I got derailed along the way, and during my three months of mirror examinations of my face, my hair, my body, and my soul, I knew it was when I met Damian.

He wasn’t hard on the eyes but he wasn’t hot either.

What he was was charismatic.

He could so totally be the leader of a cult of fanatics who were disenfranchised and needed to latch onto someone strong and compelling so they could let go of the struggle of daily decisions, their consequences both good and bad, and allow someone to show them their path.

I knew this because it happened to me.

He was a stockbroker then, youngish but already successful, going places, driven. He sucked me in with his charisma and big personality and nice car and great clothes and large lifestyle. But it was me who kept my head buried in the sand and didn’t notice he had a very short fuse, an explosive temper, and his drive was unhealthy. He had to have the nicest car, house, clothes and he needed to prove his manhood in a variety of ways—with me, fucking other women, and besting other men.

Even though, early, this started to crawl through my skin, gather in my belly, and tighten up, curling in on itself and sitting there, poisoning me all the while I kept my head buried and ignored it. Until it got to the point he was backhanding me to end an argument and then he raped me one night when I told him I was not in the mood. We argued about it. This argument escalated beyond reason. He suddenly and terrifyingly lost his mind and took what he wanted anyway.

So that happened.

And that was then.

This was now.

Was I right back where I started? Starting something, eyes closed, head buried, hope springing eternal with a magnetic, moody, driven man who was going to suck me into his captivating but dysfunctional vortex with him not giving a damn how banged up I got swirling around in his personal cyclone?

On this thought, I heard the knock on the front door.

Perfect timing.

I gave myself one last long look in the mirror. Then, stupidly hopeful or intuitively right, either way, feeling cautious, unsure, and hesitant, my feet took me to the front door.

I got up on my toes and looked out the little square window to see Brock standing there, head turned, eyes aimed to the street. I opened the door and saw what his eyes were aimed at.

Martha and Elvira were standing beside Martha’s car, and even in the light cast only by a Denver streetlamp, I could see Martha was glaring daggers at Brock and Elvira was summing him up and I knew with them being there that their timing was planned.

Well, on the bright side, it was good to know my friend got a ride.