Archive of Our Own ^beta

October 1993.

Mike brings you and Natalie to the airport and walks you to your gate. You've been quiet the entire way there, your hand in Mike's, and you don't know if she's just that observant or if you're being terribly obvious about how little you're looking forward to three weeks away from home, but either way, she announces she's going to look for a magazine to bring along, leaving the two of you to say your goodbyes. 

You grip the front of his leather jacket, but as soon as you look up at him, you start to tear up. “I can cancel,” you offer for the thousandth time. “This isn't right. I should stay until things are better…”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says gently, “things are just fine. We're gonna be okay, sweetheart, I promise. We can talk every single day if you want and you can tell me all about the city you're in and how great the readings and signings are going. You need to do this. You deserve it.”

You bury your face in his chest and his arms come around you, holding you close and cradling the back of your head. “I wish you were coming with me,” you mumble.

“I know, honey. So do I. But you'll have Natalie and Reshma there and they're gonna take good care of you. It's gonna fly by, you'll see.”

You sniffle. “Is that an airport pun?”

“Would you like it to be?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, managing a watery smile. 

He smiles back and kisses your forehead. “Then it's definitely an airport pun.”

You hug him and spend a long moment breathing him in, trying to memorize the way he feels and sounds and smells. “I love you,” you whisper. 

“I love you,” he replies, his hold on you tightening. “Call me when you get to your hotel?”

“Of course. Take good care of Penny for me.”

It's a measure of how much he loves you that he doesn't complain. “I will. I promise she'll still have all four legs when you get home.”

“Tail too?” you giggle. 

“Let's not push it.”

When Natalie ambles back over and boarding begins, you kiss Mike and hug him once more. You have to force yourself to let go and he tucks your hair back behind your ear. 

“Go have fun,” he says warmly. “I'll be here to pick you up in three weeks.”

You can only nod, not trusting your voice as you pick up your carry-on bag. Natalie leads you toward the line, but Mike calls after her. 

“Take good care of my girl,” he says as he gives you a wink. 

Natalie smiles and slings her arm around you. “We're gonna party every night and engage in so many risky activities. Maybe I'll even get Resh involved.”

Mike rolls his eyes as you chuckle.

“Please,” Natalie snorts. “The craziest we'll get is staying up past ten o'clock and indulging in a glass of wine.”

“She’s not wrong,” you admit. 

You call Mike as soon as you're settled in your hotel room in Seattle. It's really more of a suite, with a private room for you and one for Natalie. Reshma and Bruce are staying in another room just down the hall. Your first event isn't until the following day, so you have the evening to decompress. As soon as you hear his voice, you can't help but smile. It's almost as good as his arms around you. 

“Hi, baby,” you say in greeting. 

“Hey, honey. How was your flight?”

“It was fine, just long. The hotel is pretty nice, though.”

“That's good. All settled in? Or are you doing anything tonight?”

“I think we'll probably go out to dinner and I'd like to go to Pike Place, but that's it,” you tell him. You typically don't have more than a day in each city, but your book readings and signings and Q&As only take up a few hours of those days. You'd like to make the most of your travels across the country by taking in some of the local sights. 

“Sounds like fun. I'm sure you'll have a great time, sweetheart. Just be careful for me, yeah?”

“Of course,” you chuckle. “Don't forget I've lived in the biggest city in the country for over a decade.”

“I know,” he laughs. “I just worry about you is all.”

“Hey, I get it. Anxiety is my middle name. But I promise I will be extra careful just for you.”

“Weird question for ya,” he says suddenly and you can't help but grow suspicious. “You open your suitcase yet?”

“Mike, I swear to god, if you put Penny in there…”

He barks out a laugh, one of your favorite sounds in the world. “I wish I'd thought that far ahead. I would have even put food in there for her.”

“Oh my god, stop ,” you groan as you haul your suitcase up onto your bed, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. “So what exactly is waiting for me in here? Do I need a hazmat suit?”

“Just who the hell do you think I am that I'd put a cat or hazardous materials in your suitcase?” 

“I don't count anything out when it comes to you,” you giggle. You unzip the luggage and your heart swells in your chest. “Oh, baby .”

At the very top of all your clothes is an envelope with “Sweetheart” written across it and one of Mike's favorite hooded sweatshirts – the one you always try to steal and he never lets you because he actually wears it. For the moment, you set the card aside and hug the folded sweatshirt to your chest. It's not as good as having him here, but it smells like him and brings you so much comfort. 

“When did you even do this?” you ask, words catching in your throat. 

“Oh, I could never reveal my secrets,” he laughs. “Don't open the envelope yet. Wait until you're back from dinner, when you're ready for bed, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, sniffling as you cuddle the hoodie. “It smells like you, Mikey.”

“I wore it on the way home from work yesterday,” he admits. “I just wanted you to have something while you're gone.”

For the first time since the ill-fated launch dinner, you really do feel like things will be okay. “This is so sweet, baby. I still don't know how I'm supposed to go three weeks without seeing or hugging or kissing you, but this helps so much.”

“I know it's gonna be hard, but we'll get through it, babygirl. We've made it through everything else up to this point. And you already have my heart with you.”

Your hand automatically goes to your necklace and you close your eyes. “I love you so much, Mikey,” you say thickly. “So, so much.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. You call me every night if you want, okay? Even if I'm not home, I'll call you back when I can.”

“Okay,” you agree, wishing you could stay on the phone with him until you're home again. But there's a gentle knock at your door and you know you have to get going. “I think we're leaving, but I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, honey. Have fun.”

“I'm sure I will. Give Penny a kiss for me.”

He says he will, which is as much an admission that he already misses you as anything else. You finish saying your goodbyes and go to meet Natalie. All in all, you have a good first night in Seattle. The food is delicious and you have a lot of fun going through the market, laughing and joking with Natalie. But you never quite manage to get Mike out of your head. Not that you want to either, but you're hoping that as the trip goes on, it won't ache so badly. As soon as you see a stand of postcards, you decide to send him one from each city, even if it's just a few sentences about how much you love and miss him. You select one with the iconic Pike Place sign on it to bring back to your room and resolve to mail it out the next day before you leave for Portland. 

You're back at the hotel by nine and you turn in early, both because you want to write to Mike and read his letter but also to give Natalie some space as well. You're rooming in each city and even though you have separate rooms, she'll also be dealing with you almost every single day and you don't want to get too clingy just because you're missing Mike. She does so much for you and is the best agent you could ever ask for – she deserves to enjoy the trip too. 

It's easy to fill up the back of the postcard: Mike, I've decided to send you one of these for each city we stay in. I love and miss you so much already. Thank you for the sweatshirt – it'll make a good cuddle buddy, even if it's a poor substitute for the real thing. All my love. You address it quickly and slide it into your purse before getting ready for bed. 

When you climb under the covers, the queen bed feels huge and empty. You hold his hoodie against your chest and breathe in his scent, letting it bring you the comfort you need. Then you reach for the card he'd left in your suitcase and open it. Even if you hadn't known it was from him, you'd have recognized his handwriting – hastily scrawled printing, a mixture of lower- and uppercase letters. 

Sweetheart, he begins, and already your chest feels tight, I know three weeks sounds like an impossible stretch of time to be apart. It felt like an eternity when you first told me. But up until the launch dinner, you were so excited. I would do anything if it meant you could find that same enthusiasm again. And you know I'd be there with you the whole time if I could, that I'd go back in time and redo it all to be at that dinner with you. To be where you need me. To stand by your side and show you how proud I am of everything you've accomplished. Of everything you're going to accomplish. 

I can hear you in my head right now, telling me not to apologize or beat myself up, and look, I know that it's not my fault and that you're not angry with me. But you're hurting and even though it wasn't intentional, I still caused that hurt. That's the last thing I ever want to do to you and I know you know that too. But what I also know, and what's most important in all this, is that we'll be okay. I'm sure it'll take time, but we'll get past this together. Because that's how we handle everything – together. It's you and me, babygirl, for the rest of our lives, and this doesn't change that. Nothing can change that.

I can't wait to watch you walk off that plane in three weeks, see your beautiful smile, and kiss your lips and feel your arms around me. I want to hear it all, every story you can think of about all the different cities and states you've been in. Hell, start a journal. I'll read the whole thing, front to back. I'd read anything you write. And I may not have gotten to properly show you that yet, but I promise, honey, I'll find a way. I am so incredibly proud to be your boyfriend, your fiance, and I cannot wait to be your husband, to call you my wife. Thinking about the future used to terrify me, paralyze me. And it's still scary even now, but when I remember that I'll have you by my side, the fear fades away. You've made my life infinitely better just by being you and I intend on spending every single day thanking you for it. 

