The Promise Keeper 

Chapter Eight: A Good Man

This chapter contains sensitive material related to childhood sexual abuse, trauma, self-harm, and PTSD responses, including dissociation and flashbacks. While these elements are fictional, they are portrayed with emotional realism and may be triggering for some readers.

Please proceed with care. Your well-being comes first.

If you need to skip this chapter, a summary of key non-traumatic plot points can be provided separately.

Chapter Eight: Non-Traumatic Plot Summary

• The narrator and TJ go for a drive—a significant moment, as TJ faces his fear of the open sky to support her.
• They discuss self-esteem and vulnerability, and the narrator shares deeply personal truths. TJ listens with compassion and reassures her that she is safe and valued.
• That evening, they prepare for their usual movie night. When a potentially triggering scene comes up, TJ gently checks in and offers support throughout.
• Afterward, the narrator has a strong emotional reaction. TJ comforts her with patience and care, helping her feel grounded and safe.
• Later that night, TJ returns quietly to the front room and, believing she’s asleep, gently touches her face and hair—an unspoken gesture of affection and reassurance.
• In the days that follow, TJ continues to show care through action—doing household repairs, cooking meals, and even working on the roof with Derek to fix the air conditioner.
• During spring break, the house is full of kids. TJ plays with them joyfully and tenderly, showing his playful side and deep kindness.
• The chapter ends with a movie that reminds the narrator of TJ’s quiet strength and selflessness. She realizes how deeply good a man he truly is—even when he doesn’t believe it himself.

CHAPTER BEGINS BELOW

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CHAPTER BEGINS

We were sitting in his truck when I told him about the abuse.

I’d been surprised—and proud—when TJ asked if I wanted to go for a drive with him that day. The sky was cloudless, vast and blue. The kind of sky TJ feared most.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said, rushing the words out before they caught in my throat.

TJ chuckled, glanced both ways, and turned the corner.

“For what?” he asked, giving me a quick look.

I waved toward the windshield, toward the wide-open sky.

“This!” I said, almost exasperated. “Do you not see what a huge deal this is?”

He shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing—and that only made me angrier. I crossed my arms and tried to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Why can’t you ever accept my compliments?”

We drove in silence for a while. Despite the tension between us, the sun beamed through the windshield, baking us slowly. TJ shifted in his seat, his breathing tight. He was pushing himself harder than usual today.

“I don’t have a very high opinion of myself,” he said at last, his voice low.

I turned to look at him. That couldn’t be true. Not TJ—social, fun, outgoing TJ.

“Really?” I asked, my voice thick with disbelief.

He giggled—an unexpectedly sweet sound—and turned down a street we hadn’t driven before. His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“It’s hard to believe, I know.”

“Yeah. It is,” I said, too quickly.

He laughed again, and I reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re d-doing so great today, TJ.” I gave his shoulder a light shake. “I’m really proud of you.”

I gave him a quick pat, then let my hand drift down between his shoulder blades before pulling away.

“You’re doing great too,” he said.

I was. I hadn’t stuttered much at all on this drive. Still, I felt more proud of him than myself.

“I-I have problems with s-self-esteem, too,” I admitted.

TJ glanced over at me.

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “I think we all do, on some level.”

I looked down at my hands, at the door handle, out the window—anywhere but at him.

“I u-used to self-harm.”

The words were out. I wasn’t sure how.

My face flushed. My body went hot and cold all at once. I wanted to vanish.

“I don’t d-do it anymore,” I added, rubbing my arm. “But I-I used to.”

TJ was quiet. Choosing his words carefully.

“At least you don’t do it anymore,” he said. “That’s progress. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of you, too.”

I looked at my arm, at the place where I used to bite. There were no visible scars, but the skin was half-numb from the years of doing it. I swallowed.

“It’s b-been years.”

“See?” he said gently. “That’s good.”

We stopped at a red light. I sat with my thoughts, nerves prickling my skin. Then I said it.

“I was s-s-sexually a-abused.”

There. It was out.

