by Gloria Foxx
Courageous
By Gloria Foxx
www.gloriafoxx.com
Copyright © 2013 Gloria Foxx
All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
From the Author
Other Books
Chapter 1
Once we make a memory, it belongs to us. We can try to ignore it, or we can will it away, but the more we struggle, the harder it sticks, like quicksand, sucking us down.
Word spread fast when I moved in with Aunt Jane. It was her doing. I didn’t know it at the time, but I learned quick. See, Aunt Jane lived in a small town where everyone knows everyone else and the pious aren’t necessarily pious. They just think they are.
I was thinking about myself again. I’ve tried. I really have, but when a guy gets near, I run the other direction, sometimes literally. The boys back home all thought I was weird. I suppose they’re right. They understood why, at least I think they did, but that didn’t stop them from thinking I was weird, and a whore.
My classmates called me whore before they knew the meaning of the word. They heard it from their parents, whispered behind hands or in the next room, a secret no one could keep, a sensational buzz of secret knowledge that everyone had to know.
Aunt Jane took me in because it was the Christian thing to do. She may have gone to church and lorded her piety over others, but that woman was no Christian.
She encouraged everyone to think she was, giving me a home when I had nowhere else to go, taking in the devil spawn, the whore, visiting the supposed iniquity of my mother onto me.
In high school, only the nastiest used the word whore. They knew better by then and many were rebels, not quite so influenced by parents and popular opinion, instead wanting to make their own judgments. Still, many of the guys thought I was easy and the girls assumed I slept with their guys. I was okay. I had learned in grade school that it was easier to turn away from relationships, both friendly and romantic, just to protect myself.
Now I can’t bring myself to connect with anyone. I don’t want to feel anything, but I can’t help it. Dread rises up within me when anyone expresses interest. A spectre looms over me at the slightest intimacy. It’s controlling my life and I don’t like it.
In high school I tried to find love, hoping it would blot out the living breathing demon that whispers, “She was right. You are a whore.” But it didn’t work.
The irony? I’m a virgin. Aunt Jane managed to preserve my innocence, at least sexually, although I’m far from innocent when it comes to understanding and experiencing the foul, squalid nastiness that lives in people’s souls.
Twelve years of isolation with Aunt Jane have conditioned me. Most days I’d rather remain isolated, but my therapist won’t let me.
I’m getting better and he’s encouraged me to date. Nothing major, no sex, just what he calls “intimacy light.” You know developing friendships with girls and guys, maybe finding a guy who could be more than a friend.
There are a lot more guys here than back home. Maybe I’ll find someone who’s a little older and less focused on sex and conquests, maybe a college professor or an upper classman.
Oh, who am I kidding? Age doesn’t matter. I need someone I won’t run away from. I need someone who doesn’t scare me and can show me that sex doesn’t make me a whore.
I don’t want to be that weird girl anymore, but I don’t know how to talk to guys. That’s probably something you learn from your mother or from your parents together. I didn’t have that opportunity. My mom died when I was six. That’s why I lived with Aunt Jane, growing up with an irrational fear of men. I didn’t have anyone to show me how to flirt. No role model to demonstrate the social cues for male-female interaction.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve already made one good friend, my roommate Madison, and I’m working to develop friendships with guys in my classes. It’s still a little hard to trust though. I’m talking about you Suzie Campbell. She’s the girl who set me up on a blind date and then told the guy that I wanted to get laid. She claims she was trying to help, but I don’t think so.
It’s not that I couldn’t find a guy who was interested. They were all interested, even when they thought I was weird. My history didn’t scare them away. If anything it encouraged them, but in reality, I was afraid and the slightest touch, most casual conversation or an interested look made that fear rise up within me.
Then it was fight or flight and I always chose flight. I never let them close enough, was never cornered, and never needed to fight. Birds, bunnies and squirrels in the backyard scatter when they hear the door, even before they see a human threat. I’m like that, scrambling away, before anyone comes within reach.
Illogical, unreasonable, I know, but I can’t help myself.
I was pondering my dilemma in psych 101, missing out on half of the lecture. That’s okay. This class is like a refresher from my high school psych class, an easy A for my first semester. If I paid attention, I might learn something about myself. That’s what my therapist said anyway. I might understand why I was having so much trouble forming relationships with men. It might help me understand why I’m afraid.
Actually, I know why. I’m afraid that she was right. I’m afraid that I am a whore, or will be if given the opportunity. I’m also afraid of what men might do to me. My mother’s experiences have haunted me. I knew nothing more than what I read in old news posts years later, but that was enough.
If only Psych 101 could tell me what to do about my fear.
As class ended, I stuffed my junk in my bag and headed out. It was Friday and I was going to a party with Madison, my best friend and roommate. We lived in the dorms, and the party was hosted by a fraternity across campus. My first frat party and I hear there will be lots of guys.
Great. As soon as I ran the other way, I would be the weird girl again.
Six weeks into the fall term and I felt pretty comfortable around campus now. I generally knew where I was going and I didn’t feel so obvious and awkward, so new and out of place, like I had a big, fat freshman sign pasted on my forehead. This party will be a setback. I’m sure of it.