I love you, my sweet, beautiful, gorgeous girl. Try to have fun while you're out there. It's all going to be okay. 

Love, Mike

P.S. Your hell creature says hi.

You fall asleep clutching Mike's hoodie, his letter on the nightstand, and tears drying on your face. 

Over the next two and a half weeks, you keep your promise to yourself. You send Mike a postcard from each city you spend the night in and time really does start to fly by. The two of you are able to talk almost every night and each time you hear his voice, it helps to ease the ache inside you. You work your way down the Pacific coast, down through the Southwest, and up into the Midwest. You're currently in Columbus, and from there, you'll stop in Memphis, fly to Florida, and have a couple more events as you work your way back up the East coast until you finally arrive home in New York. 

Mike had to work late last night, but he'd at least known about it ahead of time, so you knew you weren't going to be able to talk. Being apart from him definitely isn't a walk in the park and your homesickness has started to eat at you, but in less than a week, you'll be back home in his arms. He even went so far as to think ahead, getting your hotel information from Natalie, and sent a Polaroid of himself and Penny and it was waiting for you when you arrived in Austin. You've been carrying it in your purse ever since, taking it out each night at whatever hotel you're in and staring at it before you fall asleep. 

You ride to today's venue with Natalie and Reshma, both of whom tend to leave you alone before each event now that you know the drill. They tell you if anything will be different, but overall, you know what to expect. Natalie is busy reading some literary publication and Reshma is gazing out the window, both hands on her belly. Bruce had to fly back to the city for a stretch of meetings, but will rejoin the three of you in Miami and stay on for the rest of the tour. Reshma isn't due until mid to late January, but more often than not, you spot her reading books about motherhood and parenting. You'd expect nothing less from someone who seems to be prepared for virtually any sort of situation. 

Some of the turnouts at your events have been better than others, largely dependent on the size and location of the cities. San Francisco was your largest audience to date, but you're not expecting a whole lot from Columbus. Thankfully, there have only been a couple security issues so far – people protesting your book and your presence based on their religious beliefs, something you grew up hearing – but they've all been dealt with swiftly and without any fanfare. You have no desire to do anything to draw attention to those kinds of people. 

Much to your surprise – and Natalie's and Reshma’s, it seems – Columbus is a bigger turnout than anyone expected. It still has nothing on San Francisco, but as you peek out from the back of the bookstore, you're pleased to see almost every seat filled. Just as you're about to turn and remark on it to Natalie, your blood runs cold. Your double-take is completely unnecessary; you know it's them. They're older and greyer, more wrinkled than you remember, but it's undoubtedly your parents shuffling into one of the last rows of seats. 

The effect it has on you is immediate. You stumble backwards, dizzy, and thankfully collapse down onto a folding chair. For a terrible moment, you actually think you might be sick, but you manage to keep your breakfast down. It's as your heart begins to pound and your breathing quickens that Natalie notices you. She says your name, and you hear her, you're aware she's talking to you, but you can't make yourself respond. 

She drops down next to you, looking genuinely concerned, but you flinch away when she tries to take your hand. “What's wrong?” she asks, waving Reshma over. “What happened?”

You're having a panic attack. You should be used to them, you should be focusing on slowing your breathing, but every time you close your eyes, you see them. “I – I can't breathe,” you gasp, arms wrapping around your middle. “They – I don't – I can't –”

“Breathe with me,” Reshma says firmly, pulling up a chair and sitting down in front of you. She takes long, slow breaths, but you're so far into it that you can't stop panting. You're absently aware that some of the bookstore staff are glancing in your direction, but you can't focus on them right now, not when you're hardly keeping it together. You drag your hair back away from your face and realize you're crying, which explains your blurred vision as much as the dizziness does. 

“Talk to me, please,” Natalie tries again, keeping her hands to herself. “Let us help you.”

You genuinely try to get the words out, but everything gets stuck in your throat as you fall to pieces. All you manage are more stuttered phrases that tell them nothing. Eventually, Natalie digs her cell phone out of her bag, punches in some numbers, says a few words, and presses it into your hand. 

“It's Mike,” she tells you. “Talk to him, okay?” She and Reshma give you some space, though they remain in the back room with you. They usher away the unnecessary workers so it's just the three of you. 

“Sweetheart? Honey, are you there?”

The sound of Mike's voice makes you sob. “I can't,” you cry, though you'd be surprised if he can make it out. “They're here – why – why would they…?” You trail off, desperately dragging in breath after hysterical breath.

“Honey, I need you to tell me what's going on. I'm right here. Whatever it is will be okay, but I need you to talk to me.” He sounds so worried, which ultimately just adds another layer of shame to your complete and utter breakdown. 

It takes you another minute or so, but he's patient. “My parents,” you force out. “They're here .”

“They're there? ” He repeats the words incredulously. “In Columbus?”

You nod through another sob before remembering he can't see you. Your entire body trembles, fear taking over and sending you into fight-or-flight. You're ready to dart at any moment, as if they might just walk back here, unseen by Natalie and Reshma who are trying and failing to pretend they aren't eavesdropping. 

“I saw them walk in,” you whimper. “They're in the back. Why would they do this?” 

“Sweetheart, listen to me. I need you to give the phone to Natalie. I'm going to talk to her for a minute, and then she's gonna put you back on, okay? I'm gonna take care of it.”

“Okay,” you say miserably, turning and holding the phone out. “He wants to talk to you.”

Natalie hurries over and puts the phone to her ear. She listens intently, clearly agreeing to whatever Mike is saying. Then she's handing you the phone back with a sympathetic look. 

“Mike?”

“I'm here, babygirl. You're gonna be okay.”

All you want is to feel his arms around you, but he's already hurting for you so badly – you can hear it in his voice. You can't make it worse by telling him how much you need him here. But if you can't say that, what can you say?

“Natalie's talking to security right now,” he tells you, keeping his voice calm. Even still, you can hear the rage behind his words, his protectiveness flaring. “They're going to tell your parents you'd like to talk with them and escort them off the property instead. That way there won't be a scene and you don't have to see them again.”

“Okay,” you mumble, your crying only slowing minutely. 

“You don't have to do this,” he continues. “No one is going to make you go out there and pretend everything is fine when it's not. You can cancel.”

“There are so many people, I can't. That's not fair to them.”

Mike takes a deep breath. “Look, I'm not trying to talk you out of it if you still want to go ahead with it, but, honey, you're a person first and an author second. It's okay to not be okay.”

“Of course I'm not okay,” you cry, dropping your head into your hand. “Why did they have to come here? Everything was finally going well.”

“I don't know,” he says softly. “I wish I had a good answer for you. How far would they have had to drive?”

“I don't know, maybe three hours? It's not like they just showed up by accident. They're here on purpose.”

“Oh, babygirl,” he groans, the pain in his voice showing through. “I'm so sorry. I wish there was something more I could do.”

“I know.” You wipe your eyes even as more tears come, but at least the sobs have stopped for now. “I – I have to try and get it together. It's not fair for everyone else if I let them ruin this. They all came here to hear about the book. I just have to get through the next few hours.”

“If that's your decision, then I know you will,” he tells you. “You'll make it through this. They're gone now – security knows not to allow them back in – and you're gonna get to meet so many amazing people who love your work.”

“Okay,” you manage, trying with everything you have to stop your tears. “Can I call you after? When I get back to the hotel?”

“Honey, of course . Even if you don't feel like talking. And if you get sick of my voice, I'll put Penny on and she can tell you how much she hates me.”

Somehow, a weak smile forms on your face. “Sounds like you're getting along great.”

“Actually, when you get home, she's probably gonna tell you I'm her favorite now, but don't you believe a word she says. She lies.”

“Don't call my baby a liar,” you sniffle. 

“I thought I was your baby,” he counters. 

“Fine, our daughter. ”

“I have regrets,” he deadpans, and you actually let out a soft laugh. 

You don't mean to let the words slip out, but they do. “I miss you so much, Mike.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I miss you too, sweetheart. I'd give anything to be there with you right now.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't supposed to say that.”

He snorts. “According to who?”

“Me.”

“Well, then I'm overruling you. I miss you so much. But it'll be over soon and once you're back here in my arms, I'm not letting you go for a long time.”

You glance up and see Reshma tap her watch apologetically. You get the idea – if you're still going ahead with this, you need to put on your happy face and get the show on the road. 

