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It’s not the pain or the fear that undoes me.
It’s the shame.
I cry hard. I gasp for air and sob uncontrollably. And I have no idea how long I do this before I realize Vaughn has stopped spanking me and he’s holding me to his chest. His hands sweeping down my back as he whispers in my ear. “It’s OK, Grace. It’s OK.”
Aside from that small breakdown in the hospital when I told Vaughn I was sad about the baby, this is the first time I’ve really felt anything in over ten years. “It’s not OK.” I tell him back. “It’s not OK. He took everything from me. I have nothing left. Not even myself.” For a second I fear that Vaughn will be offended at that statement, but he holds me tighter.
“I know,” he says. So unpredictable, this man. “I know. He killed your parents. He killed your brother. He took you away from your life and twisted your mind. He fucked up your whole life, Grace. You’re allowed to be pissed off and sad.”
My crying becomes ugly as the feelings flood in. But my gratitude is so overwhelming. Vaughn gets it. Of all the people who have tried to help me, this man—this self-centered, egotistical asshole—gets it.
None of this has anything to do with him.
It’s about me.
Chapter Eleven
#DayOneDoOver
“SWEETS,” Vaughn says in my ear. “It’s morning, babe. I have to go to work, will you be OK?”
I stir in his arms and realize I’m still naked and we are still in the movie room. “Yes,” I say automatically. I know he has to work. I want to throw a tantrum and tell him to call in sick, but I can’t. Not after he held me all night long and let me get it out of my system. Not after he was so patient with me.
“I’ll be home at eight. We only have three days of filming this week. I can’t wait for the long weekend.” And then he kisses me and he’s off.
What long weekend?
I lie on the movie couch, snuggling up with the soft blankets, and ponder this. What day is it?
I sit upright and gasp. “It’s Thanksgiving week!”
Oh my God. How does a person not know the holidays are upon them? It feels like I was just getting off that plane from Saint Thomas over Labor Day and now it’s Thanksgiving week.
I count up the weeks in my mind and realize I’ve been in this funk for almost three months. “Grace,” I begin to chastise. “This is not good. You are not allowed to wallow.”
I crawl to the edge of the couch, drop the blanket, and make my way to the living room. In the bright California sunshine, the filth we are living in is painfully obvious. There’s dishes and trash everywhere. Clothes, shoes, mud on the tiles near the doorway. Even outside, our movie-star backyard is littered with palm fronds and leaves from a storm last week and the various flotation rafts I’ve used in the pool since moving in here with Vaughn.
And then a sour smell reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. I look over at the dishes on the island countertop and wrinkle my nose. Spoiled milk in numerous cereal bowls.
I’m a terrible wife.
How has Vaughn put up with me?
A ringing startles me out of my introspection and I look around for the source. “We have a phone?” I ask myself out loud. I had no idea we had a home phone. I thought everyone just used cells these days. I follow the source just as the message machine—who has a message machine?—clicks on.
“Vaughn, baby. It’s me. I just wanted to double-check and make sure we’re still on for this Friday for the Black Bash. Call me.”
“What the hell is a Black Bash?” I ask out loud again.
I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s some sort of Hollywood party and Vaughn just didn’t want me to worry about it, or was going to decline. So I drop it and go back out to the living room.
This will not do.
I really need to start making an effort. I open the folding wall of glass doors and let the sunshine and cool air in. It’s not cold. I mean, it’s like sixty-five. But that’s nothing like Colorado is in November. The fresh air feels good. And it will make the smell of spoiled milk disappear.
I walk around the living room picking up dishes and take them all to the sink to rinse them out before loading up the dishwasher. Then I go to work picking up trash and clothes. I start a load of laundry. There’s still a load in both the washer and the dryer and since I have not done laundry once since I’ve moved in, I can only suspect that this was Vaughn’s attempt to keep the house running while I was in my funk.
Funk, Grace?
Fine. It was a depression. But I feel like a new person today. I feel like I got it all out last night. He was so perfect. He listened to me cry and held me close. I have never felt such love and support in all my life.
But now I need to move on. I need to put all that bad stuff behind me and look to the future. And even though I’ve lived here for almost three months, I feel like this is the first day of my new life as Mrs. Asher.
Now if only I could remember my wedding.
I just don’t understand why it’s such a problem. I mean, either Vaughn is lying about how aware I was of what was going on, or I’m just… blocking it out for some reason. But why? Why would I do that?
I continue to clean as I ponder this. I make a list in my head.
I’m psycho.
The idea of being married was just too much for me after all that brainwashing
I really don’t want to be married to Vaughn Asher.
But none of those seem right. I’m not psycho. I might be damaged, but I’m not crazy. And yes, the whole kidnapper-trying-to-convince-me-I’m-his-wife thing did put a damper on all my future thoughts of getting married. But it’s fucking Vaughn Asher. And that makes number three ridiculous. I really do love him. Maybe it’s leftover infatuation kinda love from my Twitter stalking days. But it’s still authentic.
So why can’t I remember?
I almost wish I could go to Vegas and retrace my steps. But after my day jaunt to Colorado, I think it’s probably a bad idea to take off again. Besides, it’s almost Thanksgiving.
So instead of calling the flight coordinator and booking a flight to Sin City, I call my parents. My mom answers on the first ring and her unexpected happiness at my call makes me warm.
“Mom,” I say, after she’s got her hellos out of the way. “I don’t think we’re coming for Thanksgiving. Is that OK?” I’m nervous about this call. I’ve never spent a holiday away from home since they adopted me.
