Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“So you stayed.”
“So I stayed.”
“And you convinced yourself you were the problem.”
Our gazes lock and it’s as if he’s spoken a truth I’ve been keeping a secret until now.
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t think I really understood how bad things were until we were over. It sounds ridiculous, but I lost perspective. My relationship with my parents was an annual visit and a phone call on birthdays. My friends had moved on with their lives. Even my best friend, Cynthia, and I barely kept in touch. I got used to the temper tantrums and the dressing-downs. The silent treatment and the name-calling. His behavior got more and more difficult to explain and excuse to people on the outside, so I avoided everyone. That, together with the fact that I didn’t have any qualifications or experience outside working for him…how could I defend myself against his criticisms?”
“He bullied you.” It’s not a question, just a flat summation of the situation from his perspective.
“He’d get frustrated about the lack of progress I was making.”
“Did it ever turn physical?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.” I blink and blink again as I think back. “He never hit me,” I clarify. There were a couple of times where I’d moved out of the way when I thought things might turn physical. And he pushed me once. At least, I think he did. He told me I stumbled, and things were so heated and hazy, it’s difficult to be sure. “He used to throw things.”
“But eventually, you left?” he asks.
I look down and shake my head. “He left me for someone else—one of the PR girls that used to travel with the riders when they competed abroad.” Nausea rises in my stomach and I take a swig of wine to try and wash it away. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I get out sooner? “You must think I’m an idiot for staying with him all those years.”
He reaches across the table and links my fingers with his. “You were the frog in slowly boiled water.”
I narrow my eyes in challenge. “I was the what now?”
“They say if you put a frog in a pan of boiling water, it will jump out. But if you put a frog in cold water and slowly heat it up, the frog will be cooked alive. Shane wore you down over years, chipped away at your confidence and isolated you from your friends and family.”
I sit back in my chair, startled by his sharp description.
“I’m sorry,” Zach says and I look up from my plate.
It feels like I can breathe again after years of not taking in enough oxygen. My body shifts gears from high-alert to everything’s-going-to-be-okay for the first time in a long time.
I look up from my plate. I want to thank him for helping me see something I’d been blind to for too long, but I don’t want to come across as dramatic. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s a helpful way to think about it.” It hadn’t occurred to me that it was natural to be oblivious to small changes. It makes perfect sense. I would never walk into a relationship like the one Shane and I had by the end, but the change from good to bad had been too gradual to notice.
“It’s all in the past now. I need to focus on my future.”
“Does that future involve the chocolate brownies I saw?”
I laugh because I’m exhausted from our discussion about Shane, but somehow feel lighter for it. “The future should always involve chocolate brownies.”
We work together clearing the table, and just as I reach for the plate of dessert, he pulls me in for a hug and we stay pressed together, our arms wrapped around each other in comfortable silence. There’s no need for words because I know what his touch is saying.
I’m sorry you had to go through that.
You’re worth more.
He was an idiot.
I’ll never do that to you.
Twenty-Three
Ellie
If I had an internet connection, I’d Google how long habits take to form. I’m sure I read somewhere that it takes a month, but I’ve only been on Rum three days and already I’m in a routine of sorts. I spend the day buried in thoughts about food, thinking about what a weekly menu would look like for different types of households. If I were a private chef, how would I feed a family of four? A busy single executive with an unreliable schedule? What options would I offer on holidays? Later, I figure out a menu for the evening. And I think about Zach.
A lot.
More than I should, considering how little time we’ve really spent together. I keep telling myself it’s just our forced proximity or the sex or something in the Scottish air. Things would be different if we were in London. I’m not sure if I’ve convinced myself though.