It's Our Secret

by W Winters

  “You want something else?” the bartender asks me, and when I look up at him, interrupting whatever thought was in my head, he nods to the untouched beer.

  “Nah, I’m good,” I tell him and take a swig. Maybe I should ask for something stronger. Maybe I shouldn’t drink at all. I don’t fucking know. I don’t know shit and that’s all I know for sure.

  “All the way out here?” I hear a voice too close for comfort and turn around to see Daniel sliding onto the barstool next to me.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” he tells the bartender and then squares his shoulders forward and squints like he’s looking up at the menu.

  “Some funny names for beer,” he says absently.

  “All local drafts,” I tell him.

  “Is that why you came all the way out here?” he asks me, and I turn my gaze back to my beer and then take a long swig. I’m here because it’s right around the corner from Dr. Robinson. I’m here because it’s easy. The beer’s good, the vibe is right, and everyone here leaves me the hell alone.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask him, and he shrugs.

  “Been barhopping,” he says like it’s a coincidence. I huff in disbelief, but I don’t push him. Daniel’s background isn’t exactly sparkling clean.

  He slaps down a few five-dollar bills as his beer hits the bar and then he finally faces me.

  “She really messed you up that bad?” Going right in for the kill.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I answer him simply, returning my gaze to the cracked concrete sidewalk across the street. A few people walk by and no one seems to notice it.

  “Fair enough,” he says and then asks for a menu.

  “You’re making yourself right at home, aren’t you?” I ask him.

  “I gotta eat.”

  I take a good hard look at him as he opens the menu and pretends like this is some casual meetup.

  “You don’t have anything better to do?” I ask him, and his dark gaze meets mine. There’s a challenge there, but one he lets go of quickly.

  “Nothing I feel like doing right now.”

  Another moment passes, and he closes the menu and pushes it forward, peeking over his shoulder to check out the game.

  “What would you do?” I finally ask him. “If you were me?”

  “If I wanted a girl, but she didn’t want me?” he asks like that’s what happened.

  “She wants me,” I tell him confidently and he huffs a sarcastic laugh. “She’s scared,” I tell him in a raised voice I didn’t intend.

  “Scared of you?” he asks me like it’s a valid question and I can’t believe he’d ask that.

  “You think I’d hurt her?” My hackles raise, my muscles coiling. “I’d never give her a reason to fear me. I wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

  “You’re the one who said she’s scared,” he answers me, and I let the anger wane, listening to the murmur of talking around us and the sounds of the football game on the screen as I think about how to explain my Allie Cat.

  “What’s she afraid of then?” Daniel asks me before I can tell him anything and I just shrug.

  “What are we all afraid of?” I shoot back and then snort like I’m some fucking philosopher.

  “Getting hurt… or maybe that we’ll be the ones to do the hurting,” Daniel answers in a monotone with nothing but sincerity. My throat tightens, and I struggle to release my breath as I take in the weight of what he said.

  I nod and force a chug of my beer and end up drinking it all down. It hits the bar with a loud ring from the empty glass and I signal for another.

  “Sometimes people hurt the ones that get close to them.”

  “I didn’t hurt her,” I tell him without looking away from the bar. I watch the bartender fill the glass, the beer spilling over before he wipes it off.

  “I wasn’t talking about you doing the hurting. Seems like she’s the one who’s got you on a leash.”

  I smirk at him and grab the beer with both hands.

  “Maybe I like the leash,” I joke, and he finally breaks into a smile, but it’s gone when he opens his mouth next.

  “You like her dicking you around though?” he asks. “Leading you on like that?”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I tell him and he’s quick to respond with, “That’s what they all say.”

  “I’m telling you, Allie feels something for me. There’s something there.”

  “But she’s scared?” he asks like I’m being ridiculous. Without waiting for me to try to explain more, he continues.

  “You can’t make someone commit to you.” His voice turns bitter as he adds, “You can’t make them want you.” I’m struck by his words and the force of them until I realize he’s talking about something else. Someone else.

  “If she’d just tell me what the hell got to her, I’d make it right.”

  “Did you ask?”

  The world seems to still at his question. The obvious answer is yes. But I didn’t, not really. I backed off. I didn’t push her like I thought of doing. I could have pushed. I should have. I was so close, and I didn’t do it.

  “I didn’t want to scare her off,” I admit, and the words are a murmur.

  “Instead you lost her,” he says back, and I stare at him like he’s the asshole here. He shrugs and takes another sip of his beer before telling me, “Sometimes they come back, and sometimes you just have to get them.”

  Chapter 29

  Allison

  * * *

  There’s something about these pajamas.

  They remind me of Sam. She always wore pajamas, even to school. Blue and flannel with a tank top underneath, rolled up at her hips. A small smile perks my lips up as I grab the bottle of cabernet from the fridge.

  That’s how I want to remember her.