I could almost feel the words in the air around me, taste the bitterness of them. They’d been buried for so long, and now they hovered in the cab of the truck, aching to be free.

I took a deep, shaky breath—and told him everything.

I sat in the passenger seat, shaking and sobbing. The memories I’d buried so deep they almost disappeared were clawing their way back. They rose up in my throat like acid—bitter, sour, metallic. I hadn’t spoken of them since telling my mother, all the way back at seven years old.

TJ swallowed hard. We were parked in the driveway now, the low hum of the engine the only tether keeping us anchored in the present.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he said gently. “That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

I couldn’t respond. The shame had knocked the breath out of me. The world outside looked as bright as ever, but everything inside me had dimmed. I stared at my lap and slowly began to speak—not about the events themselves, but about the shame they’d left behind.

It started just months after the abuse ended. Masturbation had become compulsive—relentless. Like an itch I couldn’t stop scratching, no matter where I was. As shame wrapped itself tighter around my body, around my sense of self, I traded self-pleasure for self-harm. I stopped hurting myself nearly a decade ago, but the shame? That never really left. The urges came back sometimes. Every time, I resisted.

My tears fell into my hands.

TJ’s voice, soft and steady, wrapped around me like a blanket.

“It’s okay.”

The cab of the truck was small, but somehow he felt far away.

“Look,” TJ said after a pause, his voice heavier now. “Honestly… that’s part of the abuse.”

I flinched. Not because he was wrong—because he was right. I’d known that. I’d read the studies. I’d heard the stories. I knew how survivors coped. But knowing didn’t erase the shame.

“I was so little,” I whispered.

That’s all I said.

“I was so little.”

His hand found mine—warm, steady. His fingers wrapped around mine and held tight. His gaze was soft but unflinching.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said, firmly. “You hear me? None of it was your fault.”

I looked up at him. His fingers gave mine a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re not that little girl anymore,” he said. “You have a voice now. And you’re safe with me. You’re always safe with me.”

We did what we always did at night. Closed every curtain to guarantee privacy, poured wine, grabbed cookies, and settled onto the couch for a movie.

After stuffing a cookie into his mouth and washing it down with a swig of wine, TJ turned to me, his tone suddenly serious.

“So, listen. There’s a scene in this movie that might be really triggering for you.”

I knew the one he meant. I’d seen Split before, though I didn’t say so. It was that scene—one involving a grown man. And a child.

“I just wanna warn you,” TJ continued. “I can skip over it if you want. Or we can watch it. It’s up to you.”

I thought for a moment. The scene hadn’t affected me when I watched it with my parents, so I couldn’t imagine why it would bother me now.

“No, w-we can w-watch it.”

He held the remote but didn’t press play just yet. “You sure? You can change your mind at any point.”

I nodded.

Not long after the movie started, I caught him rubbing the spot between his eyes, then closing them tight. He noticed me watching him from the corner of his eye, saw the worry I was trying—and failing—to hide.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Just another headache.”

The memory of his last one hit me like a wave. Just the thought of him hurting again left a hot lump in my throat. I knew how stubborn he could be—he wouldn’t take painkillers until it got unbearable. I wasn’t going to let it get that far.

I didn’t go to the kitchen. Didn’t reach for an ice pack. Instead, I shifted halfway off the couch and grabbed his pillow from the air mattress. I settled back and placed it gently onto my lap, then patted it softly.

TJ’s brows lifted, then knit together. “Are you sure?”

I nodded again.

He hesitated, then lay down, resting his head against the pillow. I reached for him, threading my fingers into his hair, combing through the soft, wavy strands.

He let out a quiet sigh of relief. “That feels good. Thank you.”

It felt good for me, too. The way my fingers glided through without snagging, the comforting softness of it all. I thought of a line from The Book Thief, whispered it to myself:

“His hair is like feathers.”

I smiled, let the words settle, and focused on the screen.

The movie played without incident—until it didn’t.

TJ paused it and turned his head slightly. “You sure you can handle the scene?”