“I gotta go,” you sigh, certain you look like a mess. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you too,” Mike replies. “You're gonna be okay.”

You choose to believe him, even if it's just because you have no other option right now than to be okay. “Bye.”

He echoes your goodbye and you hang up and hand the phone back to Natalie. Reshma is on your other side and whether it's because she feels bad for you or some sort of maternal instinct despite the fact that she's only a year or two older than you, she fixes your hair and holds out a tube of concealer. 

“It's Natalie's, but it should do the trick. Just for under your eyes, is that okay?”

You nod and allow her to dab some of the product on your face. You don't want to see your reflection for fear of seeing your puffy, red eyes and blotchy cheeks, choosing to believe that Reshma's magically made them disappear. “Thanks,” you add as she finishes up. 

She offers you a sad sort of smile. “You're welcome. It's still not too late to cancel, you know.”

You shake your head resolutely. “Just… just let me get through this,” you say, almost pleading with yourself. “I can shut down after.”

“Natalie and I will be just off to the side the entire time,” she promises. “If you need a break or anything changes, just let us know, all right?”

You agree, taking several deep breaths and attempting a smile. “Do I at least look passably normal?”

“You look amazing.”

“You're very sweet,” you sigh, “but you're a terrible liar.”

“I've been called many things in my life,” she says conversationally, “but sweet is not one of them.”

You manage a more genuine smile. “Maybe it's the baby,” you suggest.

She returns your smile, moving a hand to her bump. “I'll be back to my usual harsh self as soon as I give birth.”

All things considered, the event goes well. You stumble a bit at the beginning while reading one of the excerpts, but you recover well enough and fielding questions from the audience actually helps you to focus on something other than your parents. You start flagging toward the end of the signing, your panic attack taking its toll, but you make it through. 

Natalie opens her arms to you once you're in the back room again, and you go to her willingly. “Thank you,” you mumble, eyes drooping. 

“No thanks necessary,” she tells you firmly. “Come on, let's get you back to the hotel.”

The hotel you're staying at tonight is a mere three blocks away and the idea of spending even another minute in an enclosed space makes you want to lose it. You shake your head and step away. “I'm gonna walk,” you insist. “I could use the fresh air.”

She gives you a skeptical look. “Are you sure? It'll take, like, five minutes.”

“I'm sure. Please, I just… I need to be outside. If I get in that car, I'll lose it.”

She nods. “Okay,” she allows. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Nat, please,” you sigh as you hook your purse onto your shoulder.

“Fine,” she says, holding her hands up. “Get going. You'll probably beat us there.”

“I'll see you in a few,” you tell her over your shoulder, already heading out the back door.

You're only a block away from the hotel when you hear your name. You can see the corner where you need to turn and the hotel is at the end of that block. But just as you knew without a second look that the couple you saw was your parents, you know it's your mother calling your name. You don't look back, instead clutching your purse tighter and continuing on. However, it's clear that she moves faster than you gave her credit for. 

She steps in front of you, the same fierce look on her face that you vividly remember seeing every time she hit you. “This has to stop,” she hisses. “This – this nonsense you're writing. Do you have any idea what you've done to our family? We're practically outcasts at church. Everyone whispers when they see us, talking about how disgraceful you turned out to be.”

“What, because you did such a good job raising me?” you shoot back, voice dripping with venom. 

“We certainly raised you better than this!” She looks incensed and part of you wonders for the first time what they told everyone when you disappeared the day you turned eighteen. 

“I left for a reason,” you spit, watching your father approach from the corner of your eye. He looks worse than your mother, limping slightly, though from what you have no clue. “And I am never going back. Maybe if you'd been better parents – better people – it wouldn't have to be like this, but I'm actually happy , no thanks to either of you. All you gave me were bruises that have taken years to heal.”

You turn to walk away, but in a flash, your father's hand darts out and closes around your upper arm. His grip is like a vise, and you cry out. Suddenly, you're her again, the little girl who lived her life in fear of her parents. You try to pull away, but he's much stronger than he looks, but then again, he always was. By the time you see his other hand fly up toward your face, it's too late to dodge it. He slaps you across the mouth, letting go of your arm at the same time, and between the shock of the impact and your heels, you stumble. Your ankle twists, caught on uneven concrete, and you hit the ground hard, ripping a hole in your tights and scraping your knees and palms. 

The pain is immediate, flashing through you and reflexively, you lift a hand to your mouth. It comes away bloody, but you don't have enough time to tell whether it's from your fall or your father's slap or both. Survival instincts you haven't had to rely on in over a decade kick in and you start to push yourself away, trying in vain to scramble to your feet. But you're injured and he was always quicker than he looked. He's on you in an instant and instead of your arm, he grabs you by the throat and drags you up off the ground. You gasp, eyes going wide, and you start to claw at his arm. 

He slams you into the brick wall of the building you're alongside, towering over you even in your heels, and your vision tunnels as stars explode behind your eyes. You make a strangled noise and gasp for air, your head pounding, and he squeezes your neck even tighter. You'd always been afraid of your parents, but it was never like this. You were scared of their hands and the belt, of wooden spoons and paddles, but you never thought they would kill you. As you cough and splutter, sending blood spraying from your mouth, you think of Mike. Was your phone call earlier the last time you'll ever hear his voice? No, this can't be all you get with him. You've been through so much, not just together, but in your entire life, and you refuse to let your father be the one to end it. 

You dig your nails into his arm as hard as you possibly can and watch as blood blossoms at your fingertips. He finally releases you, throwing you to the ground. Your head hits the brick wall again and he spits on you as you desperately drag air into your lungs, coughing and gasping and sobbing. 

“Maybe now you'll learn,” he threatens in his gravelly voice. “Y’always forced my hand and you're still doin’ it now. Worthless. S’what you are, what you've always been. Me and your mother raised you right, raised you better’n this and this is how you thank us? By bringing shame upon us? By making folks we've known all our lives turn their backs on us?”

You sob, using every bit of energy you have to keep your head up despite the throbbing ache. To even try to crawl away seems out of the question. The world around you is spinning wildly off its axis and your throat is burning. Before he can say anything more, sirens start fading in and they sound like they're getting closer. Please , you think, please. 

You hear your mother whisper something to your father and he spits at you once more. “Worthless,” he says again. “Don't you ever forget that.”

And just like that, they're leaving you there on the sidewalk, a crumpled, bloody mess. You watch them turn the corner through blurry vision, a mixture of dizziness and tears. The sirens are even closer now and you fight to stay conscious, propped up on one forearm. But over the sirens, you hear a familiar sound. Heels clack on pavement – someone running – but even louder are the faster, thunderous footfalls that sound closer to you. Just as you lift your head in slow-motion, turning in the direction of the noise, you hear his voice shouting your name. Mike . 

“ Baby ,” he gasps out, skidding to a stop and dropping to his knees beside you, his chest heaving. He yanks off his jacket and bundles it beneath your head as a pillow. You lower your head down onto it in relief, your eyes slipping shut even as your tears continue to fall. You have no idea how he's here, how he knew where to find you, but all you care about right now is that he is. He's here. “You're gonna be okay, everything's okay. Which way did they go?”

Tires screech nearby as you swallow hard, forcing yourself to speak. “Around the corner,” you croak, not even surprised that he seems to already know who did this to you. “Right.”

He shouts instructions to blurry shapes and there's another horrible squealing noise as one of the police cars takes off again, lights flashing and siren wailing. No one seems to question his authority as he barks out orders, his hand still cupping your face. 

Natalie appears beside him and gently takes your hand. You still hiss when she touches the scrapes across your palm. “I'm so sorry,” she cries, “I should never have let you go alone.”

You try to tell her that it's not her fault, but Mike cuts you off and tells her to be quiet. “She doesn't need that right now,” he snaps, agitated, before turning his attention back to you as a rescue squad pulls up.

“Don't leave me,” you whimper, grabbing at his arm with your other hand, ignoring the stab of pain. 

“I'm right here, sweetheart,” he assures you even as he and Natalie move aside. He walks around, near your head, as they transfer you onto a gurney. “Not gonna leave you alone, honey, I promise. You're safe now.”

Everything is a blur after that. You know Mike stays at your side during the ride to the hospital. You answer questions as best you can, wincing and crying softly as the paramedics tend to your wounds. You're running on nothing but fumes, all your adrenaline gone along with your parents. You thought you were exhausted before you left the bookstore, but that has nothing on how drained you feel right now. 

