But there was another text I’d avoided answering since this morning.
Where are you? It’s unacceptable to miss practice.
My stomach clenched as my headache pounded. I hated when coaches were mad at me. But I just hadn’t been able make it to practice this morning. It had been such a relief not to hear from Blake all weekend that I couldn’t force myself to face him at the pool. Wimp.
When I’d told Mackenzie I wasn’t going to practice this morning, she’d stared at me like I was crazy. And maybe I was. My nightmare about the shadow pursuing me, yanking my ankle to pull me into him, had certainly made me feel that way.
Instead of responding to my coach, Kathy, I scrolled through my contacts to get to the Rs. I searched for Mateo, but didn’t find him under Ramirez. Then I remembered he’d told me to list his number under his Secret Service nickname in case anyone stole my phone. I tapped the contact for Roberto.
He’d invited me to text him, and I wondered if I could. I pictured Mateo in the hospital bed, looking tired and sad. I didn’t like anyone to touch me, but when he’d held my hand, I hadn’t felt scared. I hadn’t jumped. He felt safe, somehow. Maybe it was seeing him so vulnerable, hooked up to IVs. Or maybe it was having Johnny and Karen nearby. Johnny had always been there for me. I held my breath, then typed a text.
It’s Jess. Feeling better?
His response came a second later.
You texted! Yeah, thanks.
You in class?
I chewed my lip. I didn’t want to admit where I was. So embarrassing.
No. You?
It’s time for Music Theory,
but I’m not going.
Oh. Is your blood sugar still too high?
It’s fine now but they vary my routine for security.
I felt myself making a face.
So you can’t go to class some days?
Yeah.
That sucks.
Well, it’s not too bad.
At least I get to hang with my cat.
It was adorable that the Ramirez family had a First Cat. Mateo added:
But I don’t get to see some cool guys
from theory class today.
His text made me think of Van from my 3D art class.
Burning question for you.
Guys with man buns: straight or gay?
LOL, random. Straight for sure.
My lips parted. I hadn’t expected such a definitive answer.
Really? What if he teaches yoga?
Gay or straight?
Hmm. That’s tougher.
Does he have a lisp?
I suppressed a grin.
You’re awful.
You’re the one who asked.
WHY did you ask, by the way?
There’s a guy in my 3D class.
Trying to figure out if he’s flirting.
Tell him you’re not interested.
You don’t like ambiguously gay men.
You need to stay away from him,
from all man buns.
They’re dangerous.
I giggled.
“Jessica?”
I looked up and saw Dr. Valentine waiting for me. She held my packet of paperwork.
“Oh, hi.” I gathered my backpack and stood. My laughter disappeared as my headache returned.
She smiled as she shook my hand. “Please follow me.”
As we walked down a hallway, I typed a quick good-bye to Mateo.
The soft yellow light of her office made it feel homey. I gawked at the bursting bookshelf. “You’ve read all these books?”
“Well, no.” She shrugged. “Someday, I hope.”
There was a framed photo of a big gray cat with mean green eyes on one shelf. “So you have a cat, too.”
She nodded. “You have a cat?”
“No. Mom’s allergic.” She appeared confused so I added, “I was just talking to someone who has a cat.”
“Ah. Please have a seat.” I settled into the sofa while she took a chair across from me. “I suppose there’d be no cat in the White House if your mother had won.”
“No way. She wouldn’t even let my dad get a dog.”
“What kind of dog does your dad want?”
The conversation was easy so far—not the interrogation about drug use I’d expected. “Well, he really wanted a Weimaraner like the artist William Wegman paints. But Mom shut him down—said those dogs were too big. So then he wanted a dachshund like Pablo Picasso had, but Mom wouldn’t go for that, either.”
“Too bad. You wanted a dog, too?”
I considered her question. “It probably wouldn’t be fair to the dog, considering how much my mom travels. And it’d starve, too. Once my dad gets going on a painting, he’s kind of closed off from the world.”
“Has it been a while since you’ve heard from him?”
“He’s here, actually.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “In the waiting room?”
“No, at Dane’s apartment. He’s painting.” Dad had set up a little studio in the guest bedroom and painted all day Sunday. He’d claimed I was his muse. “He doesn’t know I’m here. He, uh, doesn’t know about the drug test.”
“Ah. Do you plan on telling him?”
“Hell, no.”
She didn’t seem fazed by my answer. “How do you think he’d react? Is he strict?”
“Nah, he’d be cool. Mom’s stricter than him, but they’re both pretty chill. I just don’t want them getting the wrong picture of me.”
“What picture do you want them to get?”
I felt like she could see through me. “That I’m a hard worker, I guess. A good swimmer, a good student. Not bad at art.”
She gestured to the papers I’d completed. “Says here you’re an art major.” When I nodded, she frowned. “That’ll be a tough major for a swimmer.”
“They already told me they didn’t think I could do it.”
“What do you think? How’s it going so far juggling art and swimming?”