I thought I could. I wanted to believe the tears I’d shed earlier had wrung the shame out of me for good, that TJ’s compassion had washed it all away. But life isn’t fair. And what happened next was proof.

On screen: a child standing behind a bush. A man stripping naked by a river.

TJ reached for my hand.

The child blinked. The man smiled.

“You can’t go swimming with your clothes on.”

TJ squeezed tighter. Holding me to the present. Keeping me from slipping.

The child blinked again, confused.

“Come swim!” the man called, stepping into the water.

The child hesitated. Swallowed. Then slowly undressed.

TJ stopped the movie the moment the scene ended.

When he let go of my hand, the blood rushed back in a painful wave. He’d held it so tightly I hadn’t noticed until he released it. He sat up, turning to face me.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

Outside, everything was calm—warm lighting, a quiet house, the scent of wine and cookies hanging in the air.

Inside, I was falling apart.

I could feel the storm rising, boiling up from my chest. I tried to force it down, tried to make sense of it. I’d seen this scene before. I’d watched Sound of Freedom and felt nothing like this. Why now?

It took me a few seconds—maybe minutes—to come up with the lie. My voice cracked when I spoke.

“Y-yeah.”

I swallowed the storm. Put on the best poker face I could manage.

“I w-wanna g-go to bed.”

TJ looked at me, his expression steady. But beneath the calm, I saw it—the quiet compassion that always lived just under his surface. It hung in the air between us like a bridge, urging us both to cross it.

I didn’t want comfort. Not really. I wanted to disappear into my blankets, curl up on the couch, and let the storm flood through me in darkness.

As always, TJ reached out first.

He took his pillow from my lap and placed it on his own. Then he patted it, gently—just like I had done for him. The gesture was quiet, but it held power.

I care for you.

It’s okay.

You’re safe with me.

I turned toward the front room, trying to hide my tears, but it was useless. TJ saw everything. Always had.

His hand brushed the back of my head—hesitant, patient. When I looked at him, he guided my head down, resting it gently on the pillow now in his lap. The scent of his hair was the first balm to reach me. His fingers moved through mine, slow and soothing. His other hand rested on my upper arm.

And in the fortress of his arms, I finally let go.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, watching my tears soak into the fabric. “It’s okay.”

His fingers brushed softly over my hair, my forehead, the curve of my cheek.

But that tenderness—it frightened me.

Not because of TJ. Because of what it stirred in me. The sense of safety, of closeness, of love—it was too much. Too unfamiliar. Too fragile.

My nervous system kicked into high alert.

Through tear-blurred vision, I didn’t see the paused movie on the screen. I saw something else. I saw everything. The past rushed in like a wave. Images too vivid. Memories too real. A door locking. Hands too strong. My underwear bunched around my ankles. Hushed voices. No escape.

I wanted out. I wanted to run. I wanted the storm to end.

“Hey, hey, hey,” TJ said, his voice a tether pulling me back. “Don’t go there. It’s okay. Come back to me. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His voice softened the panic.

It calmed the storm.

It stopped the pain.

I felt a hand squeeze my arm—not to hurt, but to anchor. The pressure was just enough to ground me. To pull me back.

Back to the couch. Back to his lap. Back to now.

It took me a moment to realize what had happened. For the first time in my life, I’d been caught in a flashback. And I hadn’t even known.

I trembled.

“Don’t go back there,” TJ said. “I’m here. Look at me.”

I met his gaze through tears. His hands returned to their place—stroking through my hair, calming the chaos. The weight of his palm against my head was steady, safe.

Then he spoke, quiet but clear.

“Is anybody here gonna do that to you?”

I shook my head slowly.

He kept his hand on my head, pausing just long enough to make sure I was listening.

“Am I gonna do that to you?”

I cried harder—not out of fear that he would, but from the deep, overwhelming knowledge that he never would.

He leaned in and wrapped me in his arms.

The scent of him was stronger now—deodorant, wine, chocolate on his breath, a trace of sweat. His thumbs moved gently over the bare skin of my arms. His lips pressed to my ear.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “You’re not that little girl anymore. You have a voice now. You’re safe.”

