I didn’t want to think about that. Instead, I thought of Gabe. The way he was talking to me, it was almost like he liked me! He’d touched my arm, said I’d looked nice without my glasses, and even let me sip his Sex on the Beach. Oh, my god, he’d asked me if I wanted Sex on the Beach. That had to mean he wanted to ask me out.
“That was Noah’s stepmom,” my mom said, ending the call on her cell phone. “She picked him up. He’s safe at home.”
“Oh,” I said. He’d said he was sorry. He’d felt bad about what happened. He hadn’t meant for it to go like that. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t angry at him. It was just a mistake. We’d meet tomorrow in the treehouse and everything would be fine and not awkward at all. At least, I was determined to make it so.
Chapter Fourteen
Sadly, many men who are sexually abused by women are forced to stay silent, consumed by shame and self-loathing. Society tells them that not only were their experiences not abuse, but that such conquests are universally welcome things. Admission of such abuse may be met with a slap on the back, or cheers of, “You lucky dog!” If the victim did not enjoy it, there must be something wrong with him.
Even when their experiences are recognized as abuse, victims may be viewed as “not being man enough” because they were unable to stop it or put it behind them.
Whether Noah Templeton can rise above the abuse he endured remains to be seen.
#
“What are you talking about?” I ask, studying him. God, he’s beautiful. His chest is lean and cut, and while there isn’t a perfect six-pack there, there’s definitely the outline of something. He has just enough dark hair smattered over his pectorals to be manly, but not a Wildman. When did all this happen, I wonder? Did he know while he was living in virtual seclusion at the commune what a gorgeous man he was becoming?
No . . . from the way he’s looking at me, no. He still has that little-kid shyness that I remember. That boy whose clothes never fit quite right and who never quite knew the right way to act or the correct thing to say . . . he’s hiding in there, somewhere.
He’s . . . kind of flustered. Blushing. Despite his tan, Noah has a way of blushing that turns his entire body a pleasant shade of rose.
“What I’m talking about is . . . everyone. I thought going on television would help them understand that I’m not a shell, that a person can have a bad experience and rise above it. That’s what I need to do, right? But it’s like they think I can’t possibly be a contributing member of society yet. They say I need a shitload of therapy first. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them I’m fine. They don’t believe anyone can possibly go through what I’ve gone through and come out okay.” He exhales. “And the more they tell me that, the more I’m starting to think they’re right.”
I nod. It must be horrible, everyone telling him what he should be feeling and thinking, when none of them can possibly know. I’m embarrassed, because my dad is one of the worst offenders.
“Who cares what they say? You are okay,” I tell him, crossing my arms. “And I don’t believe you’re all about . . . you know. What you said before. You’re so much more than that. I know you, Noah. The real you.”
He stares at me, nodding slowly.
“I know I didn’t watch the show. You’re more the Noah who was my best friend than the Noah everyone saw on television. That’s who you are. They might’ve tried to make you into someone else, but that doesn’t change who you are. You have it more together than I do, that’s for sure. You always did.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I always did?”
“Well . . . okay, socially, I had you beat . . . but every other way—yeah. Totally.”
He exhales slowly. He picks up my hand and presses my palm flat against his. “Can you convince your dad of that?”
“Why?”
“Because he stopped by this morning,” he says flatly, dropping my hand and letting out a big breath. He pulls open a drawer and spreads a bunch of brochures over the counter. I see names of doctors and the words Christ-Centered Healing on a couple. “He dropped off this gift. Therapists and counselors and other services that can ‘get me on my feet’. Then he made it pretty clear that if I lay a hand on you, he’ll break my face.”
I burst out laughing, until I realize he’s not laughing with me. “You know my dad would never break faces. That’s like Elmo giving people shit.”
“Okay. It was a nicely worded threat, but it was still a threat.”
“But my dad likes you.”
He’s still grinning. “That would end if I fucked around with his daughter. Seriously, Ari-Bari. I’d fuck things up. I wouldn’t even know what to do with you.”
I give him a look. I’m sure he could think of something.
“And you said it yourself. Friends.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Touching him, being close to him—it’d felt so natural. But suddenly the weight of everything we were thinking of doing hits me. He’s right. I can’t be like this with him. Not now, and not ever. “I guess I should leave.”
“Yeah.” He glances around. “After dinner, though. I mean, you’ve earned it. This place is starting to look livable again.”