Mike is with you for everything, always maintaining some form of physical contact with you. When your eyes are open, he's where you look. He lets the doctors and nurses do their jobs, much less testy than when you'd gotten into that car accident, and keeps his focus solely on you. Overall, your injuries are less serious than the ones you sustained in that accident. You don't have any broken bones, are just the lucky recipient of countless cuts and bruises, a split lip, a pretty nasty gash on the back of your head, a concussion, and a sprained ankle. They're very adamant about keeping you for at least a couple nights to make sure there are no complications from the strangulation – just the word makes a shiver roll down your spine – and that if anything changes with your breathing that you alert a nurse immediately.

It's not until you're admitted and in a private room that you ask Mike what happened, how he's even here. “How did you find me?” you rasp.

He settles into the chair beside your bed, pulling it as close as he can before gently stroking the hair on the top of your head. “After we hung up, I just… I didn't feel right,” he says, shaking his head. He looks as inconsolable as you feel, his eyes full of pain. “The flight was only two hours and I went right to the bookstore, figuring I'd just catch you there. Judging by what Natalie said, I couldn't have missed you by more than five or ten minutes…”

“You let her go alone?” Mike asks incredulously. He thought he'd made himself clear on the phone – and even before that, before you'd even left New York – that she was supposed to keep you safe. He trusted her. “You don't think her parents are pissed you had them escorted out? They could be out there waiting for her!”

“It's only three blocks,” he hears Natalie mumble, but he's already jogging back outside, ignoring her. Her heels click out onto the concrete behind him, but he's not in the mood for company. “It's that way,” she says, pointing to the right. 

Driven by instincts he's honed over the last decade on the force, he takes off at a sprint, heading for the hotel. You would have taken the most direct path, he's sure of it. When he hears sirens behind him, his heart drops into his stomach. There's no explanation for how he knows, he just does. He knows those sirens are for you and he'll be damned if they reach you before him. He hasn't run this fast since high school track, but when he sees a figure lying on the sidewalk, the burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the desperate, reckless need to get to you. 

He drops down beside you, horrified by all the blood, not knowing what happened other than who did it. Not even knowing if you're going to be okay. He remembers seeing you after your car accident, lying in a bed in the middle of the emergency room looking scared out of your mind, cut up and bruised and broken. That was nothing like this. This… this is bad. Maybe not in terms of broken bones or shards of glass, but this was intentional. The car accident had been just that – an accident. Your parents meant to hurt you. This was a message. 

He wants to scream, wants to chase down those pathetic excuses for humans and make them pay. It's not so different from the rage he felt when he finally laid eyes on Daniel Magadan, Jr. And Christ, that scares the shit out of him. He's always felt something inside him, something that for the most part lay dormant, something that feels far too much like his own mother. Something that hungers to inflict harm, to take the law into his own hands. To become judge, jury, and executioner. The only thing he hates more in the world than that something is anyone who would hurt the ones he loves – especially you .

So far, he's always managed to control it, but there's not a doubt in his mind that if he had the chance, he'd kill your father, maybe even your mother too. Losing Max was bad enough. Watching Phil collapse onto the floor was another blow. But losing you? That would be losing himself too. And he'd never survive that. 

But there's one thing more powerful than that urge inside him, and that's his love for you. He could never leave you like this, not even to get revenge or justice or whatever else. Even before you'd looked up at him with bloodshot, unfocused eyes and begged him not to leave, he wasn't going anywhere. 

“You flew by yourself,” you say softly, and for some reason, that's what makes you tear up. You're not sure why that's your takeaway from Mike's story, but he's terrified of flying and knowing that he got on a plane alone anyway just to get to you as quickly as possible means so much.

He presses his lips to your forehead, remaining there for a few long moments. “I would do anything for you.”

Before you can say anything else, there's a knock on the door and a pair of men walk in, one with a notepad. Detectives , your brain supplies, and your eyes close wearily. You knew you'd have to give a statement and walk back through exactly what happened from a logical perspective, but it's just about the last thing you want to do right now. 

“Are her parents in custody?” Mike asks before they can say anything. The blatant question seems to surprise them for a moment and he sighs. “I'm a homicide detective in Manhattan,” he explains. 

“Detective Miller,” says the man with the notepad, taking a step closer and giving you a nod. “And this is Detective Perez. We're with the Columbus Division of Police. We'd like to hear what happened today between you and your parents. They're currently being held at the county jail, but before we bring official charges, we need to know exactly what occurred. As thorough as you can.”

You clear your throat and immediately wince and Mike looks just as pained. He resumes petting your hair. “Take your time, sweetheart. There's no rush.”

“I haven't seen or spoken to them in over ten years,” you begin, voice strained and hoarse. Every word hurts, but you do your best to detach and get it over with. That's the only way you're getting through this. “I was verbally and physically abused throughout my childhood and I moved to New York City the day I turned eighteen. They've contacted me via mail several times since then, but today was the first time I saw them since I left home. 

“I was at the bookstore, getting ready for my reading, when I saw them enter and sit near the back. I – I had a panic attack and called Mike, my fiance, and he spoke to my agent who had security escort them out under the guise of me wanting to speak with them so they wouldn't cause a scene. 

“After the event, I… I wasn't thinking. I was tired of being inside and was feeling claustrophobic, so I decided to walk back to our hotel on my own. It was only three blocks away…”

Mike gently shushes you, seeing you grow increasingly distressed. “It's okay,” he murmurs, disregarding the two men at the foot of your bed. “You're safe.”

Despite feeling anything but, you force yourself to go on. “I was about a block away from the hotel when they came up behind me. She – she didn't touch me, just told me what a disgrace I turned out to be. I told her I left for a reason and that they'd been terrible parents. I don't know why I didn't just run then – I should've – there's so many things I should've done instead. But I – I don't know, it all happened so fast .

“He grabbed my arm, here,” you say, gesturing to your left upper arm, and the detective with the notepad whose name you've already forgotten scribbles something down. “He held me so tight… I tried to yank my arm away, but he slapped me before I could go anywhere. Backhanded me. Across my mouth. He let go at the same time and I – I tried to get away, but my ankle gave out or I tripped. I think that's when he spit on me, when I was on the ground. Or no, that was after. I fell first and he grabbed my throat and he lifted me up like that, and I – I couldn't breathe and I kept grabbing his arm, but he wouldn't let go. He slammed my head against the bricks…”

You try and fail to suppress a shudder and make the mistake of clearing your throat again. You don't dare look at Mike. You haven't even told him any of this – not that you've had the chance – and his reaction will just hurt worse. 

“I really thought he was going to kill me,” you whisper. “Right there, in the middle of the day. But I don't know, I couldn't let him win, not after everything I've been through and how – how hard I've worked.” You look down at your hands, the dried blood underneath your nails. “I dug my fingernails into his arm as hard as I could and he threw me down. I think my head hit the wall again, or maybe the sidewalk. That's when he spit at me and he said all these awful things about – about me being worthless. When they heard the sirens, my mom said something to him and they left. Went around the corner, to the right. I don't know how long after that it was that Mike got there. And then all the sirens were there too – police and the ambulance. That's everything I remember.

“I didn't even think about them showing up. They live in Kentucky, not too far out of Louisville. It's maybe three hours from here. I never… I don't know, I just never expected to see them again,” you finish lamely and all you want to do is lie down in Mike's arms. Unfortunately, that seems about as impossible as your parents waltzing in and apologizing to you. 

Instead, photos get taken of what seems like every inch of your body. Blood is scraped out from under your fingernails. You get asked the same questions over and over again in different ways. Mike tells you it's to make sure your story stays consistent in a soft, sad voice and you continue doing everything you can not to look him in the eye. You feel damaged, broken. His agony on top of that seems like it'll be too much to bear. Mike thinks to ask who called the police and you find out someone in a shop across the street from where you were attacked called as soon as your father grabbed you. You feel a rush of gratitude for whoever they are. If it weren't for them, there's the potential that you wouldn't be here right now. 

Finally, finally , the detectives leave and promise to keep you updated on everything. They also ask you to notify them before you leave the state, but you leave that for Mike to remember. You wish you were at home in your own bed with Mike and Penny – who's being watched by Jen again; Mike had Natalie call her when you got to the hospital. Unfortunately, you don't have a single second to say anything to Mike after they leave before Natalie pokes her head in. She looks guilt-ridden and as upset as you've ever seen her. 

“Hi,” she says quietly, not even attempting to fake a smile. “I can come back later if you want…”

You chance a sideways glance at Mike and his jaw is tight and his gaze harsh. “Mike,” you whisper. His head snaps to you, instantly shifting to concern. “Baby, it's not her fault. You know that.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it, apparently thinking better of whatever he was planning to say. “You're right,” he acquiesces and turns back to Natalie. “I'm sorry.”

