by Amy Hatvany
“Maybe,” my mom said, returning his smile with one of her own. “You never know.”
“Let me walk you out,” I said, and we made our way to the parking lot of my new building. It was late afternoon, and the sun had dropped low in the sky, so the air had taken on a much colder bite than earlier in the day.
“Thanks for everything,” I said again as I hugged them both, individually. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“You’d better,” my mom said. “Let us know how your first day at work goes.”
“I will,” I said, nodding. And finally, they climbed into the U-Haul and drove away.
I spent the next couple of hours tweaking the arrangement of my apartment, as well as hitting the grocery store, where I loaded up on frozen vegetables and chicken, along with a lot of fruit, some nuts, and a loaf of eight-grain bread. On my way to the register, on impulse, I grabbed a package of Oreos, too, my favorite cookie from my childhood. Greta had encouraged me to practice buying food that I might not necessarily be ready to eat, as a way to help me stop labeling food as either “good” or “bad.”
“It’s all just food,” she said. “You eat what you like, what feels good to you in the moment, whatever that is, until you feel full. And then you stop. It’s that simple. And it’s that hard.”
Once I was back in my apartment, I put away what I’d bought, then turned on the television, just for the background noise. The cable was paid for and ready for my dad to hook up when we got here, a perk the landlord provided, along with paying for water, sewer, and garbage. I dropped down onto my bed and picked up my phone, scrolling through my messages to find the text from Vanessa that held the address of the sexual assault victim support group. It was Thursday, the same day her therapist colleague held the seven o’clock meetings. I stared at the address, and then quickly looked it up on Google Maps, a little shocked to see that it was only four blocks from my apartment. It was six thirty, and if I wanted, I could walk over and attend.
I thought about Tyler then, how he would be spending the next couple of years in therapy, instead of in jail. I wondered if he would take it seriously; I wondered if what I’d said to him in my victim impact statement had sunk in the way I’d hoped that it would. My stomach didn’t twist quite as much when he came to my mind now, but that could change from day to day. There were times I ended up heaving over the toilet, overwhelmed by the memories of what he did to me. There were moments I looked in the mirror and wanted to scream at the unfairness of how I would carry around this trauma with me for the rest of my days.
“It’s less of a burden when you share it with other women who understand,” Vanessa said, when I told her how I felt. “You’d be amazed at how much it helps.”
Now, I drummed my fingers on the top of my thigh, exhausted from the long day of packing and moving, but before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped up, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed out the door.
It only took a little over five minutes to get to the office building, and another few to find the room where the meeting was being held. I stood outside the doorway for a moment, hesitant to go inside, and then a woman’s voice startled me.
“The first time’s always the hardest,” she said, and I turned to look behind me. She was a thin blond woman about my age, but taller than me, with long legs and an athlete’s broad shoulders. She was dressed in black leggings, a matching thick, black sweater, and knee-high, black leather boots. There was a bright red infinity scarf looped around her neck, and a multitude of silver bangle bracelets around her wrists. She looked impossibly hip, and I suddenly felt self-conscious about the ratty jeans and dirty sweatshirt I hadn’t changed out of after the move.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked nervously. I shoved my hands deep into my coat’s pockets.
“Maybe a little,” the woman said, smiling. “I’m Charlotte.”
“I’m Amber,” I said. “I just moved here from Bellingham.”
“Really?” Charlotte said, moving off to one side as a couple other women pushed past us and walked into the room. “My brother graduated from Western last year. I love it up there.”
I nodded, but felt a dark look fall over my face, thinking how I used to love my hometown, too, and now couldn’t imagine ever living there again.
Charlotte must have sensed the conflict I felt, because she quickly changed the subject. “But now you’re here,” she said. “Did someone give you the group’s name?”
“My therapist,” I said.
“Mine, too,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “I was raped by an online date last year. What about you?”