I feel a familiar flurry of disappointment, the way I always used to feel during those long summers when hanging out with him was my only source of entertainment. Part of me wishes he’d tell my dad where to shove it. But this is Noah, who respects people—if he didn’t, I wouldn’t adore him so much. And he’s right. The more I think of my dad, the more I dread that “talk” he’ll want to have when I come home too late, the one that is actually a lecture about how I need to be more responsible. “Okay,” I say, pointing in the general direction of his bare chest. “Just . . . put some clothes on, first.”
He looks down, and seems surprised to see his naked chest. I’m blushing. I know he notices it, but he doesn’t remark. He runs upstairs and comes back wearing a gray t-shirt. “Better?”
We eat dinner on the floor next to the center island, since the kitchen table is missing its chairs. We don’t have utensils so we end up picking through stuff with our fingers and making a mess of rice all over the place. It’s funny; it reminds me so much of when we were kids and making messes was our business. Then we crack open our fortune cookies. My fortune says, “Treasure what you have,” and his says, “You will have a bright future.”
We add “In bed” to each of those and laugh like morons.
By the time we’re done, we’re laughing so hard that I know everyone’s wrong. Yes, he had bad times. But they’re over. And he’s going to overcome this.
I get home late, when the world is dark, and I’m still shuddering half from the chill in the air and half from the thought of his body, close to mine. Despite the whole “friends” thing, I already want him close to me again. Dreamily, I turn on the light and see my father sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty glass of milk, his night-time snack, in front of him. “Oh, hi,” I say.
“Hi. Your car was home. You were with Noah?”
I cringe. “The house is a mess. I’m helping him clean it.”
He nods slowly. “Good. You’re remembering what I said, right?”
“Yeah.” Well, usually, except for that time when we were about an inch away from making out. I’m afraid I can’t hide the guilt on my face, so I abruptly follow up with, “Dad, you know, he’s not like you think. He’s the same old Noah. Sure, he’s—”
“Ari,” he says quietly.
“He’s not falling apart, but everyone thinking he’s going to has him second-guessing himself. If you’d just talk to him, you’d—“
“Ari.” His voice is not loud, but it’s so stern and authoritative it makes me choke back my next words as my heart shudders in my chest. “I did talk to him. And I feel he needs to focus his energy on more positive things.”
I sigh. “All right. I mean, he is. He’s not . . . he wants to prove he’s fine. He’s going to church with us tomorrow.”
&nbs
p; “That’s good,” he says. He downs the rest of his milk, then wheels his chair around and places the glass in the sink. He’s wearing these plaid pajamas with matching slippers that I bought for him last year, for his birthday. “How are things going at the house?”
“Slowly. But it’s better.” I yawn and stretch for effect. “I’m beat. My back is killing me. I spent the whole time picking up garbage.” And that’s all we were doing, I swear. Well, mostly. Though if I come back to help tomorrow, which is the plan, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll hold out, I think, remembering the way his chest looked, bare and wet. Good enough to eat. Oh, Lord, no. I will not be able to stand it much longer.
Then my dad says something that makes me choke. “Your mother and I thought we’d come over after mass tomorrow, and pitch in. There are a couple parishioners who’d like to help, as well.”
He gives me a wide smile. Yes, my dad is all about helping the less fortunate, but I know this is more about keeping an eye on his daughter. I smile to hide my disappointment. “That would be great,” I say, forcing nonchalance. “He’ll be happy to have the help.”
#
My mom and I rode home in silence. By the time we pulled into our driveway, it was after ten, so I climbed up to my room, threw on my nightgown, and tried to sleep. As I did, I thought about Noah. Kissing him had started as a way to tell my friends I’d “been there, done that”. I could imagine telling them that I’d French-kissed, no big deal, that I was just as grown up as they were. Heck, even more. Had any of them ever been invited to touch a boy’s thing?
Why had he done that?
Noah had done that. Sweet, little boy Noah.
Noah had invited me to touch his thing.
The more I twisted the thoughts in my head, the more it became less about the act, and more about the person.
How had Noah known what to do, like that? How could he be so clumsy and unsure when it came to simple things, like jumping rope or riding his bicycle, and yet he could kiss me like that? I thought about what he’d said, I want you so bad. Did he know what that meant? Of course he did, he’d known what going all the way was. Did he want to go all the way with me?
I was twelve, for God’s sake!
I shivered and threw the sheet off my bed, and stared across the way, toward Noah’s bedroom. Then I dug around in the bedside table and found the walkie-talkie. I turned it on. It crackled with static. Of course he wouldn’t have his on anymore. I’d hadn’t had mine on for months, ever since I got my cell phone. And what would I say to him, anyway?