She shakes her head, long red hair rippling. “You don't need to apologize. I was supposed to…” She trails off, looking down. “I'm just so sorry this happened.”

“I know, Nat,” you croak, fighting to keep your eyes open.

There have been times where Natalie strikes you as a bit too observant, but right now you're grateful for it. “I'm sure you want to get some rest. I'll come back later.”

You attempt a smile, but it's really more of a grimace, and it reopens the cut on your lip. You swear, fingers automatically coming up to touch it, which just hurts more. But Mike is there to carefully clean it off as delicately as possible. When you look up, Natalie is gone.

You end up settling onto your side, facing him. Silent tears slip out from beneath your eyelids; you're too exhausted to properly cry and scream the way you want to, but soon enough, Mike's dabbing them away with a wadded up tissue. 

“Oh, honey,” he says with a sad sigh. “I know. I know it hurts.”

“It feels like it's always something,” you whisper, your voice giving out entirely. “I just… I just want to be with you and be happy and think about normal things. Why is that so much to ask?”

“I wish I had an answer for you. All I can promise is that you'll never have to go through any of it alone. I love you so much, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry this happened.”

You look up at him, feeling pathetic and surely looking even worse. “Will you hold me, Mikey? Please?”

It takes a lot of shifting and gentle adjusting, but finally you get what you need. You lay on your sides facing one another in the cramped hospital bed with Mike's arms around you. You're half on top of him, really, in order for you both to fit, but if you could get closer to him, you would. It takes a long time for you to drift off, as tired as you are. He hums for you, various melodies of songs you love, and you're grateful for the distraction from your thoughts. Your brain seems hell-bent on replaying the attack and each time you shudder, Mike holds you a little tighter and rubs your back. 

A nurse comes in to check on you after about an hour and doesn't seem too pleased with your arrangement, but Mike looks her in the eye, silently daring her to say something about it. Satisfied you're fine for the time being, at least physically, she leaves, dimming the lights on her way out despite it being the middle of the afternoon. You don't fall asleep for another forty-five minutes, but when sleep finally comes for you, you go to it willingly, letting the darkness envelop you. 

Apart from nurses, you don't have any more visitors for the rest of the day. You're grateful; entertaining your agent, publicist, and editor aren't high on your priority list right now. When you wake up from your nap, which wasn't nearly long enough, your head is throbbing and your entire body aches far worse than it did in the immediate aftermath of the attack. You whimper and feel Mike shift against you. He must have been sleeping too; you can hear it in his voice when he speaks.

“Honey? D’you need anything?”

You shake your head, but it makes the pain so much worse, to the point that you actually yelp and clutch it, burying your face into his chest. 

“Just give me a second,” he says, pulling away from you. “I'll get you an ice pack.”

It takes a surprising amount of willpower not to cling to him, not to beg him to stay. But that won't do either of you any good. He extricates himself from the bed as gently as he can, but before he leaves, he kisses your forehead and promises he'll be right back. You feel so foolish, laying there in your hospital bed, curled into a ball. It's like you're a child, unable to care for yourself, reliant on everyone else. A pang of guilt squeezes your heart. Mike always ends up taking care of you and you're not blind – you see the pain in his eyes when he looks at you. He thinks you're broken too.

How long will it be before he gives up? How much more can he take? His life is hard enough without you adding complication after complication, burdening him with whatever disaster arises next. He deserves so much better than what you've given him, however inadvertently. The mere thought of losing him makes you want to die, but you'd do anything for him, even if it means setting him free. Even if it means giving up the love of your life. 

When he returns, ice pack in hand as well as a cup of water, he gives you a smile that's more like a grimace. You take the ice pack before he can hold it to your head himself, but you don't lift it to your head. You carefully turn it over in your bandaged hands, your eyes downcast. The only way you're going to get through this is to shut your emotions down. You've never been very good at it, but if you're going to have to relive childhood trauma, you might as well call on old coping mechanisms. 

“We need to talk,” you whisper, your voice not strong enough to speak at a normal volume. 

He pulls his chair close to your bed again, but you still don't let yourself look at him. You can't. You can't watch his face fall or see your words cause him even more pain. The ring on your finger feels like it's mocking you.

“I can't… I can't keep doing this,” you continue. “I can't keep hurting you over and over again.”

“Hey, you haven't done anything –” he starts, but you cut him off. 

“Please just let me finish.” You take a deep breath, ignoring the burning in your throat. “You shouldn't have to drop everything and take care of me every time something happens. And I think I've proven that something is always going to happen. You already have a full-time job. You don't need another one as soon as you come home. I… I feel like all I do is take . What do I have that I could possibly give you in return for everything you do for me? It's not fair to you. It's not a relationship if only one person is benefitting.”

He's silent for so long that you end up making the mistake of looking up at him. The expression on his face hurts so much worse than anything your father did to you. He looks like he's on the verge of tears, so devastated, so distraught, so lost . 

“What are you saying?” he asks in a small voice. 

You have no idea how you don't shatter into a million pieces right then and there. It certainly feels like that's what's happening inside you, but you force it down. “I'm saying that you should go home. Go back to New York. I'll have Jen take Penny until I'm back and – and I don't know, I'll find a different apartment. It doesn't matter. You deserve the chance to find someone who can actually give you what you need.”

Suddenly, he's on his feet, standing so abruptly he sends the chair skidding backwards, and you flinch. Hard. This time, you can't help the automatic response of tears. The momentary fear sends a jolt of pain through your entire body and your head throbs again. You're not afraid of him – Mike would never lay a hand on you – but you're easily startled at the best of times. When you glance over at him with watery eyes, you're surprised to see angry tears cascading down his face. 

“That's the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard,” he says, pacing back and forth in the small room. “All you do is take? Unbelievable.”

You're not sure you've ever seen him this agitated, this angry. At least not at you. You don't know what to say.

“I'm gonna ask you a question and I want you to be honest when you answer.” He waits until you nod before carrying on. “Do you listen when I talk?”

You weren't sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn't this . You nod again. 

“Have I ever lied to you?”

You shake your head, ignoring the ache. 

“Do you love me?”

“Mike,” you whisper, voice wavering, “that's not the point.”

He looks incensed. “That's not the point?” he repeats, incredulous. “Then what the fuck is? What have we been doing for the last two years if love isn't the point? Every goddamn time I've told you how much I love you, I meant it. With every fiber of my being, I mean it. I've – we've – built a home together. I asked you to marry me . And now you want to throw that all away because you think you don't have anything to give me?”

You shrink in on yourself, feeling small and ashamed. “It's not fair,” you whisper. “You deserve –”

“Don't tell me what I deserve!” he snaps. “I don't give a shit what I deserve. I want you. I love you. And I sure as hell need you. And if you think that you can just – just say a few words and get me to leave and turn my back on you, on everything we've built together, you couldn't be more wrong.”

“I just don't want you to have to pick up the pieces every single time something happens,” you cry. 

“When Phil got shot, what was the first thought in your head?” he asks suddenly. 

You blink, caught off guard. “What? I don't –”

“When I came home and walked through that door and told you what happened, what did you think?”

“I was scared that it could have been you. And that even though it wasn't, I could see how much you were hurting. That I'd do anything to take it away.”

“What about when I told you about my mother? Or that first fight, where I walked out after saying things I regretted? Or even this most recent fight, before you left on this trip? What did you think then?”

You pull your knees to your chest and drop your forehead to them as your tears take over. You're crying too hard to reply, but both of you know your answer – and why he's even asking. Because you've never once felt like he's been a burden to you. All you ever want is to take his pain away, to be the person who makes him feel better and keeps him safe. It doesn't matter how many times he comes home with that haunted look in his eyes, you'll always open your arms to him and give him what he needs. Why should the reverse be any different? Why shouldn't you be worthy of that same level of love and devotion?

“I'm sorry,” you choke out, but he's already sitting on the edge of your bed, a hand on your leg. 

“Don't ever do that to me again,” he says, though the firmness of the words is undermined by how shaken he sounds. “I only want you. For the rest of my life. I don't care how hard it is. I'm always gonna love you through it. Don't push me away unless you’re prepared to really end it.”

You sob, hating yourself. “I'm sorry,” you mumble again because what else can you say? “I just don't feel like I'm worth it.”

