His First Choice by Tara Taylor Quinn

Bridges.
    â€œHe was my rock,” Tressa said now, an almost dreamy smile on her face. “In some ways he still is.”
    â€œWhose idea was it for the two of you to divorce?”
    â€œMine. As good as he is to me, Jem just doesn’t get my intensity. I can’t really be myself with him, you know? I had to continuously clamp down on every reaction—from loving a song on the radio to issues on an election ballot. I bring equal passion to everything.” She paused, then grinned. “I’ve done a lot of work on myself. Faced my issues. And...I met someone. Another woman, actually, though our relationship isn’t sexual. We hang out most every night. She gets me. And when I started putting her first, over Jem, I knew that wasn’t fair to him.”
    â€œDid you discuss this other woman with him?”
    â€œOf course. That’s the one thing about me. I don’t keep anything to myself.”
    Lacey was beginning to see that. She smiled and then quickly sobered. “So when you get upset, and you’re drama ridden, do you ever lash out like your parents did?”
    â€œAbsolutely not. I might say what’s on my mind, but I’m not cruel like they were. I threw a stick once. It flew through the air and hit my friend on the arm. I felt sick about it. She wasn’t hurt, but the look in her eyes, when she looked at her arm and then at me... It’s the last time I ever threw anything.”
    â€œHow old were you when that happened?”
    â€œThirteen. I was on my period and I’m always more dramatic then.”
    â€œAnd your friend...did you remain in contact after that?”
    Sometimes the best way to see the full picture of a person was to see how others treated them. How others judged them.
    Not always.
    Because victims treated poorly by abusers tended to invite those into their lives who would repeat the treatment. It was the pattern of abuse. Insidious hell.
    She knew it well now.
    Being treated poorly didn’t mean you were bad. But it could.
    â€œYeah, we were in contact. It wasn’t like I meant to hit her. She knew that. We were, like, best friends all through school. We’ve lost touch, but we’re friends on Facebook.”
    â€œYou work in finance, right?” Lacey asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSo you have a degree?”
    â€œYeah, I went to Cal State. That’s where I met Jem, actually.”
    â€œHe went to college?”
    â€œAre you kidding? He has a master’s in business administration.”
    He owned a construction company, had a hard hat hanging in his truck behind the driver’s seat. She’d figured he’d worked his way up.
    Not that there was a damned thing wrong with that if he had. It just wasn’t her job to assume, one way or another.
    With the heat of shame working on her from the inside out, Lacey admonished herself for stereotyping.
    It was so not like her. She’d discovered several gems cloaked in mud during her years with social services, people with integrity who’d been dealt blows and were struggling so hard to keep air in their lungs they couldn’t worry about the mud on their skin.
    A phone rang and Tressa pulled out the phone that had been sticking out of the back pocket of her skinny jeans. “It’s Amelia,” she said, letting it ring. “We’re hooking up for dinner. I’m supposed to be at her place. If this is going to take a while, I need to let her know I can’t make it.”
    Lacey had no real reason to stay. Levi wasn’t in residence, and his mother had already denied hurting him or knowing anything about anyone else hurting him.
    â€œDo you mind if I see Levi’s room before I go?” she asked.
    â€œOf course not.” After sending off a quick text, Tressa stood. “It’s this way,” she said, heading back toward the living room before veering off down a hallway with fresh-looking camel-colored paint.