by Laney Wylde
I opened my mouth to answer, but then felt my throat burn. The bathroom was just across the hall, so all of my vomit made it into the toilet after I sprinted there. Jake closed us in and combed my hair back as I puked up the remaining alcohol from the night before. His hard fingertips grazed the scar on my scalp: that tender seven-shaped mark. With that touch, I was hanging upside down again in my booster seat, hearing my dad say, “Todo va estar bien, mi niña. Todo va estar bien.” But he was wrong. It wasn’t going to be okay. It never could be.
Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat back against the tub, the cold surface a shock to my bare skin. I reached for the thermal at Jake’s feet. “Jake, I’m so sorry. I should have gone to your fight,” I said before pulling the shirt on.
“No, no. Don’t worry about that.” He squatted down in front of me. “What’s going on?”
I pressed my palms into my eyes. “I should have been there. I should have been there.”
“Babe, stop.” He pulled my wrist away from my face. “It’s okay.”
“Did you win?”
He raised his shoulders as if to say, obviously. Right. Steel jaw. “Just tell me what happened.”
“I went to that stupid party up South Bank. At Kyle’s house.”
“Okay?”
“Well, his parents came home, and I was too drunk to drive. They called my house, and Jeff answered.”
“Shit,” Jake hissed, brushing his hair back out of his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I tried, Jake. I was so hammered. I just… I couldn’t—” I pulled my knees to my chest. That rape was just vindictive. I knew Jeff didn’t want me anymore now I was a D-cup with hips and an athletic body. I wasn’t flat and helpless enough for his taste. But this was what I got for protesting his move home—proof he was in control, that he still owned me. Clearly, he did.
Jake’s brown eyes darkened to that homicidal coal color. “Hang out in my room for a while, okay?” It wasn’t a request. He had already scooped me up and was headed through the door.
“Wait? What are you going to do?”
He laid me on his bed and tucked the covers around me. Crouching to my eye level, he asked, “Do you need some water or ibuprofen?”
“Both,” I whispered.
He pulled a shirt on. I heard him trot down the stairs at twice the speed he had before. A glass of water in his right hand, two pills tucked in his fingers, and my keys in his left hand, he returned and announced, “I’m going to take your car.” Oh, now he wanted a car.
When he set the glass down on his side table, I ripped the keys from his grasp. “Jake, no. Don’t go near him.”
“Are you kidding me, Sawyer?” he shouted, like I was the one acting crazy.
“Please! You’re not thinking. You get like this when—”
“I’m not going to get hurt. I can handle myself.”
“Not if you get arrested!”
“What the hell am I supposed to do then, huh?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
He ran his hands over his face while he shook his head. “Okay, well, if I’m not allowed to kill him, then we should throw his ass back in jail.”
I buried my face under the covers. “Does that mean I have to talk to a cop?”
He sat on the bed and rested his hand on my back. “What’s the alternative? Going home and letting him do it again?”
I shut my eyes and sucked in my breath.
“I’ll take you. Everything will be okay.”
That was what my dad said.
Jake drove me to the tiny station with two black-and-whites parked outside. My stomach twisted. Just being in the parking lot was humiliating, exposing. Jake held my hand as we approached the front desk, a high ledge with thick glass to protect the plump middle-aged woman behind it from people like me. “What can I do for you?” she asked, like we were at the bank.
I stammered out the words, “I, uh, I need to speak to an officer.”
“Regarding?”
“Um.” I darted my eyes to Jake, who squeezed my hand tighter. “I just need to report a crime.”
The woman shuffled to the back to find the rotund, mustached officer to introduce to us. The cop pulled me into a bare room with a table and four chairs before dismissing Jake from our company. Why couldn’t Jake be here? I needed him.
The officer started as soon as the door was closed, a legal pad in hand. “So, Ms.—”
“de la Cruz.”
“What happened?” he asked as he sat across from me.
