Saving Barrette

by Shey Stahl

  “It wasn’t,” he growls, flexing his jaw, his sister screaming at him, demanding to know what’s going on.

  I wink at him. “I guess you have nothing to worry about then, do you?”

  If you look at his face, he knows he does. He fucking knows it and I hope it eats him alive to know. Regardless, I have my answer. I step back, my control slipping. I have to distance myself from him. If I don’t, I’ll kill him. I know it.

  I throw his hat at him. I don’t need it. “You’d better put your criminal justice knowledge to use.” I turn around and walk away, but then I stop before I walk down the steps. I glance over my shoulder at him. “I never told you where I found your hat.”

  His chest rises and falls, and his eyes widen, but I can see his struggle not to go after me. He knows too, if he has any chance—which he doesn’t—he can’t lay a hand on me.

  And then I leave. I can barely keep the car on the road as I drive back to my dad’s house. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drive the car in the ditch twice. I can’t breathe. I can barely catch a breath. I roll down the windows thinking I need fresh air, but that only makes it worse.

  Nausea hits me about the time I pull into my dad’s driveway. I stop the car, open the door and vomit in the grass. Standing up, I run both my hands over my face. I want to call Barrette, but I also don’t want to ruin the rest of her day with Joey. I pray Remy doesn’t and she hears this from me, and not her.

  A door opens and closes. I look up to see Carlin outside who notices my appearance. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  I shake my head just as my knees hit the ground.

  I PACE MY dad’s house. He’s on the phone with his friend. He’s a police officer and is giving us advice. I want a plan before I say anything to Barrette.

  He tells us she needs to file a police report. She’s still within the statute of limitations.

  I don’t want to ruin Thanksgiving for her. I don’t. But if I don’t get to her first, this could destroy her completely. Despite my better judgment, I call Remy first. With a shaky grip on reality, I press her contact in my phone.

  “Don’t tell her,” I bark when she gasps my name, and then realize Remy probably didn’t have anything to do with it. I shouldn’t be so mean to her.

  “I would never,” she cries, sobbing into the phone. “Oh God, Asa. I can’t believe this. I don’t think it was just him. It couldn’t have been.”

  My heart races. Anxiety hits my stomach. Do you notice the way my shoulders square up? “There had to be.” My dad motions for me, the last few hours wearing on his face. I nod. “I’m heading up to see her now. Where’s Roman?”

  “He’s with our dad and Leonard, his attorney.”

  I picture Roman sitting there in their den, his leg bouncing, his nerves shot. And then I have these gruesome images of him and Barrette and what my mind imagines what happened that night. Only now, all these violent situations that have played out have a face. “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about this,” I growl, unable to keep the venom from my voice.

  “I won’t,” she adds without question. “I swear, Asa. Anything you need, just let me know.”

  I hesitate to add a thank you, but I do because she didn’t do this. Her vile brother did.

  I hang up and tuck my phone in my pocket. Turning to my dad, I reach for my keys, my eyes on the already set table and the dinner I can’t stomach to eat. I feel awful for Carlin. Her words are nothing but tender and assuring but her face, it screams, I wanted you to enjoy today.

  I reach for a roll on the table and then some turkey. “It looks good.”

  Her hand touches my shoulder and then to my back. “You’re too sweet, honey.”

  Dad clears his throat. “Are you going to drive up there tonight?”

  I nod, emotion bubbling, and I think I can handle this, but I have no idea if I’m full of shit. So much has been building up to this over the last year and a half. I knew at some point Barrette and I would both be at our breaking point and it seemed that we were there, and if the wind blew just right, we’d be over the edge, unable to find our way back. Would this be it?

  “I can’t tell her this over the phone,” I admit, tears flooding my eyes. I just… I can’t believe it. I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around the fact that all along he’s been around her, and alone with her in her room. I start shaking again and set down the roll and turkey in my hand.

  Carlin begins to rub my back.