“My best friend,” I said, swallowing hard. “Just last summer.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, frowning. She jerked her head toward the room, where I could hear a low buzz of conversation among the other women. “Come on in. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“Okay,” I said, as I released a deep breath, hoping that what Charlotte said was true. Hoping that after everything I’d been through, after deciding to move and start my life over again, I’d found place where I would continue to heal—a place I’d find other women who understood me. A place where, no matter what else might happen, I could finally start to feel whole.
Acknowledgments
First and most important, I want to acknowledge every woman and girl who has ever been the victim of sexual assault. I, too, am a survivor. I didn’t report what happened to me, because at the time, as so many of us do, I believed I’d sent some kind of message that I had wanted this person—someone close to me, someone I knew and trusted—to do what he did. I tried to bury the shame I felt, but still, the memory of him—of his strong hand on the back of my head, pushing—has stayed with me for years.
It is this memory, paired with watching my children, a daughter and a son, both become teenagers and having frank discussions with them about their sexuality and how it relates to consent that drove me to write this book. The idea had danced around my subconscious for years; I felt driven to explore why it is that our society still blames a victim for what she said or did or wore or how much she drank, and then, in the next breath, we look at her attacker and say, “But he’s such a nice guy . . . he would never do something like that.”
And so, I must thank Greer Hendricks, my friend and brilliant former editor, who, when I brought up the idea of writing about this subject, encouraged me to pursue my instincts to tell both sides of the story. She helped me map out much of Amber’s and Tyler’s characters and storylines, and the end result is all that much stronger for it.
As usual, none of this would be happening without my agent, Victoria Sanders, and her mighty, capable squad: Diane Dickensheid, Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Chris Kepner, and Jessica Spivey. Victoria has stood with me for almost twenty years, through the good and the bad, and I am lucky to have such a fearless, formidable advocate on my side.
I must also thank Sarah Cantin, my editor at Atria, who showed such care and consideration while reviewing the initial draft of the book. Her input was invaluable, and I could not ask for a more intelligent, gifted, and empathetic publishing professional to have my back. Thanks also to Haley Weaver, Sarah’s formidable and talented editorial assistant, for catching all the little details I miss.
I wouldn’t have the privilege of this writer’s life without all the other amazing professionals at Atria Books—Judith Curr, Suzanne Donahue, Paul Olsewski, Lisa Sciambra, Ariele Fredman Stewart, Tory Lowy, Hillary Tisman, Isolde Sauer, and Will Rhino, who, after reading the completed manuscript, gave me an incredibly vital edit. This list could go on and on—to every member of the sales team, the art department (especially Laywan Kwan for designing this beautiful cover!), and marketing, to anyone who touches my books, I cannot tell you how deeply I appreciate you all.
A writer is only as good as the support system she builds around her, and mine, filled with supportive friends and family, is something I am grateful for every day. My tribe is bursting with smart, hysterically f
unny people who make me laugh at myself, feed me dessert, and love me up when I’m feeling fragile. You all know who you are, and that I couldn’t live without you, but I want to give a special shout-out to my daughter, Scarlett, who continues to inspire me with her strength and determination, and also, my son, Miles, whose huge, kind heart shows me every day that there is hope for the men of our future.
And then, of course, there’s Stephan. My partner, my friend, my second (and final) husband. Saying “thank you” to him just isn’t enough.
About the Author
Amy Hatvany is the author of seven novels, including Somewhere Out There and Safe with Me. She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her family.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Amy Hatvany
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First Atria Books hardcover edition March 2017
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Jacket design by Pete Garceau
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Author photograph © 2014 Alison Rosa
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hatvany, Amy, 1972– author.
Title: It happens all the time : a novel / Amy Hatvany.
Description: First Atria Books hardcover edition. | New York : Atria Books,
2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016015251 (print) | LCCN 2016021600 (ebook) | ISBN
9781476704456 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781501153907 (softcover) | ISBN
9781476704463 (ebook) | ISBN 9781476704463 (Ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3608.A8658 I8 2017 (print) | LCC PS3608.A8658 (ebook) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016015251
ISBN 978-1-4767-0445-65011-6607-5
ISBN 978-1-4767-0446-3 (ebook)