The day after the event, she posted a message that was inspirational and uplifting, reminding the world what it means to be confident in your skin. But the rally of her supporters continues to be overshadowed by spineless criticism.
The only good news is Blake has kept his fat fucking mouth shut about our confrontation. If he changes his mind, I’m more than ready to pay him a visit.
“You need to stop reading that shit.” Reese stands to toss his beer in the trash and grab another one. “There will always be haters. The professional drama-feeders, attention whores, unhappy souls who hide behind their anonymity and bash everyone they envy. None of those dickheads would have the balls to say something to her face. She knows this, because unfortunately, this isn’t her first rodeo.”
“Then why is she taking it so hard?” I’ve never seen her so despondent. Defeated. It’s fucking wrecking me. “I’ve tried talking to her. I’ve tried patience. You and I both know she doesn’t respond to either.”
He shrugs and stares down at his beer, his eyes shuttering.
“What?” I get in his face. “What are you not saying?”
“I don’t know, Decker. When I brought her home six years ago, after she spent hours on that operating table fighting for her life, she shut everyone out. Honestly, she didn’t really have people in her life anyway. Her parents were dead. Her friends were phony and untrustworthy. All she had was a bi-sexual assistant, who was too young to know what to say or how to respond to her trauma. I did my best to be there for her, but she was alone. No one knew what had happened to her. In a way, that was a blessing, because she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone except herself. She took her time nursing her wounds. She wasn’t pressured to bounce back in record time. In the end, she did bounce back.”
“What are you saying?” I lower onto the stool beside him. “You think I’m pressuring her? She doesn’t have to prove shit to me.”
“I think she’s…uncertain. Your relationship is new and fragile, and you already know her history with men. She’s batting zero for three, if you count me.”
“But her relationship with me is—”
“Bound by an agreement. You might’ve forgotten that you’re being paid to be here, but I guarantee she’s thinking about that now. She made a huge fucking sacrifice for you.”
I inhale sharply. “I wanted her to do it for herself.”
“Doesn’t matter. She did it for you. She didn’t want you to be disappointed, and I imagine right now, with the negative reactions to her scars, she’s feeling like a disappointment. You wanted the world to embrace her, and she didn’t make that happen.”
“Fuck them. I don’t give a fuck what they think.”
“Then why did you want her to expose her vulnerability to them?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not just an idiot.” He grips my neck and gives it a hard squeeze. “You’re an idiot in love.”
I can’t argue that. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Let Violet do what she does. She’ll fix this, and by fix this I mean she’ll spin the story the way it should’ve been received. In the meantime, take care of our girl. Prove to her you’re not going anywhere.”
“I’ve told her over and over—”
“Trey and Blake told her the same thing. Prove it.”
I lower my head in my hands, clenching my fingers in my hair. “How?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“And here I thought all your words of wisdom were actually leading to tangible advice.”
“Guess that’s why I’m still single.” He flashes his megawatt smile.
Single is not a status I ever want to hold again, and for the next two weeks, I make damn sure Laynee knows it.
Her publicist smooths over the negative press by redirecting the focus to raising awareness for victims of abuse. I don’t know how Violet does it, but she wrangles the support from the most authoritative sources on celebrity news. When the media buzz finally fades, it ends on message of survival. Laynee’s not willing to share her story publicly, but she wears—and will continue to wear—her scars openly as a symbol of strength.
Like her, her public image will forever be scarred. There will always be those who can’t look past her skin. Nevertheless, she throws herself back into work, including our morning runs and nightly spar sessions. But there’s something straining between us, a crack in the foundation of our relationship. I can’t pinpoint it exactly. Physically, nothing’s changed. But emotionally, she seems withdrawn, cautious, unsure.
I continue to leave notes in random places for her to find, prepare all her favorite foods, and kiss her endlessly like the lovesick fool that I am. What I don’t do is say those three significant words.
The words are there, hovering on my lips every second of every day. But the timing is wrong. I don’t want her to mistake my declaration as an expression of pity or desperation. When I tell her I love her, it will be backed up by a gesture that can’t be misconstrued.