by Laney Wylde
“Sounds like he looked out for you okay.”
I agreed. “He’s a great guy.”
“Were you guys together?”
“For a while.” I was quick to add, “We didn’t sleep together or anything, though. We broke up before I was hospitalized.”
Jake tilted his head slowly, thoughtfully. “Can I meet him?”
My forehead crinkled. In what planet would that be a good idea? Hey ex-boyfriend who still has feelings for me and stood by me through a ton of shit I threw at you, remember that guy I was totally hung up on? Guess what! We’re getting married, and he wants to meet you. Here he is!
“Why?”
“Because he was there for you when I should have been.” He took a sip of his coke. “Because he brought you back to me in one piece.”
“Okay, sure…if he’ll speak to me after today.” My stomach twisted. I wasn’t hungry anymore, so I pushed my chair back and stood. “Can you take me home?”
* * *
Jake dropped me off at my mom’s. I walked through the front door, keeping my left hand in my sweatshirt pocket. I found Cash in my room, packing up his clothes for our flight out that night.
“Hey.” A smile flickered across his face, but then disappeared when he saw my expression, the tension in my jaw, the tears welling in my lower lids. “You okay?”
I shook my head and tried to take a breath, but it was shallow and hopeless. All I could manage to say was, “I can’t go to Georgia with you.”
He stepped in front of me and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Why not?”
I couldn’t say the words. I just froze, standing there staring up at him. Finally, I pulled my left hand from my pocket and held it in front of me. “I’m sorry.” The tears fell down my cheeks. “I didn’t expect to see him. It just—”
His throat pulsed as he swallowed. “Sawyer, it’s okay.” But it wasn’t. He was choking on his words, running his hand over his flushing face.
“You’re not mad?”
He shook his head.
“You should be. I’d really feel better if you yelled at me or something. Please. Tell me how much you hate me and how terrible I am to you—”
He held my arms in his hands. “Stop. You love him, right?”
I agreed without words, my head bobbing, sparing him of just how much I loved Jake.
“Can I see?” His hand slid down to mine, and he examined the ring. “Emerald?”
I nodded at the sound of my old name.
His lips forced a smile. “Your eyes are better.”
I laughed and sobbed and buried my face in his chest. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he whispered as his lips brushed my hair.
I didn’t let go as I said, “Jake and I are going to move to LA so I can go back to school. So I’m still going to make fun of you for sucking at math, and you’re going to force me to listen to Taylor Swift. We’ll sit with each other in church and talk about how gross Dylan is. You’ll tell me what cute things Sue is doing, and Jo can stay with me anytime. And—”
“You’ll invite me to your wedding.”
I hugged him tighter. “Please be there.”
His head moved against my hair. “You’re not going to lose me, Sawyer.” But he and I both knew I already had. We could never be the same. I felt it when his arms loosened around me, when I watched him walk back toward his suitcase on the bed. That deepest part of our relationship was in the past. And it had to stay there.
* * *
Jake answered his door when I knocked that night, my suitcase in my hand behind me. “Still want me?”
He smiled. “I guess.”
I shoved his chest with both hands, but he grabbed my arms and wrapped himself around me, opening my lips with his, desperate and honest.
When Jake and I took my suitcase up to his room, I froze at the sight behind the door. It was all the same as I had left it that morning: the wrinkled blue comforter on the full-sized bed that jutted into the center of the room, the dresser underneath the cracked-open window, Jake’s open gym bag on the floor with boxing gloves and wrist wraps spilling out of it. I burst into tears.
“Hey, hey,” Jake whispered as he pulled me close. “What’s wrong?” His question, so simple, so sweet and right, was impossible to answer. Maybe it was that the entire last year collided into me that moment. Maybe it was that being here meant Cash was gone, that the parts of our hearts that had been joined were permanently severed. Maybe it was that my last minutes in this room were some of my worst, and I’d never imagined I’d be here again. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
Jake let me go behind the closed door. He pulled open his dresser drawer. With blurry vision, I saw him take out that army green Henley that somehow had survived so many years of wear. He peeled off my sweatshirt and then unbuttoned my pants, letting me step out of them. Then he handed me that soft shirt, and I pulled it on, sliding my bra out from underneath it.
We curled up together under his covers, my face tight against his chest as I wept. His calloused fingers traced up and down the curve of my back before trailing down my thigh, inching me closer with each touch. I took in the warmth of his hands and the bare skin of his torso, letting him soothe me after I hurt him, protect me after I deserted him. He held me until I was quiet, until I felt safe enough to fall asleep.
Jake and I married July 28, barefoot on the beach he proposed on. Our newfound faith meant no sex until Jake had a ring. So, three-week engagement it was.
Cash mailed us an early wedding present: a Polaroid camera with a note saying, Don’t let them win, Sawyer. I relented and hired a photographer for the wedding who agreed to leave all her fancy equipment at home.
Cash flew out for the wedding with Charlotte, his ex, in tow as his plus-one. She did what I should have done with Jake: showed up at Cash’s door, confessed she was still in love with him after their year apart, and told him that no one even compared to him.
No shit, idiot.