He said it again. And again.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

He kissed my hair. I closed my eyes.

And in the quiet cadence of his voice, I finally found rest.

TJ led me to my couch in the front room after the movie. He draped my blanket over me, tucking it gently around my body before offering a soft, heartfelt goodnight.

I didn’t want him to leave.

I wanted him to stay. To wrap me up in his arms and hold me through the night.

But I swallowed the longing and let myself sink into the warmth of my blankets, letting sleep take over.

I woke to the familiar sound of the sliding glass door opening and closing. The hour didn’t matter. I already knew who it was. TJ often got up in the middle of the night—sometimes for a smoke, sometimes to pace through the aftermath of a nightmare.

I'd been woken by his footsteps before, but this time felt different. This time, I wanted to go to him. I could see him in my mind’s eye, sitting outside at the patio table, cigarette in hand, facing down demons I couldn’t see.

Compassion welled up inside me, but fatigue pulled me back into sleep.

The door opened and closed again.

His footsteps crossed the house. I heard them slow near the air mattress—then pause. Then turn.

He was walking toward me.

He stopped just behind the couch. I could feel him there, inches away. In my mind, I pictured him disheveled, half-drowsy, soft-eyed and smiling.

His steps continued—slow, careful. He didn’t want to wake me.

I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep. Something in me believed that if I opened them, he’d vanish—like a deer startled back into the woods.

He crouched beside me.

My heart quickened.

His fingers brushed my cheek, feather-light. Knuckles first. Then a gentle glide across my chin. His hand shifted, grazed my temple, and came to rest on my head. His fingers threaded through my hair, slow and soothing.

The tenderness shook me.

Not because I was afraid of him—but because this kind of care was rare. Unfamiliar. And frightening in its softness.

I wasn’t scared of TJ. I was scared of losing him. Scared of trusting this safety, this love—scared of believing it was real.

What if something happened to him?

What if this beautiful person was taken away?

But the fear dissolved as quickly as it came.

All that remained was his touch, and the quiet rhythm of my breath.

He stood, walked away.

The air mattress groaned under his weight as he climbed back onto it.

A small smile tugged at my lips.

And I fell into safety once again.

That moment—the quiet grace of it—etched itself into my memory forever.

The more kindness TJ poured into the world, the more firmly I believed what had become undeniable:

TJ didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve.

He wore it inked into his skin, right alongside his tattoos.

I watched him silently in the days that followed. Doing more than his share around the house—washing dishes, cooking meals, fixing appliances. Installing ceiling fans like he’d been born with a toolkit in his hand.

When the air conditioner started acting up, he and Derek climbed onto the roof and worked through the heat of the day until it hummed back to life.

When the washer began to leak, Alisha and Penny set a bucket beside it. It was TJ who woke up every two hours that night to empty it—quietly hauling water to the bathroom while the rest of us slept.

When his daughter came by with car trouble, he braved the dark, rainy night to help her get back on the road to Vegas. He hated the sky at night—especially stormy ones—but he went anyway.

When he came back inside, soaked and shivering, I threw my arms around him without a second thought.

“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered into his shoulder.

Spring Break felt like a dream. Magnolia and Casey, my nieces, were home, and their cousins—Matthew and Abigail—had come to stay. Most days were spent outside, swinging, jumping, laughter filling every corner of the yard.

I begged TJ to come bounce with us on the trampoline.

He laughed, waving me off. “I’m too old for that. I’d probably break something.”

“You’re not that old,” I teased.

“I’m older than you,” he shot back, smiling.

“You’re only forty-three,” I grinned. “That’s not old. And let’s be honest—you don’t exactly act your age.”

He didn’t argue. And as the days passed, he only proved me right.

TJ was a child at heart. He reached out to tag the kids as they ran by, pretending to snatch them mid-flight. He chased them down the hallway, arms wide, calling out, “I’m gonna getcha! I’m gonna getcha!”