  Dad reaches for his keys. “You’re not going alone. I’ll drive you. You have a game Saturday.”

  I nod. Damn it. I’d forgotten about that in the haze of everything unraveling around me. How could I tell her the worst news of her life, and then leave her again? And then I think of Cadence. I know they aren’t that great of friends anymore, but how is she going to handle it? Roman and her dated, if you can call it that. How would she feel to know her boyfriend raped her best friend? How would she feel not knowing?

  Thousands of scenarios play out in my head, but I can’t make any one stick to decide what, or even how to do this. I flash back to when my mom was sick and the doctor told her, “There’s nothing more we can do. It’s just… too advanced.”

  They told me, “It’s time to take her home and let her be at peace.”

  The fighter in me wouldn’t accept it. I researched and pleaded with doctors. I begged them to try a different approach and natural therapies. They had to find a cure as far as I was concerned. In the end, nothing worked, and my mom finally said, “Baby, everything happened the way it was supposed to.” I had no idea what she meant until the day she died and she whispered to me, “You were my cure.”

  I’m still not sure what she meant by that, or if I ever will, but my point being, I’m at that stage. The fighting. The unable to accept this as the end. I refuse to.

  “I think—”

  My dad knows where my headspace is at. Crazy. And he shakes his head. “Asa, you’re not going alone. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and you just collapsed in the driveway not more than an hour ago. I’m going.”

  I can’t argue with him. At this point, I’ll be lucky to get on the main road, let alone down I-5 without wrecking. “What did Les say?”

  Dad grabs his coat from beside the couch and leans in to kiss Carlin. “He said Barrette needs to file a police report. A hat at the scene isn’t evidence because there’s no way to say that he was there at the time. We don’t know that. It’s a possibility, but you don’t know.”

  “It was him. I know it,” I seethe.

  “But you don’t have proof, Asa. The first step is her reporting it. She then needs to decide to press charges. They’ll request a DNA test from him. If he refuses, it’ll go before a judge to ask for a warrant. If the judge feels like there’s enough evidence, then they’ll issue a warrant.”

  Like it or not, this wasn’t going to happen as quickly as I want because I know Roman isn’t going to willingly take a DNA test. “Then what?”

  “Then it’ll be assigned to a detective and the process will start with collecting evidence, interviewing suspects, and then they’ll decide what charges will be filed.”

  Adrenaline and anger pulses inside me. I want justice, and I want it right now.

  “HOW DO I tell her?” I’ve never once asked my dad for advice. Ever. We’ve always been complete opposites. But now, on the edge of everything I don’t understand, I ask him.

  My dad peers over at me, but then looks back at the road, his grip on the steering wheel of his truck tighter than normal. “I wouldn’t just blurt it out,” he says, his voice low and hushed. “You need to sit her down and maybe tell her about the hat and ask her what she remembers from the night.”

  I look at him, and then the road. The windshield wipers are working overtime, desperately trying to clear the blanket of snow pummeling down on the roads. It looks like something out of a Star Wars movie when they’re traveling at light speed.

  My phone lights up with a message, the sho
cking brightness burning my eyes. I squint, trying to make out who it is. It’s Barrette.

  My heart drops to my stomach as I slide my finger over the screen to read it. It’s a picture of her eating a giant turkey leg that’s bigger than her face and the words, It’s not tofu! Underneath it.

  Holding the phone up, I stare at her smile, and it’s one I haven’t seen in years. My chest aches at the sight, and then I think, what the fuck am I doing? Do I need to tell her? Can’t I just pretend I don’t know and tip the police off? Maybe…. No, I stop myself. I can’t do that because if she ever found out that I knew and didn’t tell her, it’d be worse than ruining a smile.

  I had no expectations on what to expect telling Barrette. I didn’t. I had fears, but no idea what she’d think, or feel, or how she’d react.

  With the snow, it takes my dad and I three hours to get to Bellingham. In that time, I text Joey and test the waters. I tell her I’m coming to see Barrette and I need to talk to her. She calls me lovesick and laughs. And then, then I hit her with it.