Chapter 2
I hurried to catch up with Madison. We were meeting at a sandwich shop on campus for dinner before heading to the party. She and I ate there whenever possible because the sandwich shop had a good vegetarian selection, way better than the cafeteria. She was a vegan and I a vegetarian. Okay, I’m not really. I eat meat of all varieties. I love meat, but when with Madison, I eat vegetarian, solidarity and all. She is my best friend. Plus she knows and appreciates my efforts. Hey. I like vegetables too.
The sandwich shop was warm and cozy after coming in from the cooling October evening. Madison saw me right away, waving and shouting across the dining area. “Abbiiiiiiii! Abbiiiiiiii. Over here.”
I waved back and got in line. The shop was bohemian
and eclectic, just like Madison, but where the shop was old and ugly, Maddie was young and beautiful. She’s one of the most eligible freshmen on campus. I am too I suppose. At first I thought that’s why she picked me. You know, beautiful people surround themselves with beautiful people. Except Maddie doesn’t know she’s beautiful. She’s honest and genuine and real. She’s the opposite of me.
My whole existence is a lie hiding a giant secret. I do my best to minimize my looks, make sure people don’t notice me. Maddie noticed and she continually pushes me to dress better, cut my hair. “Take of those ugly glasses,” she says. She doesn’t know my secret. I suppose I’ll tell her sometime, but not yet.
I looked around the room, taking in the decor while waiting. The furniture was old and mismatched, but comfortable as hell. The lighting was dim, with shawls and scarves draped across nearly every lamp in the place. It smelled spicy like incense and curry.
Yep. Madison fit right in. Me, not so much, but they had great food and a girl’s gotta eat. They also served a great coffee. All the coffee hounds stopped by here at some point throughout the day.
When it was my turn at the counter, I ordered portabella and brie on flatbread with raspberry mustard dressing. Strange combination, I know, but it tastes great. While waiting for my sandwich, I people watch. It's one of my favorite pastimes. Hey, people were interesting. I sometimes tried to guess their secrets, imagine their pasts, figuring they were guessing at mine too.
There were three guys alone and two girls together. Why is it guys are comfortable going places alone and girls always need a friend? One guy was checking out the girls. No one paid any attention to me. That’s just how I like it.
The girls were cute, one in a peasant top with a hobo bag and handmade jean skirt. You know, old jeans split up the middle with a fabric triangle sewn in. The other had black leggings tucked into knee high boots and a blaring yellow sweater with gigantic purple hoop earrings. They didn’t seem much interested in the guys. Me either. The guys were dirty, with greasy hair tucked into stocking caps. One had a hemp necklace with a cool hand-blown glass bead though.
Now the third guy, he seemed interesting. He was dressed casually in jeans that rode low on his lean hips and a tight grey T-shirt with a beat up leather jacket on top. No Chucks, no scarf, no greasy hair, no knit cap. He was comfortable here, but he didn’t quite fit in.
He was engrossed in his phone so I couldn’t get a good look at his face, but when they called his order, he looked up. Hmmm, he’s cute, but a little older, maybe a young professor or a grad student. He looked like he studied Shakespeare or philosophy or English and fear didn’t rise up within me as I considered him.
What was I doing? Am I now going to assess every man I see based on his potential for plain old normal, nonthreatening sex? Funny though, this is the first guy I’ve found really attractive in forever. I guess I’m making progress. After three years of therapy, I hope so.
He moved past my line of sight so I pictured him in my mind from top to bottom. He had rich chestnut hair with loose curls that brushed his collar and fell over his forehead. Broad shoulders, but with his leather jacket I couldn’t see any muscles underneath. I imagined them instead, well-defined and bulky.
His jeans rode low on his hips, with low back pockets that seemed to cradle his butt. Oh what a butt. It filled out the jeans, but was narrow like his hips. His legs were long too. I bet he stood six foot three.
Cute as hell. That’s what I thought when I remembered his face, which seemed etched in my memory. His nose was straight, cheekbones high and broad, and lips chiseled and pale. Although they were a faint pink, the color still contrasted nicely with his light complexion. His eyes were dark. I couldn’t really tell what color from this distance so I imagined them too.
Brown, you know liquid, melting, chocolate colored eyes with a depth that sucks you in and makes you lick your lips. Not me of course, but I’d seen that kind of response in others.
Was that my heart beating faster? I would need to leave. Once the anxiety set in, I was a goner. Dread and panic would soon follow. But the anxiety didn’t come. I relaxed a bit. He didn’t even look my way. There’s no threat here. So why was my heart beating so fast? I’ve never experienced that before. Maybe I was interested. Is this what attraction feels like? It’s never happened before, so I can’t be sure.
Testing my theory, I zoned out, staring into space. I imagined him standing before me, hot and sexy as hell. His hands reached out to me, touching my hands and then sliding up my arms. There was no agitation, no panic. I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t totally broken. I could be attracted to a guy, but would I bolt like a cottontail if he was interested in me?