Why did you want me to touch your thing? Over.
I shivered some more, thinking of what it would’ve felt like, touching him there, where his body was hot and waiting. I thought of how many times we’d slept, nearly naked, together in the treehouse. I guess we were getting too old for that, now. I looked through the thick canopy of leaves that were still doing their best to hold on to summer. There was a light on in his bedroom. He’d been upset about something. About me? Because I’d stopped him?
He’d wanted to have sex with me.
Here I was, thinking we were on the same level when it came to things, like-minded.
I fell asleep, rubbing my fingers over my lips. His taste wasn’t unpleasant, and the way he touched me was something I could’ve happily gotten lost in. It felt right.
Until it was wrong.
It was my fault. We could’ve just messed our hair and pinched our cheeks and told people we’d fooled around. I’d wanted my first kiss so bad, I’d forced it on him. When I woke up that morning, I knew I had to apologize.
I threw on my jean shorts and my t-shirt, and for the first time, I caught a glance in the mirror and cringed in horror. I found a brush and calmed down my rat’s nest of hair, then dabbed on some lip gloss, and as I scowled as realized what I was doing. I’d never done such primping for Noah before.
I threw down the tube, shaking my head, and skipped over to his house, trying to remind myself that I was just a kid, that he was just a kid, who’d made a mistake. Noah. My best friend. Goofy kid. Not the boy who’d tried to get me to touch his privates last night.
I knocked on the door. Rang the doorbell. Again and again. No one answered.
When I looked into the windows of the garage, I realized that both the SUV and the truck were gone. No one was home.
Chapter Fifteen
What was your life like, at the commune?
At first, everything was just like she said. Annie’s friend Crystal was there, and she welcomed us with open arms. They had a small dormitory reserved for us—and like she’d promised, the guy in charge, John, let us live there alone together, no questions asked. It was on an abandoned naval base in the desert, so while things were crumbling, they’d done their best to make it nice. They had a garden and livestock and were almost entirely self-sufficient.
And the people there seemed normal.
Yeah. There were a bunch of kids younger than me, but mostly adults. No one my age. We were all supposed to share in the chores—the cooking and cleaning and babysitting and whatever. It was hot as hell compared to what I was used to, but it was okay.
Things with Annie were okay?
For a time. I mean, I missed home, but I threw myself into doing the work that needed to be done. She wasn’t one for the chores, but that wasn’t a big surprise—she always had me do all the stuff around the house, so I was used to it. She’d disappear for long periods of time and no one knew where she was. She’d still act like my mom, telling me what to do and expecting me to do it, but if I tried to tell her anything, she’d get on me for being young and naïve.
What did you try to tell her?
That they were going to kick us out because she wasn’t contributing, and I couldn’t do the work of two people. I didn’t want to get kicked out because this was our last resort. She was the only family I had, and I was afraid she’d go to jail.
Did they ever move to kick her out for not contributing?
No. She had it all under control. Turns out, I was young and naïve.
#
In the morning, Noah shows up bright and early. I’m fixing on an earring when I pull open the door. I blush the moment I look at him. He still hasn’t gotten that haircut¸ but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing an ill-fitting suit jacket and holding the tie in his hand like he wants to hang himself with it. He doesn’t look like the cover of GQ, but he’s breathtakingly hot just the same. The kind of hot you just want to run your hands all over. It’s enough that I find myself breaking out in a cold sweat.
He seems focused on my outfit, maybe because it’s the first time he’s seen me in a dress that I haven’t wanted to pull off and stomp on. It’s a peach-colored thing, short, and my mom seems concerned it doesn’t cover enough of my legs. I’m wearing heels, too. His mouth is half-open. “Wow,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Just . . . nothing.” He looks like he’s fighting whether to say anything, and finally it slips out. “You are not the little girl I remember.”
I’m piling my hair on top of my head in a ponytail, so when I burst out laughing unexpectedly, my hair tie launches out of my mouth and hits him in the chest. He reaches down to get it. I scan down and my eyes catch on his shoes. They’re Converse high-tops. I have never known Noah to wear anything else, so I smile.
He fingers his lapels. “This jacket is my dad’s,” he explains. Then he holds out the rather ugly flowered tie. “Do you . . .”
“Oh!” I take it from him. No wonder I can’t stop staring. I’ve never seen him in a suit, ever, not even during Sarah’s funeral. This is probably his first time wearing one. