Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(30)

“Because of what happened to your sister? What you wrote about in your story?” Clover asks.

I nod. “Sometimes I can go weeks without thinking about it, but sometimes it’s a constant loop. And I wonder what it’s like for her. Because she’s the one who went through it, not me.”

“That’s why you stepped in today.” It’s not a question.

“Women are to be revered, not abused—verbally, emotionally, or otherwise.” My jaw cracks. “Those guys were assholes, and we should call the police and file a report. Plus, I know the garage they work at. I’ll call their boss in the morning and let him know what happened. He won’t be happy about it.”

“How is your hand? I think you punched one of them?”

I glance down at my knuckles. There’s a small bruise forming, but otherwise it’s fine. “It’s nothing to worry about.” I close the first aid kit. “Anyway, your hands are all taken care of. You fell pretty hard, though, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re a little sore all over tomorrow. A hot bath would probably be helpful. Also, sometimes the shock takes a while to wear off before the emotional weight of it hits, and it’s nice to have a friend around when that happens.”

Clover blows out a breath. “Thank you for being so . . . compassionate.”

“I want to make sure you’re okay,” I tell her.

She nods a few times and gingerly laces her fingers together, as if she’s unsure what she should do with them now.

“I teach a self-defense class at one of the gyms off campus,” I add. “It’s free for anyone who wants to take it, and I run it twice a week, usually on Monday evenings and Saturdays, unless I have a game, and then one of the other trainers subs in for me. Maybe you’d want to come check it out? You don’t even have to participate, just watch or whatever. It teaches you the basics. It’s a real mixed bag of people who come out, sometimes moms and their daughters, lots of students from the college, sometimes a group of friends. It’s kind of empowering, you know?”

She cocks her head to the side, and this time when she looks at me, I feel it on a visceral level, like she’s trying to see her way inside me. I avert my eyes and scan the kitchen. There’s a magnetic notepad stuck to the fridge with a pen attached to it. I get up, feeling a little restless and like I probably need to get the hell out of here.

I tear a piece of paper free and scribble down the name of the gym, the address, the time the class starts, and my cell number because I can’t remember the number of the gym off the top of my head. When I have my wallet with me, I also have cards for the gym with the class times on the back of it.

“Anyway.” I turn back to her. “Here’s the info, if you want to think about joining us. Or observing. You can even bring your friend.” I point to the ceiling. “Some of the women who take the class have had negative experiences with men, kind of like what you’ve been through, and there’s always a female trainer with me so we can make sure everyone is comfortable.” Yeah, it’s time to get the fuck out. I set the paper on the table.

She stands up, adjusting her robe, maybe finally registering that she’s not dressed in real clothes. Like she does with her cardigans, she pulls the sides over each other. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

“I should go. Unless you need anything else.”

“I think . . . I think I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods, somewhat hesitantly, but when she doesn’t offer anything else, I nod again. “Okay. I, uh, I put my cell number on that paper. I wanted to do that in August, but I didn’t want to put pressure on you.” I tap the edge of the chair. “Anyway, you don’t ever have to use it, but if you’re feeling unsafe, or you need to talk it out or whatever, all you have to do is send me a message and I’ll run by. No questions asked.”

She glances at the paper, her teeth sliding over her bottom lip. “Okay. Thank you. Hopefully I don’t need to do that.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” I couldn’t make this more awkward if I tried.

She gives me another tremulous smile and nods.

I head for the hallway, and she pads along behind me.

She stands a few feet away while I struggle to untie the stupid fucking knots in my running shoes. There’s a little bench, one with hooks behind it like we have at my parents’ house in Lake Geneva, so I sit on that to avoid taking up 90 percent of the confined space.

“Thank you again,” she says. “For everything.”

I finally manage to get the knot untied and jam my foot into my shoe, quickly tying the laces. “You gonna be okay?” I ask the floor.

“Yeah. I, um . . .” She clears her throat, and I look up to find her chewing on her bottom lip, struggling not to break down and losing the fight.

She lifts one hand, her fingertips touching her lips. “I didn’t even scream. I didn’t make a s—” She chokes on the word and shakes her head. “I should have done something.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay now. You’re safe. And those guys were drunk assholes. They were out of it and not thinking clearly.” I feed her all the lines meant to help calm her down, even though my head has already gone through scenarios I don’t want to entertain. Memories I try to keep buried float to the surface . . .