It’s the shame.
I cry hard. I gasp for air and sob uncontrollably. And I have no idea how long I do this before I realize Vaughn has stopped spanking me and he’s holding me to his chest. His hands sweeping down my back as he whispers in my ear. “It’s OK, Grace. It’s OK.”
Aside from that small breakdown in the hospital when I told Vaughn I was sad about the baby, this is the first time I’ve really felt anything in over ten years. “It’s not OK.” I tell him back. “It’s not OK. He took everything from me. I have nothing left. Not even myself.” For a second I fear that Vaughn will be offended at that statement, but he holds me tighter.
“I know,” he says. So unpredictable, this man. “I know. He killed your parents. He killed your brother. He took you away from your life and twisted your mind. He fucked up your whole life, Grace. You’re allowed to be pissed off and sad.”
My crying becomes ugly as the feelings flood in. But my gratitude is so overwhelming. Vaughn gets it. Of all the people who have tried to help me, this man—this self-centered, egotistical asshole—gets it.
None of this has anything to do with him.
It’s about me.
Chapter Eleven
#DayOneDoOver
“SWEETS,” Vaughn says in my ear. “It’s morning, babe. I have to go to work, will you be OK?”
I stir in his arms and realize I’m still naked and we are still in the movie room. “Yes,” I say automatically. I know he has to work. I want to throw a tantrum and tell him to call in sick, but I can’t. Not after he held me all night long and let me get it out of my system. Not after he was so patient with me.
“I’ll be home at eight. We only have three days of filming this week. I can’t wait for the long weekend.” And then he kisses me and he’s off.
What long weekend?
I lie on the movie couch, snuggling up with the soft blankets, and ponder this. What day is it?
I sit upright and gasp. “It’s Thanksgiving week!”
Oh my God. How does a person not know the holidays are upon them? It feels like I was just getting off that plane from Saint Thomas over Labor Day and now it’s Thanksgiving week.
I count up the weeks in my mind and realize I’ve been in this funk for almost three months. “Grace,” I begin to chastise. “This is not good. You are not allowed to wallow.”
I crawl to the edge of the couch, drop the blanket, and make my way to the living room. In the bright California sunshine, the filth we are living in is painfully obvious. There’s dishes and trash everywhere. Clothes, shoes, mud on the tiles near the doorway. Even outside, our movie-star backyard is littered with palm fronds and leaves from a storm last week and the various flotation rafts I’ve used in the pool since moving in here with Vaughn.
And then a sour smell reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. I look over at the dishes on the island countertop and wrinkle my nose. Spoiled milk in numerous cereal bowls.
I’m a terrible wife.
How has Vaughn put up with me?
A ringing startles me out of my introspection and I look around for the source. “We have a phone?” I ask myself out loud. I had no idea we had a home phone. I thought everyone just used cells these days. I follow the source just as the message machine—who has a message machine?—clicks on.
“Vaughn, baby. It’s me. I just wanted to double-check and make sure we’re still on for this Friday for the Black Bash. Call me.”
“What the hell is a Black Bash?” I ask out loud again.
I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s some sort of Hollywood party and Vaughn just didn’t want me to worry about it, or was going to decline. So I drop it and go back out to the living room.
This will not do.
I really need to start making an effort. I open the folding wall of glass doors and let the sunshine and cool air in. It’s not cold. I mean, it’s like sixty-five. But that’s nothing like Colorado is in November. The fresh air feels good. And it will make the smell of spoiled milk disappear.
I walk around the living room picking up dishes and take them all to the sink to rinse them out before loading up the dishwasher. Then I go to work picking up trash and clothes. I start a load of laundry. There’s still a load in both the washer and the dryer and since I have not done laundry once since I’ve moved in, I can only suspect that this was Vaughn’s attempt to keep the house running while I was in my funk.
Funk, Grace?
Fine. It was a depression. But I feel like a new person today. I feel like I got it all out last night. He was so perfect. He listened to me cry and held me close. I have never felt such love and support in all my life.
But now I need to move on. I need to put all that bad stuff behind me and look to the future. And even though I’ve lived here for almost three months, I feel like this is the first day of my new life as Mrs. Asher.
Now if only I could remember my wedding.
I just don’t understand why it’s such a problem. I mean, either Vaughn is lying about how aware I was of what was going on, or I’m just… blocking it out for some reason. But why? Why would I do that?
I continue to clean as I ponder this. I make a list in my head.
I’m psycho.
The idea of being married was just too much for me after all that brainwashing
I really don’t want to be married to Vaughn Asher.
But none of those seem right. I’m not psycho. I might be damaged, but I’m not crazy. And yes, the whole kidnapper-trying-to-convince-me-I’m-his-wife thing did put a damper on all my future thoughts of getting married. But it’s fucking Vaughn Asher. And that makes number three ridiculous. I really do love him. Maybe it’s leftover infatuation kinda love from my Twitter stalking days. But it’s still authentic.
So why can’t I remember?
I almost wish I could go to Vegas and retrace my steps. But after my day jaunt to Colorado, I think it’s probably a bad idea to take off again. Besides, it’s almost Thanksgiving.
So instead of calling the flight coordinator and booking a flight to Sin City, I call my parents. My mom answers on the first ring and her unexpected happiness at my call makes me warm.
“Mom,” I say, after she’s got her hellos out of the way. “I don’t think we’re coming for Thanksgiving. Is that OK?” I’m nervous about this call. I’ve never spent a holiday away from home since they adopted me.