“Um…” I hesitated, peering out the window of the door with the crisscrossed wires threaded through it. Jake was out there, but I couldn’t see him. “I was raped. I think.”
“You think?” He raised his eyebrows as if I was distracting him from his very important game of solitaire. Really, though, what else was going on in this town? Maybe someone was going five miles over the speed limit on the highway, which, they pulled people over for, by the way.
“Yeah,” I pushed myself to continue. “Last night, my stepdad picked me up from a party. I woke up this morning naked and sore with blood and—” I couldn’t keep going. For all I knew, this guy was just as creepy as Jeff.
“And?” he asked with a hint of impatience.
I swallowed, forcing myself to say the word without vomiting. “Semen on my thighs and on my sheets.” I hated that word. Semen.
The officer took a couple of notes on the form before meeting my eyes. “Were you under the influence of anything, miss?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“So you don’t remember the alleged assault?”
Alleged? Asshole.
I raised my voice, “Well, not all of it, but I’m covered in bruises.”
“Miss.” His tone was gruff. If he was trying to calm me down, he sucked at it. “I just asked if you remembered it.”
“Bits and pieces.”
He softened his voice and asked, “Did you have sex with anyone at the party? You can tell me. I know it can be hard to admit around Lane’s kid—” Fuck this town. Of course this officer knew Jake and his dad.
“No! I didn’t cheat on Jake,” I hissed, my teeth gritting so tight I thought they’d grind to sand. “You know about my stepdad, Jeff Lindley. He’s on the sex offenders’ registry.”
“Miss, it’s a far jump from showing porn to a kid to raping an adult.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “So that’s it? There’s nothing you’re going to do?”
“Go to the hospital. Have a rape kit done, the sooner the better, and we’ll go from there.”
“Will they do that in the ER?”
“Yeah,” he answered as he tapped the back of the pen on the cold table.
“No, I can’t go to the ER.” I shook my head. “My mom’s the charge nurse there.”
“Ms. de la Cruz, that’s the best way we can collect evidence to charge him. The longer you wait, the less likely it is that we will have what we need for an arrest.” He scanned my sopping hair, pushing the pad aside and folding his fingers together. “Did you shower?”
“Well, yeah, it was all over me.”
He took a slow inhale before sighing a drawn-out, “Okay. The rape kit probably won’t do you much good since you washed most of the evidence away. You still need to go to the hospital for an exam—”
I scooted the chair out. Jake had the right idea—beating Jeff to death. That would have swift and final justice. And probably the best time Jake and I could have with Jeff. “I have to go,” I muttered as I headed for the door. Jake shot me a confused expression from his waiting room chair. “Let’s go.” I nodded toward the exit. He stood and followed me, wrapping his arm around my waist.
“What happened?” Jake asked as he buckled his seatbelt. “Are they going to do anything?”
I met his searching eyes. “Can I stay with you for a while?”
He laced his fingers through mine. “Of course, babe, but—”
“Okay, let’s go to my house and pack
.”
“Shouldn’t you go to the hospital or some—”
“I’m fine. Can you just take me home?”
He nodded and started the car.
If Jake’s roommates objected to the new freeloader in their house, I never heard about it. I was sure Jake crushed any fight they put up with his dark look that made my blood run cold. And he had never, would never, hurt me, so I could only imagine the effect those ominous eyes had on them.
Still, I wasn’t eager to live in a hostile environment, even if it was infinitely safer than home. That Monday after my fourth, and last, class of the day, I headed to the grocery and liquor stores. Fake IDs didn’t work when someone Mom knew from church could spot me with beer in the checkout line at Fred Meyer. I filled the fridge with produce and Coronas, the cabinets with cereal and Swiss Rolls, and the oven with two take-and-bake pizzas by the time Jake came home from training.
