Chapter 5: You Heard That

Taylor

“I didn’t change. I grew up,” I argue.

“Bullshit!” Jackson states, his brown eyes wild with rage. “He was an abusive, overbearing, insecure ass. You changed everything to prevent his anger.”

He’s cursing. That is rare for him, and I’m the reason. He’s fuming to the point of swearing, and it’s all because I didn’t have the balls to drop my loser boyfriend when I graduated college and moved to Chicago.

I wish I had known then what I know now. The past two months proved I am capable of living on my own. I let the fear of adulting in a new state and large city get to me. I thought taking John with me would prevent my loneliness. It did not. I now know he made me lonelier than I would have been on my own. I neglected to make new friends, to go out, and to explore the city in order to avoid his wrath.

“You couldn’t hide it all from us. We heard everything; we know everything he wouldn’t let you do,” Kennedy states, twirling her index finger nervously through a strand of her blonde hair. “We heard him make you change clothes more than once during senior year. He controlled what you wore, where you went, and who you spoke to.”

“You heard that?” Fear envelops me. I went to great lengths in my attempts to hide things from the two of them.

“Yes. We heard him call you a whore, slut... You name it.” Jackson struggles to rein in his over six feet of balled up anger. He fights the urge to pace. “He wasn’t as quiet in your bedroom as you’d hoped. We tried to act like we didn’t hear so you could still go out to eat with us.” He runs his hand through his dark brown hair then down his dark, stubbled jaw. “It killed me to sit across the table from him. The way he treated you behind closed doors... You didn’t deserve that. I should have stopped him.” Jackson’s hands on my shoulders grip tightly, burning my skin as I look up at him. “I know it had to be even worse than we ever knew.”

“We wanted to help,” Kennedy claims. “We thought if you were out with us, you would open up to me. We thought you might ask for help. We just tried to be there for you as often as you would let us.”

“You mean when he would let us,” Jackson interjects, his voice laced with venom. “The asshole didn’t tell you when we called. He sent our birthday cards back with ‘return to sender’ written on the envelopes.” At this memory, Jackson releases me, turns his back, and paces a few steps.

“What?” I can’t believe this. “I never knew you...”

They are right. I was a Stepford wife. I became his robot, doing and saying what he allowed me to. I became the exact opposite of the woman I was prior to meeting him. I let go of my fortitude for a loser.

“We have the cards in a box at home. We will show you later,” Kennedy states, assuring me Jackson speaks the truth. “When I’d call, he’d say you were out of town or busy getting ready to go to a work event. I’d ask to leave a message, and he’d tell me you were too busy to bother with a phone call.”

My legs feel like rubber. I thought my friends had forgotten about me. I thought they’d moved to Kansas City, gotten interesting new friends, and didn’t need me. I thought I’d lost them forever. I felt so alone for so long.

Suddenly, I feel lightheaded with this new knowledge that he hurt me more than I even knew. The pain his actions caused seems to grow instead of fade. I vaguely hear Jackson’s deep, concerned voice. I feel like I’m underwater and listening to him. Heavy. My eyelids and limbs feel heavy.

“Get the front door; I will carry her to the sofa.”

“Should I call Reagan? She’s a nurse; she might be able to determine if we should go to the E.R.,” a voice I think is Kennedy’s asks.

Jackson assures Kennedy it’s stress, the flight, and too many mixed drinks with no food. My limbs feel stuck in mud when I try to move my hand to my head.

“Taylor,” Kennedy calls. “Honey, are you okay? We think you fainted.”

Jackson’s large, warm hand cradles my neck, lifting me to a sitting position. I struggle to open my heavy eyelids. I slowly take in my surroundings. I am not in the Impala. I am in a family room. I’m on a sofa. Wait! No. I’m on... I turn my head; I am on Jackson’s lap. I quickly try to scoot off.

“Easy, honey,” Kennedy calmly encourages, her hands flying to my shoulders to stop me. “Sit still and take a sip of this juice.” She reaches out one hand and offers a glass of grape juice.

“Juice?” I croak.

“You didn’t eat lunch, did you?” Jackson asks, his brow furrowed and eyes concerned.

I shake my head slowly, my foggy brain spinning.

“The juice will help until we can get dinner into you,” Jackson prompts. With a slight chuckle, he states, “Just like old times.”

“Jackson!” Kennedy admonishes him.

“What?” he teases. “How many times did the two of you skip a meal and start drinking, and I’d have to babysit one or both of you all night?”

“Babysit her maybe,” Kennedy corrects. “I always had a few and spent the night vomiting in the bathroom.”

I successfully scoot off Jackson’s lap to the corner of the sofa. I flip him off before I snag a throw pillow, pulling it tightly to my chest.

Jackson extends his long legs, putting his feet on the coffee table. Long, dark hair accents his sun-tanned legs. He folds his arms across his golf shirt-covered chest. A smug grin dawns on his golden face. There is a hint of a sunglasses tan line around his brown eyes, extending toward his ears and dark brown hairline. His six-foot frame causes me to shrink into the cushions. He is strong but not ripped. He does hard work and has no time to work out. He’s not fat, just a bit soft compared to John. He is much more handsome than John.

I quickly slap my cheeks to draw me out of my wayward thoughts. John is out of my life for good. No need to compare others to him; he is so not worthy of my time.