  Me: I think I know who raped her.

  Joey: Asa, if you’re not completely sure, don’t tell her.

  It’s then, ten minutes from Joey’s house, that the panic truly sets in. My words, my accusation could possibly send her back over the edge. Am I wrong? Do I think it’s Roman?

  Yes, I do. Without a doubt, I feel that shit in my fucking bones down to my soul. He either did it, or he had a vital part in it. But the fact remains, I did not have proof aside from a goddamn hat. In the world of evidence, it’s nothing.

  My hands shake and I stare at my phone. I question my sanity and my need for this to be true. It’s accurate to say, in a lot of ways, I want my theory to be correct. I want it to be Roman because finally it would, or could, mean closure for both of us. I want a face to the monster.

  I look at my dad and drop my phone in my lap. “Joey thinks I shouldn’t say anything.”

  He frowns. “You have to. She needs to file a police report right away, Asa. It’s imperative she does this now, regardless if you think it’s him or not.”

  “But…” I choke on my words, swallowing back emotion. Suck it up, ya fucking pussy. I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “What if it’s not him?”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Then you tell her because if she finds out you know something, and you don’t tell her, your friendship will never be the same.” Kind of like ignoring her for four years because you’re afraid of telling her you love her. You’re afraid of her waiting for you and missing out on life.

  When we pull up to the house, my dad looks over at me. We sit for several minutes without talking. Darkness has taken over. The glow reflecting off the snow is orange and glistening.

  We get out of the car and I follow my dad through the walkway, where he stops, cursing under his breath. He inhales as if he’s setting himself up for something. He turns, faces me, and pulls me into a hug. “I love you,” he says, choking out the words. “And I’m sorry you’re being put in this position, to tell her this.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say, but settle on “I love you too,” and it’s then, as that term of endearment leaves my frozen lips, I realize that just might have been the first time I’ve said it to him.

  He nods thoughtfully and reaches for the doorbell. Joey answers, her face blank and emotionless. I hate she’s mad at me for doing this.

  I bury my hands in my pockets. “Where’s Barrette?”

  Joey opens the door wider. Barrette’s sitting on the couch with two younger boys. Her eyes drift to mine, smiling. I watch Barrette’s face, the excitement to see me, and then I look at her. Really look at her. This isn’t the same girl I once knew. Her eyes are clear, no trace of makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail braided over her shoulder. For a moment, I see a fourteen-year-old Barrette, laughing, stealing my baseball hat and telling me I can have it back if I can catch her. I try to make myself think of every happy memory I have of her because I know the possibility of never seeing that side again is real.

  No matter how hard this will be, I have to tell her. I face her, and I don’t know what my expression is. It could be one of a thousand different ones coursing through me, destroying my composure.

  I hug her, kiss her cheek, and then ask her if I can talk to her outside. She nods, swallows slowly, her eyes drifting to my dad, and then me. “Is everything okay?” Her arms drop from around my neck and I hate how the missing heat hits my chest. I take her hand and lead her through the door to the porch that hugs the house.

  “I uh…” I struggle to find the words. I reach for her hand again, holding it in mine. “I went to the woods today when I was back home and I….” My words die off and I realize I don’t have the guts to say it.

  “I found Roman’s hat,” I tell her finally before I lose my nerve, “right next to where I found you that night,” I spit the words, like they taste bad in my mouth.

  Do you see the look in her eyes? The sadness rolling through her as she moves back a step? Do you hear her heart breaking?

  I do. I can hear it. I caused it. I destroyed it. Do you see my face? Do you notice the tears rolling down my cheeks? I’m a fucking mess.

  Her face contorts, her hand covers her mouth, and pain finds residence in her features. It morphs and shifts and wrenches, just like her heart.

  “I’m sorry.” I hate those words. They’re easy and empty, but I say them because I don’t know what else to say to her.