At dinner, he’d sneak up behind them and ask, “Can I have some? Pleeaase?” with mock desperation, grinning as they giggled and pushed him away.

He did the same with me—except he did steal a bite from my fork. Always laughing with his mouth full, eyes gleaming.

It never felt creepy. Not once. It felt real. It felt joyful. A man letting his inner child play. A father who didn’t get to see his own son—but still found ways to give that love somewhere.

He played with all four of us, always ready with a prank, always willing to join in the fun. I watched, smiling, as he helped little Abigail count to seven, guiding her gently with his fingers.

But one day stood out.

It was raining. The kind of soft, steady rain that made the whole world feel quieter. TJ, the kids, and I huddled together in the living room. The lights were low, the air warm and still, the space dim and cozy with six bodies tucked into corners of the room.

Magnolia and Abigail played “store” with plastic food and Monopoly money. Mathew and Casey were sprawled across the plush rug, noses buried in an iPad game. TJ and I sat on the couch, nestled together in quiet companionship, watching it all unfold like a dream.

Then Mathew decided to climb onto TJ.

They both giggled.

Casey joined in next, and a wrestling match broke out. They tried to pin TJ’s arms down, both of them laughing wildly the whole time. He closed his eyes and went limp, pretending to be asleep, even as they climbed over him, yanked at his hair, plugged his nose, tickled his ribs, and stole his glasses. Still, he didn’t move.

I smiled so hard it hurt.

When TJ eventually got up to grab a cookie from the kitchen, Mathew chased after him. I followed too. Mathew shoved and tugged, trying to get TJ back to the couch. I joined in, pulling on one arm while Mathew pushed from behind.

TJ resisted just enough for us to feel like we were winning.

I know now he was letting us win all along.

When we finally dragged him back to the living room, Mathew shoved him onto the cushions. TJ collapsed face-first with an exaggerated, “Ooomph!”

“Climb on him!” Mathew cried, and Casey didn’t hesitate.

They bounced on his back and shoulders, laughing as TJ let out dramatic groans—“Oh!” “Ow!” “Ahhh!”—like he was being crushed. We all knew he was faking.

But something about that moment—the way he laughed, the way he surrendered to their joy—cut through the tough, manly mask he usually wore. Especially around me.

TJ was a man who moved through the world in armor. But that week, I saw him begin to take it off.

And every time I saw another glimpse of that softness, my heart melted like butter.

That night, I buzzed with excitement as TJ queued up the movie I’d been dying for him to watch. Seven Pounds. I’d recommended it to nearly everyone I met. That, along with What Dreams May Come and Captain Fantastic, was one of the few films I believed every human being should see at least once in their life.

As we watched, I found myself drawing quiet parallels between the character on the screen and the man sitting beside me.

They both led with their hearts—offering kindness to those who needed it most, even when they had nothing left to give.

They both loved deeply, and often silently. Sacrificing their own needs to show up for others.

And they both carried something dark beneath the surface. Pain so deeply buried, it only showed through the cracks.

But TJ didn’t need to let me in.

I already saw the cracks.

I saw it in the way his trauma responses mirrored mine. In his constant efforts to understand. In the gentleness he offered even when he was exhausted. I saw flashes of the suffering he tried so hard to keep hidden. Though I wouldn't know the full extent of it until much later.

Then came the line that gutted me:

“Because you are a good man. Even when you don’t know people are watching you.”

I’d heard it before. But hearing it now, sitting beside TJ, it struck deeper. It fit. Like it had been written for him.

I reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was all I could do to show him that I saw him—really saw him—and that I believed it. He was a good man, whether he saw it or not.

He glanced at me, gave a small soundless laugh, then turned back to the screen.

I let my hand fall away.

He didn’t believe me. I didn’t need him to say it. I saw it in his eyes.

As the movie reached its devastating conclusion—Will Smith’s character carrying out his plan to take his own life—I watched with tears in my eyes, completely unaware.

Unaware that the man beside me—my mentor, my first therapist, my friend—had already formulated a plan of his own.