Oh, and I cleaned, making use of the supplies I stocked the house with back in June when Jake moved in. They had remained untouched except when I used them over the year to wash Jake’s sheets—that I got naked in—along with a huge pile of sweaty clothes he left in the corner of his room—that I smelled when I got naked in his sheets—and his bathroom—where Jake tried to get me naked. I did my homework at the dining table that night and watched the guys come into the kitchen to grab a few slices and beers. Hunter found strawberries in the fridge and acted like he had died and gone to heaven. I was in.
All the guys had jobs, part or full time, or per boxing match or construction job in Jake’s case, to pay rent for the three-bedroom house only four blocks from school. I didn’t. So I helped around the house. A lot. Besides, with cheer over and only morning classes to attend, I had the time. And no one else was doing it. It was all very sexist 1950s. Wait. Or racist. Should I have been offended?
Anyway, it was nothing out of the ordinary that I was folding Jake’s laundry after school two Thursdays after I moved in. Or maybe it was extraordinary. Maybe he was hella lucky to have a girl like me. Sexy, smart, and able to operate a washing machine? I was the whole package.
I was putting his tee shirts in the dresser when I spotted it. I had a choice in that moment: put the clothes on top of it, feign ignorance, and let the curiosity fester inside me until I exploded and died, or… No, I knew I shouldn’t open it. On the other hand, if the little velvet box just had earrings, a necklace, or some other benign jewelry, I shouldn’t get my hopes up. It was better that I found out now, right? Right.
It was anything but benign. Wedged in the center of the box was a fat green gem surrounded by diamonds on a white-gold band. Again, I was well aware I shouldn’t, but I slipped it on my left hand. Come on. It was staring right at me! It fit a little snugly, but close enough. How had Jake known my ring size? I heard the front door open and shut. Please be one of the guys. Please be one of the guys. Any guy. Footsteps plodded up the stairs. No, no, no, no. I tried to pull the ring off, but it stuck on my knuckle. Shit! I turned it around so just the band would show—as if that would help—then shoved the box under the shirts in the dresser and slammed the drawer shut.
“Hey, babe,” Jake said as he dropped his gym bag on the carpet and wrapped his arms around me.
“Gross, Jake, you’re all sweaty.”
“What? Do I smell?” He lifted his arms above his head and puffed his chest toward me.
I pushed him away by his hips. “I don’t know why you think that’s so funny.” He pulled his damp shirt over his head and threw it at the hamper, which was a new addition since I moved in. He missed. Eh, he wasn’t a basketball player. “Please go shower.”
He pulled me toward him, running his hand down my spine until my body was flush against his, then he kissed his way up my neck. “Shower with me?” he breathed in my ear, sending chills down my spine.
The fingers of my right hand slipped under the waistband of his shorts. I was about to run my left hand up his neck when I snapped out of it. I shoved him away and tucked the damning evidence behind my back. “Nah, you go ahead.”
Jake put both hands on my arms and scanned my nervous face. “You okay?”
Ugh! Why couldn’t I be a normal female and say “no” to sex regularly so the I’m not in the mood cover would work?
“Yeah, I just don’t want to mess up my makeup.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re the worst liar.” His hands ran down my arms. I slipped my left hand in my back pocket. “Sawyer, what’s going on?”
My face was burning red. I bit my lip and closed my eyes when I spread the fingers of my left hand in front of my chest.
“Damn it, Sawyer!” He laughed. I squinted one eye open to see him smiling and shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead.
“I’m sorry.” I cringed. “I was putting clothes away when I found it, then I had to know, so—”
“I get that, but why did you put it on?”
“Because,” I exhaled, “it’s beautiful.”
“You like it?”
“Seriously? I love it. Do I have to give it back?”
He laughed again. “Don’t you want me to propose?”
Just the word made my heart trip. “Do it now.”
“Here? I had it all planned—”
“Tell me about it later. In the shower?” I raised an eyebrow. He grinned. “Ask me now.” I put my hands on his shoulders when he lowered himself to one knee, then I gave him both my hands.