  Barrette gasps and then stumbles into me. I grab her arms, steadying her right before she collapses against me in sobs.

  I SPEND THE night at Joey’s parents’ house. My dad finds a hotel to stay at and says he’ll drive me back to campus in the morning. I play football with Joey’s brothers in the basement and end up giving Joey’s mom fifty bucks because I broke a light. Those are the lighter moments of the rest of Thanksgiving. The ones where thousands of families around the country are counting their blessings and saying what they’re thankful of.

  But there are darker ones. The moments when I hold Barrette in my arms and pray she finds comfort with me there. I crawl into bed with her, which happens to be a pullout couch in the basement. She won’t stop shaking, but here, I hold her. All of her weight is on me. Her body, her thoughts, her burdens, I’ll take them all and see her through them regardless.

  I’m here for her, and I can’t let go. I think that if I’m here, if I can save her thoughts from going completely dark, I can save us. Not forever, but right now, in this moment because where we go from here says a lot about our relationship and its meaning.

  “Did you always think it was him?” she finally asks after an hour of awkward silence where I debate on asking if she’s okay, and realize what a braindead question that is.

  I tighten my grip on her to see if her shaking gets any better. It’s after three in the morning and my entire body is worn out. Two-a-day practices have nothing on this feeling. “I think a part of me wanted it to be.”

  Gradually she begins to calm down, the shaking subsides and the tears slow. “I think I knew,” she says, the regret of so much more etched in her sad eyes. “But I’m afraid of what it means.”

  “What it means?” I repeat, not following what she’s implying.

  She shifts beside me, propping up on her elbow. She chews on her lip, contemplates, and then finally whispers, “He’s a college football player with a future. I’m a nobody, and I was drunk at the time. I know how this works. I’ll be painted to be a slut and targeting him.”

  I don’t want to believe her, I don’t, but her words are sadly justifiable. They are, unfortunately, true. They shouldn’t be, no is no, unconscious or not, drunk or not, drugging someone and raping them has no place in this world.

  I’m afraid to answer, scared if I say anything, she’ll fall apart again. I know she’s still struggling to understand, to make this newfound discovery fit into what this means for her, but at least she di
dn’t push me away.

  “I remember the hat,” she whispers, like it’s a confession. “I remember a tattoo on the guy’s hand.” I struggle. I watch her face through the light filtering in from the hallway. She sighs, in maybe relief, I don’t know, and then presses her face on my chest. “I don’t remember what the tattoo looked like, just that it was on his hand and up his arm.”

  “You remember the hat?”

  Her breathing catches, holds, then she sighs and lifts her head to look at me. I tuck my arm under my head and watch the emotions on her face. “I didn’t until Roman was in my room that night. He asked me something really weird, about our sophomore year of high school and if I remembered us kissing.”

  I can barely breathe, let alone swallow thinking of his lips on her, much less inside her. “You kissed him?”

  “Sophomore year. Just once.”

  I nod, waiting for her to continue and I know she can tell I’m bothered by it.

  “But he asked what I would have done if Remy hadn’t interrupted us.”

  “Remind me to thank Remy,” I growl, trying not to interrupt her, but failing.

  She continues, a small downturn to her lips. “He said he would have tried to fuck me, and something clicked in my head. The hat. I remembered seeing a purple hat.”

  Rage rolls through me in waves, drowning my self-control I breathe in and out again, desperately grasping for some sort of composure for her sake. “You need to file the police report tomorrow,” I growl.

  Her voice is timid, like a child admitting their fears when she whispers into my chest, “I’m scared.”

  I cup her cheek hoping she senses the sincerity behind my words. “It’s going to be hard, but I know you can do it,” I say, kissing her forehead. “I will be by your side through all of it. I won’t leave.”

  She sighs, her head against my chest now. My arms wrap around her, pulling her tighter. “Thank you.”

  I hold out hope that we may have suffered and the road still won’t be easy, but we’re at least holding our own as the play clock winds down.