And Cash, being Cash, took her back. When I met her, saw them together, his arm around her, his lips on her cheek, it was weird, and not because I felt a twinge of jealousy. Envy, rather. He wasn’t mine to be jealous over anymore. He didn’t look at her the way he looked at me. She made him happy, but that was all she made him. I was his whiskey neat. I wasn’t sure Charlotte ever would be. But maybe that was okay. He deserved someone perfect, and she was pretty close to it. Or at least she wasn’t as selfish and unstable as I was. I was impossible to compete with in that department. Maybe that would be enough for him. I hoped it would be.
I’d love to say Jake and I lived happily ever after, that everything between us was easy and painless. But it turned out it was unreasonable for me to expect a seamless transition from disassociating during hookups with strangers to having passionate, sweaty sex with my husband.
On our wedding night, I only came back into my body in time to roll off Jake, who was apologizing for something. I was so livid with myself for not feeling any of it, for not even being there, that I rushed to the bathroom, shut myself in, and locked the door. I filled the bathtub and turned on the fan so Jake wouldn’t hear me crying. When I leaned my hands on the rim of the porcelain, I noticed semen dripping down my thigh. He hadn’t used a condom. Right. That was fine. We agreed not to since I had an IUD and was somehow disease-free.
It was fine. It was fine. It was fine! It was Jake all over me this time, not Jeff. Right? Still, I needed to get it off me. I sank into the hot water until it covered my face, weeping silently below the surface.
When I came up to gasp for air, Jake was knocking on the door. His voice was muffled when he said, “Sawyer, I’m sorry. It’s just been a long time, and I didn’t expect it to go so fast without the condom. Maybe we can do something else? Or try again—”
I climbed out and swung open the door, naked with a puddle forming at my feet. “Jake,” I breathed. “I’m not mad at you.” How could I ask the man who had forgiven me of so much to
do something for me, to give me what I needed when I needed it because I hurt him? “Remember when we first started sleeping together, and I couldn’t really deal with…”
His face fell.
My eyes teared up. “I’m sorry.”
He glanced past me and then into my eyes. “Bath okay?”
I closed my eyes and nodded. “Thank you.”
Jake took my hand and led me to the tub. He sat behind me, his legs on either side of me, my back against his bare chest. I combed my fingers back through his hair down to the nape of his neck, letting him stroke up and down my arm with his rough fingertips. I shut my eyes to feel his warm tongue and lips on my throat, then his hands on my waist. “Is this okay?” he whispered in my ear.
I nodded and guided his hands over my breasts, then waited to see if my mind would flee the scene. It didn’t.
Jake reached my thighs, starting to ease his hands between them. “Still okay?”
“Um…” I shut my eyes tight, feeling his touch less as it slid toward my hips. “I think so.”
“Sawyer, you’re tensing up. We should take a break.” He shifted behind me, and I heard his arms rising from the water. I assumed he was getting out, pissed off at me for ruining his wedding night. Instead, his hands kneaded into my shoulders and neck.
I ran my wet hands over my face to wash off the tears and said, “Thank you. I’m sorry.”
Jake brushed his lips against my ear and murmured, “Stop that. I love you.”
I sighed and wrapped his arms around me so I could nuzzle into his shoulder, my cheek against his bicep. This would get easier. It had before.
22
SEPTEMBER 2018
We packed up after our honeymoon and trekked to the City of Angels to move into our new apartment. I restarted classes at the end of September, the same month Jake had his first professional match. The fight wasn’t the most brutal I had watched, but it was a waking nightmare for me. As soon as the first punch was thrown, I huddled into a ball, shivering in my seat, my eyes peeking above my arms. Each jab, each hook, sent me back to December in the VIP room. I could smell Allen’s leathery skin. Felt the sharp pain in my arms and legs where his knees pinned me to the couch. I saw the drywall crumble behind his head as I slammed him into it. And I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t leave that VIP room for days.
The next week, I stayed in bed under a cozy fog thanks to a few bottles of tequila. Jake found the booze when I was asleep. He didn’t say anything, just dumped it down the kitchen sink. He left three empty bottles on the counter so I’d know he was on to me.
Joke’s on you, Jake. I could get more. I was in the checkout line at the store when I scanned my wallet for my fake ID. It was gone. Just my stupid legal one with my real birth date that put me squarely at the age of nineteen. I sped home furious and sober and empty-handed, then tore the house apart searching for the fake: turning couch cushions over, flipping through books, sifting through every drawer. My hands in the trash, I glanced up at the tequila bottles on the kitchen counter. Jake, that book-burning ass I was hitched to for life, had cut the card into thick strips and slipped the pieces into one of them.
I turned it upside down, shaking and banging the glass, but only got two strips loose. The rest were adhered to the sticky insides. I raised the bottle behind me and smashed it against the edge of the countertop, closing my eyes against the thick shards flying across the tile and into the sink and onto the pretend wood floor. The soft pads of my fingers brushed the glass off the counter, clearing a space for me to reassemble the card. Bloody fingerprints smudged the plastic. I licked my fingers clean and kept at it. That was when Jake walked in.