  It’s been five years, and only recently have I started to remember her like that. Back when she was the Sam I knew and loved. Back when we were best friends for life.

  She wore pajamas like this when she was happy.

  Not me though. My heart sinks as I glance at my phone, sitting on the countertop of the small kitchen.

  I think that was the final straw. Dean will never want me again.

  And that should make me happy considering what my only goal is. The one thing I’ve wanted for so long. This arrangement is the best scenario. Available. Vulnerable. And the reputation of a slut. Easy. It would be all too easy.

  As I pour the mostly empty bottle into the glass, I wonder if I’m crazy. The plan was crazy from the beginning, I knew that, certainly not something a sane person would do.

  But then again, not many people would come out sane after seeing what I saw and knowing what I know.

  Tragedies happen, but usually, there’s justice. A villain you can blame and prosecute.

  However, when the villain walks away unscathed and destroys your life forever, that does something to a person.

  It’s even worse when you played a part in the wreckage and the small pieces that were shattered turn to ashes in your hands. You’ll make all sorts of promises then. Promises to make wrongs right. At any cost.

  I lift the wine to my lips and drink it in large gulps.

  I barely taste it although the sweetness turns bitter quickly as it sits on my tongue.

  It’s a good thing I pushed Dean away, I think to myself. He deserves so much better.

  The bottle clinks and the sound resonates in the kitchen as I set it down. There wasn’t even enough left to fill the glass.

  One hand holds the wine, while the other picks up my phone.

  I will him to text me, but nothing happens.

  Slipping onto the stool, I lay my cheek down on the cold granite and stare at my phone. I scroll through our messages, I even laugh once or twice, even though it’s a sad sound. These texts are proof that at one point I was happy.

  I’m sorry. I text him, unable to keep myself from doing it. I’m sorrier than he’ll ever know.

  I glance around
this place and hate that I’m even here. The sickness that’s been in the bottom of my gut for so long begins to creep up.

  I failed, and I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this.

  It all hurts too much. But I’m so close to the edge. If only I can just hold on.

  I’m so close to keeping a promise I never thought I could.

  I drown my self-pity in the wine, throwing it back and trying to block out the images that keep coming back to me, but I have to stop when I hear a loud knock at the door. My eyes fly to the screen of my phone, the message marked as read.

  Dean.

  My feet trip over one another and I nearly fall in my desperation to get to the door.

  With a racing heart and nearly breathless, I whip the front door open, not bothering to check to see who it is.

  But it’s not Dean and my heart slows, as does time.

  I guess this was what he needed. It’s what he was waiting for.

  A weakness for a way in.

  I knew I was close to the edge, but I wasn’t ready to jump. I guess I would never have jumped though; it was all about being pushed.

  I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “Kevin,” I say his name out loud. This is the second time I’ve talked to him. Other than that night five years ago at Mike’s house. I thought it would have taken more. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, trying to hide the swell of anger… and fear. My knuckles turn white as I grip the doorknob harder. “How did you know my address?” I ask him as it registers that I never told him. I’d planned on it. My heart beats harder as I think about how this is exactly what I wanted. But not right now. Not like this.

  I can barely breathe as he tells me, “I saw you walk home the other night from the frat house. It’s not too far away.”

  It’s not. I rented this place just for that reason. But I didn’t realize he’d noticed.

  “I was just dropping by to check on you,” he says and then looks to his right and left. “You alone?” he asks.

  I don’t want to tell him I am, but I nod once anyway. That’s what a good victim would do. The perfect victim.

  This is what I came here for. The entire reason I came to this town, this university.

  The sole reason for my existence for the last six months. As soon as Grandmom died and there was nothing left to live for anymore.

  To make him pay for what he did to her.

  Even if I set him up, even if the justice served is for what he does to me right now, she deserves to have him pay for what he is.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask him, and I let my body sway slightly, thinking of Sam and how she deserves this. I have a glass of wine in me, only one but I play up the drunkenness. Maybe that will make this happen quicker.

  He doesn’t answer me, but he looks over his shoulder before coming in and shutting the door.

  “You drinking?” he asks me, looking pointedly at the glass still in my hand. The dark liquid swirls as I shrug and try to think of what to say.

  To think of what’s happening right now and not the night that he crept into the bedroom Sam was in. I try not to think of what he did to her and what he’s about to do to me. I was right there. So close to saving her. So close to preventing all this.

  But I can make it all better now. I can make it right.

  I can be his next victim and make him pay. Because that’s what I came here to do.

  “Dean doesn’t want me anymore, so I thought I’d celebrate being single again,” I say to the ground, keeping my eyes half shut. I think maybe he’ll use that to convince me to talk to him. Or to somehow try to weasel his way into me sleeping with him for revenge or something.

  But Kevin came here for one thing and he doesn’t waste any time.

  “Already a bottle in?” he says with a smirk, looking at the empty bottle on the dining room table as he reaches for the buckle on his belt.

