It Ends With Us(79)

The reasoning is the hardest part of this. It eats at me, little by little, wearing down the strength my hatred lends to me. The reasoning forces me to imagine our future together, and how there are things I could do to prevent that type of anger. I’ll never betray him again. I’ll never keep secrets from him again. I’ll never give him reason to react that way again. We’ll both just have to work harder from now on.

For better, for worse, right?

I know these are the things that once went through my mother’s head. But the difference between the two of us is that she had more to worry about. She didn’t have the financial stability that I have. She didn’t have the resources to leave and give me what she thought was a decent shelter. She didn’t want to take me away from my father when I was used to living with both parents. I have a feeling reasoning really kicked her ass a time or two.

I can’t even begin to process the thought that I’m having a child with this man. There is a human being inside of me that we created together. And no matter which option I choose—whether I choose to stay or choose to leave—neither are choices I would wish upon my child. To grow up in a broken home or an abusive one? I’ve already failed this baby in life, and I’ve only known about his or her existence for a single day.

Ellen, I wish you could write back to me. I wish that you could say something funny to me right now, because my heart needs it. I have never felt this alone. This broken. This angry. This hurt.

People on the outside of situations like these often wonder why the woman goes back to the abuser. I read somewhere once that 85 percent of women return to abusive situations. That was before I realized I was in one, and when I heard that statistic, I thought it was because the women were stupid. I thought it was because they were weak. I thought these things about my own mother more than once.

But sometimes the reason women go back is simply because they’re in love. I love my husband, Ellen. I love so many things about him. I wish cutting my feelings off for the person who hurt me was as easy as I used to think it would be. Preventing your heart from forgiving someone you love is actually a hell of a lot harder than simply forgiving them.

I’m a statistic now. The things I’ve thought about women like me are now what others would think of me if they knew my current situation.

“How could she love him after what he did to her? How could she contemplate taking him back?”

It’s sad that those are the first thoughts that run through our minds when someone is abused. Shouldn’t there be more distaste in our mouths for the abusers than for those who continue to love the abusers?

I think of all the people who have been in this situation before me. Everyone who will be in this situation after me. Do we all repeat the same words in our heads in the days after experiencing abuse at the hands of those who love us? “From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.”

Maybe those vows weren’t meant to be taken as literally as some spouses take them.

For better, for worse?

Fuck.

That.

Shit.

—Lily





Chapter Twenty-Six


I’m lying on Atlas’s guest bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s a normal bed. Really comfortable, actually. But it feels like I’m on a water bed. Or maybe a raft, adrift at sea. And I scale over these huge waves, each of them carrying something different. Some are waves of sadness. Some are waves of anger. Some are waves of tears. Some are waves of sleep.

Occasionally, I’ll place my hands on my stomach and a tiny wave of love will come. I have no idea how I can already love something so much, but I do. I think about whether or not it’ll be a boy or a girl and what I’ll name it. I wonder if it will look like me or Ryle. And then another wave of anger will come and crash down on that tiny wave of love.

I feel robbed of the joy a mother should have when she finds out she’s pregnant. I feel like Ryle took that from me last night and it’s just one more thing I have to hate him for.

Hatred is exhausting.

I force myself off the bed and into the shower. I’ve been in my room most of the day. Atlas returned home several hours ago and I heard him open the door at one point to check on me but I pretended to be asleep.

I feel awkward being here. Atlas is the very reason Ryle was angry at me last night, yet he’s the one I ran to when I needed help? Being here fills me with guilt. Maybe even a little bit of shame, as though my calling Atlas lends credibility to Ryle’s anger. But there’s literally nowhere I can go right now. I need a couple of days to process things and if I go to a hotel, Ryle could track the credit card charge and find me.

He’d be able to find me at my mother’s. At Allysa’s. At Lucy’s. He’s even met Devin a couple of times and would more than likely go there, too.

I can’t see him tracking down Atlas, though. Yet. I’m sure if I go a week avoiding his calls and texts, he’ll look everywhere he can possibly look to find me. But for now, I don’t think he would show up here.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. I feel safer here than anywhere else I could possibly go. And Atlas has an alarm system, so there’s that.

I glance at the nightstand to look at my phone. I skip over all the missed texts from Ryle and open the one from Allysa.

Allysa: Hey, Aunt Lily! They’re sending us home tonight. Come see us tomorrow when you get home from work.