“Sawyer Emilia de la Cruz, will you marry me?”
“If only because I can’t get the ring off.” I laughed.
“Really? That’s the story we’re going to tell for the rest of our—”
“Yes!” I threw my head back and shouted. “Of course I’ll marry you!” He pulled me into him as he stood to kiss me.
10
MAY 2017
Three minutes. I tapped the start button on my phone’s timer.
The night I made him propose, Jake laid on his side in bed and twirled a piece of my hair through his fingers as he told me all about the proposal I ruined. He had saved up for months for the ring, an emerald because, as he said, even it could never compete with my green eyes. That was what he first noticed about me, besides the fact that a pervy senior was groping me. He told me it took everything in his power not to stare at them. He couldn’t figure out if they were real or if I was just shitting everyone with contacts. He figured they must be mine, because, according to him, they were audacious and haunting, like me.
Two minutes left.
He had tickets to An Ideal Husband at that fancy theatre in Ashland. Cute, right? I had read the script and seen the movie, but this would be my first time seeing it in person. We would still go in June; he just wouldn’t propose after.
We hadn’t picked a date. I liked the idea of getting married before I went off to Oregon State in the fall, but that gave us little time to pull together a wedding. We were dirt poor, too, and I wondered if his parents would foot the bill since I wasn’t exactly speaking to my mom. Maybe eloping would be more our style anyway.
One minute left.
We might as well just elope. We were already living together. And I had already learned more about Jake this past month than I had in our two and a half years of dating.
First, he left dirty washcloths in the shallow bathroom sink—not in the tub or laundry room. The sink. So I was always spitting toothpaste out on a mildewy pile of rags. Why, Jake?
Second, if he ran out of body wash, he’d just use shampoo instead of buying more. Then, when he ran out of shampoo, he’d use hand soap. I didn’t wait to find out what he’d use once that ran out.
Third, he had trouble falling asleep unless we had sex right before bed or he had Netflix on. And, since Netflix kept me awake, he was sweet enough to sacrifice that option. Those few nights we were chaste, he would lie awake on his back, brushing his hands through his hair and staring at the ceiling. Then, like a kid at a sleepover, he would whisper, “Sawyer, are you awake?”<
br />
I would grunt to confirm as his fingers slid so gently up my back it tickled.
Then I’d get to hear whatever thought was bouncing around his head. “We should take the motorcycle down the coast of California this summer. Maybe to the Bay Area? Then to Santa Barbara and San Diego? What do you think?” Or, “My trainer says I need to run more, but I just don’t know if it’s worth it on my knee, with that old injury, you know?” Or, “What are you going to major in next year? I know you think math is more practical, but think how much you’d get to read if you majored in English or something? You know your dad would love it if you did English.” Or, “Do you ever want to have kids? I think three would be cool.”
Then we’d be up for another hour, and I’d doze off in second period American Government the next day.
My phone buzzed. Time was up.
I was already on my knees with my head hanging over the toilet as the timer ticked off the passing seconds. All I knew was that I was sick. And late. My arms, shaky and weak from the nausea, pushed me off the toilet seat so I could see the pregnancy test on the counter to my right.
Two pink lines.
I grabbed it and peered closer just to make sure. Positive.
Pregnant.
It didn’t sink in, especially when all I wanted in that moment, perhaps more than I wanted anything else, was to throw up. My body, that stubborn bitch, wouldn’t cooperate. So I just let my face hover over the toilet, watching the still, clear water in it in case my will beat her.
I tried to think while I waited to hurl.
First, I needed to count. When was my last period? During spring break? So, a month and a half ago? Before I moved in with Jake, right? My stash of tampons under the bathroom sink was untouched, so definitely before then. How far along would that make me?
Second, how did this happen? Jake and I were so careful; we used condoms every time. Maybe I was just crazy fertile like my mom. My conception had been a condom failure. I guessed it happened sometimes.