  “What are you doing?” I ask out of instinct. My hair stands on end and my blood slows, my heart stops.

  “I know how to make you feel better,” he says as he pulls the leather through the loops of his pants.

  My blood runs cold. The need to run almost overwhelms me, but I stand still. It’s only when he drops the belt on the ground and lets the buckle clang that I can’t hold it back any longer.

  I don’t want to tell him no because I want him to hurt me.

  But I can’t help myself.

  “You should--”

  “Come here,” he interrupts me before I can say “go.”

  I try to push him off of me, hating how he grips my arm. His thick fingers dig into my skin, bruising me and holding me still.

  I didn’t expect this. She was on the bed. She could barely move. She told me. But this isn’t like that.

  A scream tears from my throat and I try to run, but he trips me, grabbing my thigh and covering my mouth.

  “We both know you wanted this,” he grunts as he digs into the waistband of my pajama pants.

  He has no idea.

  This is all I’ve wanted for so long.

  For revenge, the only way I know how to get it.

  Even still, when he pushes me back against the sofa, I continue to fight him. At first, I think it’s instinct. But when he smiles and grips my hips, pushing me and pulling me down, the sick feeling of regret makes my skin go cold.

  “Leave me alone,” I tell him, but he doesn’t listen. My nails rake the back of his hand as he shoves me down with a bruising force.

  I wish I could stop him.

  “Stop!” I scream out, kicking him, but he covers my face. My heart beats wildly.

  I changed my mind. I don’t want this. I try to scream again, but he yanks my arm behind my back and pins me, forcing me face down on the sofa.

  “I’ve always wanted to play with a girl like you.”

  I’ll never forget the smell of the blood. The air was thick with it.

  The floor creaked as I stepped into Sam’s bedroom. I called out her name, pushing the door open wider, but deep down I already knew something had happened. The house was quiet, save the click of the air conditioner turning on. And even that made me jump.

  Sam! I called out her name louder when I didn’t see her on her bed where she usually was. Her phone was there though. Right in the center of the neatly made bed.

  I can still see her now, sitting cross-legged and bobbing her head, making the ponytail swish back and forth as she listened to the music blaring from her earbuds. But that was the old Sam. The girl who knew who she was and loved herself.

  That was before she was raped. Before she was told it was her fault. That she should have known better. Before everyone looked at her like she was the only one to blame.

  Before she believed that she’d genuinely deserved it. That there was something innately wrong with her. That she really had it coming to her. That’s what everyone told her, so why would she think any different? Even if she didn’t want it, it was because of what she’d done that he hurt her. And she was the one that was the problem.

  “Sam,” I tried to call out her name again, but my voice was hoarse as I saw the light filtering through the crack of the open bathroom door. And the note on the floor.

  * * *

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry I ended it.

  I’m sorry I went to the party.

  I’m sorry I kissed those boys and led them on.

  I’m sorry I drank. I’m sorry I ever talked to Kevin.

  It hurt when he held me down.

  I promise I tried to scream. I’m sorry you didn’t hear me.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Mom.

  I’m sorry all of this happened.

  I don’t want to be this person.

  I swear to you I’m sorry.

  * * *

  The world made her blind. She wasn’t supposed to be sorry. Victims aren’t the ones who are supposed to be sorry. I walked away unscathed, but Sam wasn’t so lucky. She didn’t hear my voice te
lling her that she wasn’t a bad person because everyone else spoke in unison. She asked for it.

  * * *

  The paper crinkled in my hand. I’ll never forget how neat her penmanship was. How even in her last words, she made sure they were pretty and that she’d written each letter as best as she could.

  My thumb traced over the one spot on the sheet that was crinkled and slightly discolored. Where she’d let her tears fall onto the paper.

  I don’t know how I forced myself to move. Every step to the bathroom made my fear more real, made my skin that much colder.

  My hand shook as I pushed open the bathroom door wider, my heart refusing to continue beating when I saw her.

  Sam never cried before that night.

  And she never smiled after it either.

  “Sam,” I said, and my voice scratched my throat as I fell to my knees in the bathroom. The tile was cold and hard. She was in the tub, with the drain open and the water barely running. It mixed with the blood and pooled around her body.

  Her sweatpants were stuck to her legs, soaking wet and stained with the blood.

  I covered my mouth as I cried, hating the sight before me. After she slit her throat, she must have lurched forward; the blood was smeared on the wall and on her arms. Like maybe she tried to stop it. But the knife laid by her thigh and she was still.

  “Sam,” I could barely say her name as I inched forward.

  I had to touch her still, even with her eyes open and staring back at nothing, a stillness that only comes with death. Even then I still had to climb into the tub and hold her, begging her to wake up.

  But she never would.

  And even as a fifteen-year-old girl, I knew that.

  She hated herself for what she’d done.

  She believed she deserved it because that’s what everyone told her.

  And I left her.

  I listened to my mother and left her when she needed me most.

  * * *