mausoleum as my grandfather, two days from now.

These were arrangements she made prior to her death.

To me, it feels wrong for her to be resting eternally with her abuser, but that’s not my call.

He also says that the attorney who prepared her will has paperwork for me to sign and will be coming by the house.

The house that I don’t know what to do with.

Damian offered to find a property management company to upkeep it, if I decide not to sell it.

I’m not sure what benefit there is to keeping it, though.

I have no interest in being a landlord, nor do I have any reason to come back here in the future.

Selling it is logical, but that doesn’t feel quite right, either.

It conjures an icky swirl in my stomach, like I’m profiting from her death.

“You don’t need to make a decision, now,” Damian says when I express that. “Whenever you decide, whatever it is you decide, we’ll be here to help take care of it.”

This is my family—Willa, Damian, Zander, the Coles, the Wylders. They are the type of family everyone deserves. The type that shows up, not only when you need it most, but always. Maybe I should have been more of that for my grandmother, but she should have been more of that for me, too.

Now, it’s too late for either of us to make those amends.

If anything, it gives me more perspective on my situation with Tyson.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be secure as anything more than a friend to him.

There are still discussions that have to be had.

What I do know is that I won’t shy away from those conversations.

I’ll give the opportunity for amends to be made—even if, after it’s all said and done, Tyson isn’t my man, after all.

Because another thing I’m sure of, is that I won’t compromise by being second choice. I won’t settle for what I can get, instead of what I deserve, only to die lonely anyway. I won’t live a life of what-ifs, like my grandmother did.

I do hope we’ll always be something to each other, though. He’s given me so much in such little time. It wouldn’t be right to share so much with someone, only to end up never speaking.

“We should order pizza, tonight,” I suggest, as we finish up in my grandmother’s bedroom.

The only thing staying is the nightstand, lamp, and bed that Willa and Damian are sleeping on.

The rest is being donated. “And I’ll ask Tyson to come over.

I feel bad that he came all the way here and he’s been hanging out in the dingy motel all day. ”

“Pizza does sound good,” Willa says.

“The car is full,” Damian says, poking his head into the room. He’s been making runs all morning to the Goodwill. “Need anything while I’m out?”

“Pizza,” Willa and I say in unison.

“Got it.”

“Enough for Tyson, too,” I add.

“No problem. Be back soon. Call if you think of anything else.”

“Thank you, Damian.”

“No worries, Kit.”

I text Tyson to ask if he’ll come over.

Tyson:

I’d love to, thanks for the invite.

Next, I shower, and try to make myself presentable after a day of cleaning. As soon as I turn the hair dryer off, I hear a knock on the front door. Damian is already back and hollers that he’ll answer it. Shortly after, Willa knocks on the door to tell me the attorney is here.

She’s a woman in her late fifties, if I had to guess. Introducing herself as Susan, she tells me she met my grandmother years ago, when they both joined a cribbage group that met one night a week at the community center.

“It’s too bad they didn’t catch the cancer earlier,” she says.

“Cancer?” I ask.

“Yes, dear. She didn’t want to tell you she was diagnosed with late-stage colon cancer early this year. I figured your father would have told you since she passed.”

“He didn’t. We’re not close,” I say, not asking why my grandmother didn’t tell me. It’s not surprising, since we didn’t tell each other a lot of things. Mostly, we kept every conversation to good news only.

“Of course,” she says, as if she knew and forgot.

“So, I have some paperwork you’ll need to sign.

Essentially, she quitclaimed the house to you.

There wasn’t much money left over, as she used everything she had to ensure there wouldn’t be expenses left unpaid for you to take care of from inheriting her estate.

She did add your name to her bank account, though—that information is in here. ” She hands me a manila envelope.

“Thank you, I appreciate you coming here to do this.” I sign each page where little red flags are placed.

“Sure. Anna was a friend. She loved you, Kit. It wasn’t easy for her to show, but she did.”

“I know, I loved her, too.”

“She knew that,” she says, rubbing her hand down my arm. “There’s a letter from her in there, as well.”

“Oh. Okay.” I peek in the envelope to find a smaller one inside, my name written on it.

“That’s it for paperwork. My card is in there—if you need anything from me, you just let me know.”

“Thank you, Susan,” I say, and walk her back to the door. Opening the envelope back up, I take out the letter, and within minutes, everything I knew about my life changes.