You feel him shift until he's facing you, a hand on each of your calves. “You are worth everything to me. None of this matters, this life, if I don't have you by my side.”

“S’what he said to me,” you say thickly, finally lifting your head, though you keep your gaze on your knees. “It's what he always said. That I'm worthless. Sometimes… sometimes it feels like he's right.”

  “Don't you spend another second thinking about him,” he says fiercely. “There are so many people who love and care about you and tons more whose lives you've impacted with your writing. You're the exact opposite of worthless. You have made such a difference, not just in my life, but in your friends’ – in the entire world. You are so, so loved, sweetheart. He's just trying to control you again. Don't give him that power.”

You reach for his hand, your chest still heaving with sobs you desperately wish would cease. But he takes your fingers, brushes his thumb over your engagement ring. “You can't say things like that to me,” he says quietly, all traces of anger gone. “Unless you really mean it, unless you're ready to walk away from me for good, you just can't. ”

“I'm sorry,” you breathe, and god, you mean it. You're so ashamed of thinking that was the answer, to send him away when you've never needed him more. “I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry, Mike.”

“I know you are, baby,” he sighs, “I know. Just… please believe me when I tell you that we will get through this. No matter how hard it is. But you have to let me in. We have to work together. And as for you supposedly having nothing to offer me… Please tell me you know that isn't true, honey. Please .”

You can't. You can't say the words, can't make yourself even look at him. The silence stretches between you until he lifts your chin, as tender a touch as ever. “My sweet girl,” he murmurs, tears in his eyes. “Before you came along, I'd never experienced the kind of happiness you've brought me. You've opened my eyes to so much, both about the world and myself. I'm closer than ever with my family. I look forward to waking up every single day because I know you'll be there, lying next to me. Coming home to you is the best part of my day. Even when things are hard, even if we're upset with one another, I still want this. And just knowing that you love me back makes everything worth it. You have given me everything. So don't ever tell me that you don't bring anything to our relationship when you've given me everything I never thought I'd have.”

You sniffle as you lift your hand to his face. “Please don't cry, Mikey,” you breathe, the mere sight of the tears on his cheek breaking your heart. “I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I don't ever want that.”

“Just tell me you believe what I'm saying, that that's how I feel. Even if you don't believe it yourself.”

“Okay. Okay, I believe you. I love you,” you reply, your voice still no more than a raspy whisper. “And thank you. For – for coming here. For finding me. For staying by my side even when I'm not thinking straight.”

He leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, one of the few places on your body that doesn't hurt. “Always,” he vows, carefully cradling your head. “Always, babygirl. I love you.”

It's not a surprise, but you don't sleep well that night. Neither does Mike, but he at least gets a little more rest than you. Both of you are dealing with minds that won't quiet as so many unknowns and what-ifs hang in the air. In the early morning, before the sun has risen, you whisper his name, unsurprised to find him awake. You know that if you don't get the words out, any hope of sleep is unrealistic. 

You apologize again – you can't seem to stop – and tell him that you didn't say what you did about ending things because you don't care or don't love him. It felt like you were tearing your own heart in two. But it was ultimately the opposite, that you love him so much that if it meant he had a better chance at happiness without you, you wanted that for him. It had nothing to do with not wanting him or anything of the sort. 

He tells you he understands why you said it, but that he doesn't agree with the logic. He posits that if you really love him that much – and he knows you do – then you need to trust that he knows what he wants, where he needs to be. That's what makes it click into place completely for you, and while you now feel even worse for having said those things in the first place, it helps you piece together everything else he's said. And makes you that much more grateful that he's here with you, that he loves you so much. 

You manage to nap on and off after that, but Reshma and Bruce show up in the mid-morning, both looking solemn, but at least less guilty than Natalie. Bruce must have flown in late last night. Reshma comes to your bedside and gives your fingers a gentle squeeze, avoiding your bandaged palm, while Bruce hugs Mike and claps him on the back. It's still such a strange dude-y thing to you, but he doesn't seem to mind it. 

“Should I even ask how you're feeling?” she says the words wryly, neither asking seriously or making a joke. 

“I don't think you have to,” you reply hoarsely. “Pretty sure I look as good as I feel.”

“We brought these for you,” Bruce says, holding up a plastic-wrapped bouquet of flowers you hadn't noticed. He hands them off to Mike and he sets them on the table beside your bed. 

“Thank you. They're beautiful,” you tell him, remembering not to attempt a smile lest you split your lip open again. “Have you spoken to Natalie? How is she?”

“She'll be fine,” Reshma assures you. “She said something about stopping by this afternoon if that's all right with you.”

“That's good. I'm assuming the rest of the tour is cancelled?”

“That's the plan. We wanted to check with you first before we took care of everything just in case you felt differently.”

You shake your head – gently. “No, I don't want to be seen like this,” you sigh. “As if anyone would even be able to hear me anyway.”

“We'll see to it then. Don't worry about any of it. There's… there's just one other thing.”

You wait for her to continue, watching Mike bristle in your periphery. 

“I need to know how you want to approach this,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Publicly. We don't have to say anything –”

“She's laying in a hospital bed covered in bruises and you want to talk about publicity? ”

Mike looks furious, and to be perfectly honest, you don't entirely disagree. But you knew this would come eventually and have done your best to resign yourself to it, that this is part of your life as a public figure. Bruce places a hand on Mike's shoulder, but he shrugs it off. 

“Has everyone lost their minds?” His head swivels between the three of you.

“Mike, why don't we go outside, get some fresh air?” Bruce suggests, though he keeps his hands to himself. “Grab a coffee maybe.”

He looks to you, likely expecting you to side with him, and while you'd like to, you know you can't. “It's okay, baby,” you say sadly. “This is part of it.”

His jaw flexes before he snatches his jacket off the back of his chair and storms out into the hall, Bruce on his tail. 

“I'm sorry,” Reshma says, and she looks it. “I wish I didn't have to ask you this right now.”

“I know, Resh,” you assure her. “It's not your fault. You're just doing what I pay you for.”

She gives your hand another squeeze before pulling a small notebook and a pen out of her purse. “As I was saying, we don't have to go into specifics. We don't have to even say ‘attacked’ or that it was your father. It's completely up to you how you want to go about this.”

“I don't want it to be a thing ,” you say, sighing heavily. “I still want the focus to be on the book, not me. How likely is that?”

She considers your question. “I think it could go either way. In my professional opinion, I would suggest giving enough detail that people can't speculate on the facts of what happened, but not so much that you air everything out. And throughout the statement, we keep bringing everything back to your book.”

“I take it you have ideas?”

“Naturally,” she confirms, the hint of a smirk on her face. “It'll need some fine-tuning, but we'll start with your name, comma ‘author of Best Friends Forever and the newly released It's Complicated’ just to set the precedent. From there, we go into the facts. ‘Shortly after a book-signing event in Ohio,’ you were attacked by an estranged family member. You're currently receiving treatment for your injuries and criminal charges are pending. And then we finish by saying you're expected to make a full recovery and are looking forward to speaking more about It's Complicated in the future. Thoughts?”

“Is estranged… too much?” you ask. “Doesn't that invite more questions? But at the same time, I don't know what else I'd willingly call him.”

“I think it's a good middle ground. I agree that we don't want to specify he's your father, especially since that implies a closeness that doesn't exist. But if we go in too harshly, it'll come off like we're trying to win people over rather than simply making a statement.”

“That makes sense,” you agree. “As much as I'd love to, this isn't about bad-mouthing him. It's about putting it out there. Was there… has there been press already?”

Reshma sighs and your heart drops. “Cameras showed up after you left in the ambulance. Police marked off the area of sidewalk where it happened, so there really wasn't anything to show apart from some blood. But there's footage of your parents being arrested, cuffed, and driven away in a squad car. They haven't really been able to go anywhere with it, though. The witness who called 9-1-1 won't talk to any reporters – she's an eighty-something-year-old woman who runs the laundromat across the street. Says she wants nothing to do with any sort of publicity, but she did ask me to tell you that she's sending well-wishes for a speedy recovery.

“Anyway, with public record, they'll find out who your parents are when they're officially charged, which sounds like it will be later today. That's why I'd like to get a jump on this so it can be included in any reports. Given the location, Natalie's and my presence, and your parents’ names, it's likely that the pieces will be put together anyway, but the optics are better if we speak out first.”

“Okay,” you say after a long moment. “Okay, yeah, go ahead. You have my permission. I trust you, Resh. I know you'll do what's best for me.”

“Of course,” she promises, sliding her notebook back into her purse. “I'm just glad you're all right. Relatively speaking, anyway.”