I shrugged. “I won’t get a four-point-oh like Dane, but I can make it work. You see Dane, too, right?”
Her facial expression didn’t change. “Now would be a good time to review confidentiality.” She launched into a diatribe about privacy in counseling, and asked me to sign a release to Michelle Farris, the athletic administrator.
“How old were you when you started swimming?” Her hands were poised over the keyboard of her tablet.
“Six.”
She typed in my response. “That sounds young.”
“Not really. You need a lot of training to swim fast. Dane and I basically lived at our neighborhood pool every summer. He was already on the team, and they needed a girl my age for the relay, so they recruited me.”
“Dane swam, too?”
“Yeah, but he quit when he was eleven. Said the sport wasn’t violent enough.”
She smirked. “What do you love about swimming?”
I blinked. No one had asked me that in a long time. “The water’s just a special place, you know? I feel light and powerful at the same time. And I’m good at it.” I squirmed. “Sorry, that sounds arrogant.”
“Not if you can back it up.” She grinned. “You’re on a full scholarship?”
I nodded.
“Sounds like you can back it up. How do you like the Highbanks pool?”
“It’s pretty good.” The hairs on the back of my neck bristled as I remembered Blake coming up behind me on deck two days ago.
“What is it?”
I flinched, then looked at her. “What?”
“You look sort of scared.”
I swallowed. “Nothing.”
She studied me for a moment. “How do you like your coaches?”
“They’re great.” I sighed. “They probably don’t like me so much, though.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “The whole reason I’m here.”
“Yes, the drug test. We’ll get to that.”
Ca
n’t wait.
“I hear the training’s intense for your sport. How’s that going?”
“My club team trained really hard, so I’m used to it. I should be swimming faster.”
“What’s holding you back?”
The thought of Blake at the other end of the pool squeezed my chest. “I’m…tired.”
“You mentioned on the paperwork that you haven’t been sleeping well. When did your insomnia start?”
“About a week ago.” The night after the party.
“Are you having trouble falling asleep?” I nodded, and she continued, “Trouble staying asleep? Waking up early?” I nodded again. “Do you have worries that keep you awake?”
“Not really. I just can’t sleep. So I stay at the studio late, make myself super tired, then collapse.”
“So, you’re avoiding sleep?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“Are you having nightmares?”
My heartbeat spiked as I felt the clammy presence of the shadow behind me. “Yeah.”
“About what?” She stopped typing and looked at me.
I swallowed. “Not sure. Someone’s chasing me.”
“Is it a recurrent nightmare?”
“Uh, variations on a theme, I guess.”
“Have you…Have you experienced something traumatic in your life?”
My chest hurt, and it was hard to breathe. Blake hovering over me, trapping my arms over my head as he licked between my breasts—
“Jessica? Are you remembering something?”
I sucked in a breath and licked my dry lips. Blake had said I’d come on to him. Then why was that memory so frightening?
“Have you been through a traumatic event?” she repeated.
I fought to push Blake’s probing eyes from my mind. I didn’t want to talk about him, and consensual sex shouldn’t have been traumatic. But she still stared at me expectantly—I had to give her something.
“My mom. She…when she was running for president, there was a plot to bomb her bus. I had nightmares after that.”
“Wow, that’s awful. Is that what you were remembering just then?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Do you replay those memories in your mind sometimes?”
“I haven’t in a while. Johnny—he was my Secret Service agent—he stopped the bombing. And it didn’t bother me as much once Mom lost. But the nightmares began again, about a week ago.”
“When you started at Highbanks,” she said.
I nodded.
“Sometimes painful memories get triggered, and you re-experience the trauma like you’re back in the past. Your heart races, it’s hard to breathe, you feel sick, you can’t sleep…”
My eyes widened. She was describing my life.
“Are you feeling on edge? Easily startled?”
I nodded.
“Sounds like you’re having PTSD symptoms again. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You’re feeling unsafe, like there’s a threat to kill your mother.”
My mother had nothing to do with me feeling unsafe, but Dr. Valentine seemed so certain that I didn’t want to question her. I certainly didn’t want to discuss my night with Blake.
“Re-experiencing trauma feels horrifying,” she said. “You want the memories to stop, but you can’t get them out of your mind.”
Absolutely.
“And that’s where drugs come in.”
I looked up. Here we go.
“People who have flashbacks may abuse drugs to avoid the memories, dull the pain. Let’s talk about your substance use. When’s the last time you drank alcohol?”
Why was she asking about my drinking?
When I didn’t answer, she added, “I know you’re underage, but you won’t get in trouble for answering. This is a no-judgment zone. I just want to get a sense of the role substances have in your life.”
Hmm. “I drank on Saturday, after the game. With my dad.” And last night, too. I’d smuggled some of Dane’s liquor back to my dorm room. But I didn’t want to admit that.
“How often do you drink?”
“Like once a week. Or less.”