The man behind the counter hollered, “Number 53!” I was jolted out of my imagination. My number was up. When I reached the counter I realized he was gone. I was disappointed. The first guy I find interesting and he slipped away while I daydreamed. Typical.
I collected my dinner and joined Maddie who was halfway through her Pumpkin couscous with pine nuts.
“I can’t wait for tonight. The question is, do we dress up or keep it casual?”
“Uh, casual,” I voted thinking I could wear what I had on. Comfortable jeans, a baggy black knit shirt and black deck shoes were good enough for me. It was definitely casual enough to blend into the background.
As I chomped on my sandwich, Madison vetoed my suggestion. “This is our first frat party. We should make it a special occasion, maybe meet some guys. You should wear your black leggings with my stretch lace top and those platform peep toes. You know, the teal with black polka dots.”
I’d bought the shoes, but was never brave enough to wear them. In my mind they were hooker shoes. They screamed “LOOK AT ME!” and I wasn’t going there. I’m not even sure why I bought them, probably rebelling against Aunt Jane. “C’mon Maddie,” I said. “I don’t want to walk in looking like I’m on the market or something.”
“But that’s exactly why we’re there. We’re looking for the best guys and we need them looking at us.”
“You compete. I’ll be your DUF and send the guys your way.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re pretty, you just don’t show it. Put on some decent clothes, cut your hair and take off those ugly glasses. If you don’t, you’re going to be a 40-year-old virgin,” she said.
We had come to terms, meaning I wasn’t dressing up. We had a party to get to.
Chapter 3
The frat house was a big old stone monstrosity from the late 1800s. The front door opened into a grand foyer with a once beautiful but now scratched and warped wood floor inlaid with a compass rose. An ornate oak staircase, equally neglected climbed three stories. I stood in the center of the entrance and turned full circle looking up and around. A lounge room to the right and dining room to the left were cluttered with shabby furniture, Xbox, PS, and flat screens. They smelled vaguely of dirty laundry. There was driving dance music coming from somewhere, but it was pretty quiet. Some party. Each room had only a couple guys hanging out.
It turns out that’s because the party wasn’t here. It was in the basement. Steps wound down, dark and dirty below the beautiful neglected oak on the surface. It was dim and bare with only remnants of paint long since faded and chipped.
Music roared up at us from below along with the smell of stale beer, cigarettes and the stink of a couple hundred sweaty hormonal bodies crushed into an enclosed space. I was amazed we couldn’t hear them from upstairs. The basement floor was cement, painted once, but now worn to a dirty grey. Someone, man or woman I couldn’t tell which, stood at the bottom of the stairs dressed in a top hat and tails, handing out cups and giving directions.
“Bar to your right, lounge to your left, dancing in the rear.” He, or was it she, snickered at how clever they were.
I was a little leery with the layout. No great escape route. Three big rooms, all dimly but reasonably lit made it easy to keep track of Madison. There was only one exit, the staircase we
came in on, and that made me nervous, but I could deal, unless I felt threatened.
Once I got past the smell, I noticed other scents as well, lots of perfume and pampering, the trappings to attract a mate. The bar really was a bar. I sidled up, the old westerns were accurate in using that word, and asked for a soda. The bartender was cute and tried to convince me to let loose and drink a little, but I didn’t need to.
Madison would be drinking so I did not. I didn’t usually drink anyway. In high school I found that alcohol lowered my inhibitions so guys could get close, but then when I noticed they were near, I really freaked.
The bar seemed to attract the male athletes and frat brothers. It was not the place I wanted to be. The lounge with its curbside furniture and moth-eaten area rugs allowed for cozy conversation although I saw some kissing and groping there too. The room with dancing featured heavy thumping music and the least light. Couples and groups danced through the dimness, difficult to discern except when flashing colored lights punctuated the darkness. A layer of hazy cigarette smoke hung over the entire basement like a pall, heavy and dirty. No one seemed to notice.
As expected, the party was teeming with beautiful young women, all drunk or getting there, uninhibited and hopeful, because anything can happen. Ain’t that the truth? Be careful what you wish for, I thought.
True to my word, I planned to send every decent guy I encountered in Madison’s direction, although most didn’t notice me. They spotted her right off and looked right through me. They might have trampled me to get to her if I had tried to block the way. It’s okay. I like it this way.
I did talk to several guys and girls throughout the evening. A lesbian wanted to kiss me. Maybe she was drunk and experimenting, not a lesbian at all. This was college after all. As it turns out, I don’t find lesbians threatening. For awhile I thought I might be gay, but I’m not.
Madison drank and had fun. I watched out for her. She would do the same for me if I ever asked, although that would likely never happen.
There was a guy for me somewhere, but not here. There were probably two or three girls for every guy. It seemed like the sole purpose for this party was so the guys could get laid. I wanted to get laid, at least I thought I did, but I couldn’t. I stayed on the sidelines, minding my own business, observing. That’s me, the girl who watches life drifting by, never participating, never really connecting with people, never enjoying.