“I'll be fine. Honestly, I just want to go home.”

She nods knowingly. “Hopefully it won't be too much longer. And the sooner charges are brought against your parents, the better. I'll do everything I can to keep it contained, but in the meantime, promise me you won't watch or read the news until after the initial reactions come in.”

“Believe me,” you mutter, “I have absolutely no interest in doing anything of the sort.”

“Good girl,” she says fondly, patting your hand. “I'll let you get some more rest. I'm sure Mike's fine too. Bruce will have calmed him down.”

“Thanks, Resh,” you say even as your eyelids droop. They're closed before she leaves the room.

You wake to Mike stroking your hair back off your forehead. You're groggy and sore, but your head doesn't hurt quite so bad. “Sorry to wake you,” he murmurs, “but the detectives from yesterday are here to talk to you. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” you say through a yawn, stretching as gently as you can. 

Mike helps you sit up as the two men walk in. Miller doesn't have his notepad today, you notice, but Perez still has his camera and you have to suppress a shudder at having to have your injuries photographed and rebandaged again.

“So,” you rasp, “what's going on?”

“Your publicist has been working with a member of our Public Affairs team and given the level of attention this is already receiving, a press conference is being held at two o'clock.” 

You glance at the clock on the wall – almost noon – and shift your gaze back to Detective Miller. 

“Our captain will announce the charges being brought against your parents –”

“Which are?” Mike interrupts. 

“Your father is being charged with attempted homicide, felony domestic violence, aggravated assault, and harassment and your mother with complicity and obstruction of justice. Because the charges against your father are felonies, so are your mother's. They're both facing prison time.”

You glance over at Mike, who nods. You don't know how to feel, but now isn't the time to figure it out. “Okay,” you say softly, waiting for Miller to continue.

“After a brief summary of what occurred, our captain will read out the charges, and then Ms. Singh will give your statement. At that point, Cap’ll open it up for any questions from the media – he'll deem which, if any, are appropriate to answer. Your parents will likely have a bail hearing tomorrow morning before a judge, but even if bail is made, you've been issued an order of protection. They're not allowed to contact you in any way or come near you. They've been made aware of all of this as well. Do you have any questions for me?”

You look to Mike again, worry in your eyes. He takes your hand. “Do we have to stay here?” you ask. “Or can we go back to New York?”

“As soon as you're discharged, you're free to return home. Our district attorney’s office will be in contact with you regarding the criminal case against your parents, but there's no need for you to stay in-state.”

You breathe a sigh of relief after that. “Okay, that's good at least. There's… there's no way reporters could get in here, right?”

“We have an officer stationed at the end of the hall, but it's unlikely they'd be so bold, if you ask me. The press conference should give them what they want. Any other questions?”

“I don't think so. Thank you, by the way. I probably haven't been very friendly, but –”

“No need to apologize,” Miller assures you, holding up a hand. “We know this is the last thing you want to be doing. Speaking of, we do need to take more photos of your injuries.”

You close your eyes for a moment, sighing. Mike kisses your forehead again and god, you wish you could just sleep through this. Perez starts with your legs while Mike gingerly unwraps your hands and removes the bandage from the back of your head. Your ankle is swollen and bruised, your knees skinned, palms raw, bottom lip split and puffy, eyes bloodshot, and the back of your head needed stitches and you swear you feel your hair matted with dried, congealed blood. Worst of all, however, is the bruising on your neck. It's splotchy, ugly, dark and sinister, and you do everything possible to avoid looking at it when you use the bathroom. The inside of your throat is still swollen and they photograph that too. 

Even when it's over, it's still not over. A nurse comes back in to bandage you back up, and check your vitals and I.V. drips. At least she brings you another ice pack. Finally, when you and Mike are alone again, you lay on your side, facing him, adjusting until you're able to get comfortable with the ice pack between your head and your pillow. Mike makes sure you eat at least some of your lunch, which is why you're nibbling halfheartedly on a carrot. It's nearly two o'clock, but you keep the small TV in your room turned off. 

“Doing okay?” Mike asks, watching you closely. 

You shrug, frowning. “I just want to go home and sleep until this is all over.”

“That makes two of us,” he admits. “I talked to Jen earlier while you were asleep. She says hi and that she loves you and that Penny's doing just fine.”

“That's good.”

“Do you want to talk about any of it?” It's the first time he's actually asked you outright. “I'm not going to make you, but I'm here if you need to get anything off your chest.”

“I really don't,” you mumble. “Because if I talk about it, I feel like I'm gonna fall apart.”

He mirrors your frown. “You won't. I'm here. I'll make sure you stay in one piece.”

“I just…” You trail off and take a deep, steadying breath. “Hearing the charges… Attempted murder. It’s not like they just… throw that around. And I was scared that he was going to kill me, but I don't know, I thought that was just my perception in the moment. It all happened so fast, Mike, I don't – it's hard to make sense of it all. But I keep thinking about how much worse it could've been. What if that woman hadn't called the police? What if they didn't hear the sirens until later? What if he squeezed my neck harder or – or longer and I – I passed out? If my head hit the ground harder? Would I even be here right now? Would I be able to speak? And I know it happened the way it did and that she did call 9-1-1 and they did hear the sirens and I am here talking to you, but I'm just… I'm so scared, baby, and I don't like it.”

“I would give anything to have kept my promise to you,” he says quietly, shaking his head even as he strokes your cheek. 

“What promise?”

“When we first started dating, you got that letter from them. I showed up to take you out and you answered the door in tears. You looked so heartbroken that I thought someone had died. But then you told me what happened, showed me the letter, and I promised you I would never let them hurt you. That I would keep you safe. I can't help thinking that I should've been here, or that I could have gotten here faster. That there's something I could've done to save you from all this.”

“Hey,” you whisper. “This isn't your fault. It's not mine either. It's not Natalie's or Reshma's or anyone else but theirs . Maybe if we'd been closer to Louisville, I'd have seen it coming – or at least thought about them turning up – but here? In Columbus? Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd see them here. You haven't broken any promises or – or failed me in any way. You're here, baby, and that's all I care about. That's what I need from you.”

He watches you for a few moments before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your lips and then to your forehead. He lingers there, still stroking your cheek. “Just hate seeing you like this. Hate seeing you hurt.”

“I know. If it makes you feel any better, I don't really care for it either.”

He huffs out a breath, the ghost of a laugh. “That's just crazy talk. I bet you're having the time of your life.”

“It's like living in a luxury hotel,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “You should just break me out of here.”

“As much as I'd love to, I'm gonna go ahead and defer to the professionals on this one. But the moment you're discharged, we're heading back to the good ol’ Big Apple.”

“Oh, an apple sounds really good right now…”

“Do you want me to go get you an apple? ‘Cause I'll go get you an apple.”

You snort and hug him as best you can. “No, baby, I just want you.”

Natalie visits that evening. You don't ask about the press conference and she doesn't volunteer any information. You're sure she and Reshma have been in near-constant contact, so Resh must have told her not to bring it up. Either that or she can just tell you don't want to talk about it. Mike gives you some time alone with her and goes to grab a quick dinner in the cafeteria. She doesn't stay very long, but you're honestly glad. It feels awful, thinking it, but you're so tired, and even just sitting up and maintaining a conversation takes energy you don't have. 

Mike comes back about twenty minutes after Natalie leaves, carrying another stuffed cat that bears a passable resemblance to Penny. You hug it to your chest while he plays with your hair, carefully avoiding your stitches, and not long after, you drift off to sleep. 

You don't wake up until the next morning. You're facing away from Mike, still curled around the little cat, but you remain still when you hear his voice, quiet, as he speaks to someone. It takes you a moment to realize he must be on the phone, and you don't want to eavesdrop, but you also don't want to interrupt. 

“Honestly, I don't really know,” he says with a sigh. “She's not… it's not like she's pulling away from me, but she's so quiet. And look, I get it, but I'm worried about her. I don't know how to help.”

He's talking about you. Of course he is. It's also a lie. You did try to pull away – or push him away – but you know now that it was a mistake. You wouldn't be able to get through this without him. He's silent for a while, presumably listening to whoever's on the other end, before sighing. He sounds exhausted. You assume it's Katie or maybe Profaci, though your bets are on the former. That's why it surprises you so much when he starts to talk again.

“That makes sense. Yeah, thanks, Donnie. Hey, if you see Phil, tell him we say hi, yeah?” Another pause. “If you want to, but he probably already knows. But yeah, that's fine. I'll let you know when we're back in the city and we can talk about what all this means for me. You know they're gonna want her back here for the trial, whenever it ends up being, and I'll be damned if I let her do it alone. Yeah, all right. Talk soon.”