“So a standard serving is twelve ounces of beer, about five ounces of wine, or a shot of liquor. How many drinks do you typically consume in one night?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, like two or three.”
“How many did you have on Saturday?”
I remembered swigging straight from the bottle. I’d never done that before. “Um, how many glasses of wine are in a bottle?”
“Between four and five. You drank a bottle of wine?”
“My dad had a little.” I heard defensiveness in my tone. I probably sounded like an alcoholic.
“What made you drink more than usual for you?”
“I thought it would help me sleep better.”
She pressed her lips together. “Common myth. Alcohol helps you fall asleep faster, but it interferes with REM sleep. It worsens the quality of your sleep. Marijuana impairs sleep even more.”
“Oh.” No wonder I felt even more tired today.
“Do you typically drink alcohol when you use marijuana?”
“I only smoked once.”
She squinted like she didn’t believe me.
“It’s true! Last Friday was the only time I’ve ever smoked.”
“Okay, and did you drink alcohol when you smoked?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?” she asked.
“One beer—well, like, one and a half beers, and a vodka tonic.”
“Sounds like your usual amount.”
I considered how drunk I’d felt. “The vodka was strong, though.”
“I see. Did you make the drink?”
“Um, no.” My legs began to shake.
“So you’re not sure how many shots were in it.”
My airway constricted, and I couldn’t speak.
Her head angled to one side. “If you’d never used marijuana before that night, what made you change your mind?”
The trembling progressed up my body. “He said freshmen don’t get tested.”
“He?”
“Blake,” I whispered.
Her voice gentled. “Who’s Blake?”
I couldn’t look at her. “A swimmer. A senior. We were at his house.”
“You were with friends?”
“My teammates. Mackenzie and Elyse.” I looked up. “They won’t get in trouble, will they?”
“This isn’t about getting people in trouble. What happened?”
“I had a beer, and it was gross. Mateo was there.” With a faint smile, I remembered his cute little dimple.
“Mateo Ramirez?”
“Yeah, Dane’s friends with him.” I paused. “Blake brought me a drink.” My smile vanished as I recalled accepting the vodka tonic. Had he drugged me? No—I would’ve tasted it, right? My entire body shook. “And he was kind of mean to Teo, so he left.”
She blinked. “Blake left?”
I wish. “No, he…” I could barely swallow, my throat was so dry. “Blake took me to his room.” I heard my heartbeat in my ears, a rapid cadence. “He rolled us a joint.” I cringed. “I didn’t want to smoke, but…he’s a senior. I didn’t want to be a naïve freshman. It was stupid. I was stupid.”
“Where were Mackenzie and Elyse?”
“I don’t know.” I wished they’d seen me go up the stairs. I wished they’d stopped me. My nose stung with impending tears.
“How did the joint make you feel?”
I closed my eyes. “Man, I was tired. It was too much, the alcohol and the pot together. I was really drunk. I’m so stupid.” A lump of regret lodged in my throat.
“Jessica?” I opened my eyes to find her leaning toward me, watching me. She hadn’t typed in a while. “What happened next?”
Her look of concern got me. I had no chance to fight the tears that started flowing. “We had…sex.” I looked down as I clenched my fists.
“That upsets you?”
She handed me a box of tissues.
“Well, yeah. I barely knew him.”
“The sex was consensual?”
Startled, I looked up. “Yes. It had to be.”
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“He texted me the next day. He said I threw myself at him. I just can’t remember.”
“Sounds like you were too drunk or high to give your consent.”
“But I must’ve agreed.” My hand trembled as I dabbed a tissue under my eye. “Why would he keep asking me to go out? Why would he keep texting? He’s pushing me to be together now. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t like him. I just want to forget that night. But he keeps texting me nonstop. It was so bad I had to block him.”
She looked a little green.
Is my story that awful? “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Jessica, what do you think happened that night?”
His smile loomed over me, tensing my body like a coil. The frenetic beat of my heart made it hard for me to get air. Your pussy’s so tight, he’d told me. A shudder crept up my spine. “He said I forced myself on him.”
“Do you believe him?”
No. I realized I didn’t believe a word he said. Somehow I said it out loud: “No.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
Chills bloomed on my skin as I flashed back to that night…
Spots had crowded my vision as I’d tried to crawl away from him. “Oh no, you don’t.” His big hand had squeezed my ankle and dragged me back. “No,” I’d cried. My chest had vibrated with fear.
I’d forgotten that part of the night. No wonder my ankle had been bruised. I wished I’d never remembered.
My heart raced. Was I having a heart attack? I clutched the arm of the sofa as a wave of nausea rolled up my throat. I knew what had happened. I’d known all along. When I gathered enough air in my lungs to speak, I said, “He raped me.”
The word made my skin crawl.
Dr. Valentine sat back in her chair. “Is that what you’re having nightmares about?”
“H-H-He’s pulling me back. I’m trying to escape. Oh, God.” Tears spilled down my cheeks.
“You just remembered that?”
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