There was nothing but a silent stare between us for a minute, him standing in the open doorway, the warm sun on his sweaty back, gym bag over his shoulder, and me—dizzy and desperate and bleeding while I pieced my ticket to a soft-lensed life back together. He scanned the books thrown from the shelves, the couch in disarray, and the debris on the floor. The mess was humiliating, sobering, like I had been caught screwing someone else. He finally said, “I’ll get the broom.”
I shut my eyes in relief, in that pain that only forgiveness stabbed with. There I stood frozen, barefoot, surrounded by glass, drops of blood drying on my skin. Jake returned with a broom, his shoes crunching on the shards on his way to me. He shifted his eyes down to my hands, then took them in his, running his rough fingers over the cuts, holding them up to the light to check for any pieces still stinging in my skin. He wrapped my arms around his neck, and he scooped me up to carry me into the bathroom. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks as he ran cold water to clean off the excess blood, then sat me on the closed toilet. He kneeled in front of me and tucked a shock of hair behind my ear. His fingers trailed to my wrists and wrapped around them, his tactile way of telling me he thought I was too skinny. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know.” Jake, come on, alcohol had calories. That counted for something.
Jake reached into the shower and turned on the faucet. “Take a shower. We’re going out for dinner.”
I nodded.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He shut the door behind him, which was odd since he was going to shower with me. I listened at the door as I took off my clothes. He was talking, but I could only hear half a conversation. He must have been on the phone.
“Sorry to bother you with this—”
Pause.
“She’s done this before but never like this. I don’t know if I should try to get her to go to AA, or—”
Was her me? Me in Alcoholics Anonymous? Weren’t those poor suckers not allowed to drink? Ever? Over my rotting corpse.
“So, it’s some kind of PTSD thing?”
Long pause.
“No, she hasn’t left the apartment.”
Pause.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll make sure she makes an appointment.”
Even longer pause.
“No, she doesn’t have any meds. Is she supposed to?”
Pause.
“Yeah, that’d be great. Anytime. I’m off this week.”
Pause again.
“Thanks, man.”
I was still in bed at ten the next morning when Jake welcomed someone into our home. Jerk. “Sawyer! Someone’s here for you!”
I forced myself out of bed, my hair tangled, Jake’s baggy shirt over his boxer briefs rolled at my hips. I squinted into the sunlit living room to see a familiar tall frame at the door. Cash crossed his arms and shook his head when he saw me. “You have therapy in an hour.” He tipped his head toward the hall. “Get dressed.”
Excuse me? Not even a good morning? Come on, Cash, your mama raised you better than that.
“No, I don’t. It’s Wednesday.” As if the day of the week made a difference. I hadn’t been to therapy in weeks.
“Jake scheduled it.”
I glowered at Jake. He crossed his arms, too. That really pissed me off. I went to get ready, and by that, I meant I put a sports bra on under Jake’s shirt and brushed my teeth, all while slamming dresser drawers and bathroom cabinets.
Jake drove me to my appointment, a car ride where I flipped him off with my unbreaking quiet. When we got home, there were six pill bottles on the kitchen counter next to a note:
Sawyer,
THESE are your medications. (Big, fat arrow included pointing toward the prescriptions.)
THESE are not. (Bigger, fatter arrow pointing to the empty bottles.)
We’re here. We love you.
Cash
Bursting into tears, I curled into Jake’s chest. I had Cash. I had Jake. I had everything. And I was an idiot.
I had both when I had to drop two of my classes that quarter because I couldn’t take the stress. I had both beside me at church when I was afraid, to keep me from drinking, to push me to therapy twice a week.
And I had Jake every sleepless night. When I was afraid those men would find me or when I couldn’t stop thinking about the videos the
y were still watching, I’d roll over, rest my head on his chest, and feel his hands glide through my hair. I closed my eyes to listen to his heart, that familiar thump-thump as I fell asleep. And when I was surrounded on Third Street, I’d listen for that sound and follow it to him, to a safer place.
About the Author
Growing up with poor reading comprehension, Laney Wylde avoided books at all costs. But after reading Francine River’s Redeeming Love for the first time in high school, she fell in love with literature. It was then she realized broken anti-heroines and impossible love stories were the stuff of heart-wrenching, binge-worthy novels.
Afraid her slow reading pace and lack of writing skill would inhibit her from becoming a successful English major, Laney pursued her B.S. in Mathematics from Biola University, graduating in 2014.
Laney gathered the courage to write honestly and diligently in 2017, producing Never Touched, a passion project that sheds light on the uphill battle that is healing from sexual abuse.
She lives in Southern California with her dashing husband and precocious little boy.
Acknowledgments
Those who know me know that I wasn’t a writer four months before I started Never Touched. Those who know me well know that it was because I was scared. Here are the people who lifted me from chicken to published author.
Grandma Audi, thank you for having an art project ready for me each time I came over to your house growing up--how did you do that?--for telling me, “there are no mistakes just opportunities for creativity,” and for reminding me that I had a right brain even when I had given up on the idea.
Uncle Paul and Aunt Robin, you showed me adults read fiction, watch artsy fartsy films, and don’t have to grow out of their dreams just because they grow up--not that I’m saying you guys have grown up. I’d never say that.