You hadn't even thought about how this would affect Mike's job, all this time off. How he left town without notice. It's not like he can ask the force to just give him a free pass and hold his job for him, no matter the reason.

Despite the fact that you're supposed to be asleep, you turn over in your bed to face him, tears welling up in your eyes. “Are you gonna lose your job because of me?” you ask in a small voice, holding in the hysterical cries that want to break free from your body. 

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, leaning forward and brushing away your tears. “No. No matter what happens, none of this is because of you . Tell me you know that.”

“If – if I didn't need you as much,” you stammer, breath hitching, “maybe – maybe someone else could – could come w-with me –”

He shakes his head, looking pained. “Even if I believed you, I'd still be right by your side for all of this. It's gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever happens, we'll face it together, just like we always have.”

Your face crumples and you can't hold in your sobs any longer. Everything you've been shoving down, holding back, comes rushing out. “I wish I'd never done this stupid tour,” you cry as he rests his head against yours. “I should've cancelled it and then this never would have happened.”

He's careful to avoid the bandaging on the back of your head as he strokes your hair. “This was not your fault, honey,” he says thickly. “Don't do that to yourself, please .”

“I just – there's so many things I could have done differently.” You cry even harder, throat burning as you gasp for air, head pounding with the headache that hasn't gone away since your father slammed you into that brick wall. “ Fuck!” you scream into your pillow, your entire body trembling.

Either it catches Mike off-guard or he's just hurting for you that much, but he nuzzles into your hair, obviously crying. “You're gonna be okay,” he says, somehow speaking through his own tears. “Someday, this'll just be a bad memory. It won't always be like this, sweetheart, I promise.”

You stay that way for a long time, laying on your side and sobbing with Mike leaning forward onto the bed, face pressed against your temple. Eventually, the tears slow to a stop and you fall asleep, exhausted both physically and emotionally. Sleep is the only respite you get from the thoughts that plague your mind, from the swelling in your throat and the ache in your head. 

Later that day, Mike asks the nurses if it's okay if you go for a short walk around the ward. You know he wants to get you out of this room, the one you've been cooped up in since being admitted, but you're not looking forward to contending with your sprained ankle for anything longer than a trip to the bathroom. Crutches aren't really an option given the situation with your palms, and Mike offers a wheelchair, but you stubbornly decline. 

He helps you out of bed, but before letting you stand, he wraps his arms around you in the first real hug he's been able to give you since all this happened. You hold him back as tightly as you can manage, tucking your face into his neck and breathing him in. 

“I got you, honey,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I won't let you fall.”

He's true to his word. You move slowly, slower than you'd ever choose to, but your ankle doesn't give you much choice. Your body is achy from lack of use and by the time you make it down the hall to the nurses station, you're leaning heavily against Mike. 

“You're doing great,” he tells you. “Just rest for a minute.”

You're leaning against the counter when the newspaper catches your eye. You're not even thinking when you reach for it. It's just passive curiosity that has you perusing the front page; you feel so disconnected from the outside world that any snippet of something will appease you. Until your father's face is staring back at you from a mugshot. Right next to your professional headshot, the same one on the rear cover of your book. 

Your heart drops as you read the headline, and Mike peeks over your shoulder. You know he's seen it too when his entire body goes still. Queer Author Attacked by Father Outside Book Signing. He tries to take the paper away, but you cling to it. You hate how much you resemble that disgusting, abhorrent man. How dare they even call him your father, like he did anything but harm you, like he has some sort of ownership over you. It's not like you're his spitting image, but with the two photos next to each other, the connection is obvious. 

You read the short article three times before Mike gently takes it away and lays it facedown on the counter. It's a recap of the press conference, complete with the charges levied against your parents, the police captain's statement, and your statement – courtesy of Reshma. The very last sentence mentions both of your books, and then it's onto the next article, which is something about the local 4-H Club. It's not until they're empty that you realize how violently your hands are shaking and you don't fight it when Mike tucks you into his chest. Neither of you say anything – what could you possibly say that hasn't already been said? You don't cry or shout or do anything but let him hold you. If you had to guess, he feels as powerless as you do right now. 

You're discharged two days later. Your stitches are removed, you're given a brace for your ankle, and instructions to keep your wounds clean and go straight to the emergency room if you notice any changes with your breathing. One of the assistant district attorneys speaks with you before you leave and asks you to continue documenting your injuries as they heal. He gives you pamphlets, business cards, and a bunch of information that you don't listen to. Your parents aren't able to make bail, but even if they were, they're not allowed to leave the state and the protection orders remain in place. 

Truthfully, now that you're with Mike, you're not worried about them somehow getting to you again. It's the least of your concerns. You just want to put this behind you, get back to your apartment, your cat, your friends, and the city you love. Mike talks with the ADA for a while, asking questions you'd never think to ask in a million years, and slides all the paperwork and information from him into a bag. Natalie, Reshma, and Bruce all left the day before, though they'd stopped in to say goodbye and bring your luggage. 

You sleep most of the plane ride home, as short as it is, and finally agree to use a wheelchair so you don't spend hours limping through the airports. By the time you get home, all you want is to curl up in bed. Mike unlocks the door, letting you in first before lugging your suitcase and carry-on bag in and locking up behind him. 

Taped to the living room wall is a giant, handwritten banner that actually makes you smile. It has Jen and Addie written all over it – literally. In huge bubble letters, all filled in with different patterns, they've written “WELCOME HOME, BITCH!” and scrawled doodles and inside jokes in the remaining spaces. You hobble over to it and run your fingers over the indentations left by the markers and feel a surge of affection for them. You should have known they wouldn't baby you or walk on eggshells. No, they'd welcome you home the same way they always have. 

“I think we should leave it up,” Mike comments as he comes up behind you. “Good feng shui.”

You scoff. “Like you know anything about feng shui. But I'm totally leaving it up.”

He pecks your cheek just as you hear the familiar sound of a jingle bell collar hurtling toward you at the speed of light. “Oh, my sweet baby girl!” you cry, bending down to scoop Penny up off the floor and cradling her to your chest. “I missed you so much. I thought about you all the time. Daddy even sent me a picture of the two of you and I looked at it every night before I went to bed. I promise, I'll never be gone for that long again.”

She meows and chirps and purrs as you pet her, eventually just burying your face in her fur. When you look up, Mike appears to have brought your bags into the bedroom, but you decide to detour to the kitchen for a glass of water. You stop in front of the fridge, your eyes growing misty as Penny continues rubbing her cheeks on your chin. 

Every single postcard you sent is hung up – in order, no less – some showing the photos on the front, others turned around to what you wrote. You wonder if there's a rhyme or reason to which ones he faced out, but in the end, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're home now, in your favorite place with your favorite person. How you ever thought you could do this without him is pure insanity. Your eyes drift to the calendar where the date you originally would have been home is circled in red pen, “HOME” scrawled in his handwriting filling the entire square. 

Mike comes up behind you and holds you in his arms, not so much as flinching when Penny sniffs his nose. “Didn't know what to do with myself while you were gone. Penny's shit at checkers.”

You crack up, laughing for what might be the first time since everything happened. “Baby, that's not fair,” you giggle, “she doesn't have any thumbs.”

“Oh, she can move them just fine, but she kept slapping them across the board. If you can't win without cheating, that means you're bad at the game.”

“Jesus,” you say through your laughter, letting him turn you around to face him. 

He smiles down at you and even gives Penny a brief pat on the head – at which she meows and cocks her head. “S’good to see you laughing,” he remarks, gaze turning soft. 

“It feels good,” you admit. “But it might just be because I'm overtired.”

“Are you saying I'm not actually funny?”

“ No, baby, why would you say something like that?” Your tone drips sarcasm, though it's ruined when you start giggling again at his faux annoyance. 

“Take your damn fur creature and get in bed,” he mutters, though not before kissing your cheek again. “I'm about ready to sleep for the next decade.”

He joins you shortly after with a glass of water for both of you, and you swear it's never felt so good to lay in bed with him. Penny curls up on your pillow next to your head, stretching out a paw as she yawns. 

“Me too, Penny girl,” you say through your own yawn. 

“Me three,” Mike mumbles, his eyes already closed. He hums when you snuggle close, his arm draping over your waist. 

It's amazing how much better and safer you feel now that you're home in your own bed. Sleep comes for you quickly and you welcome it with open arms.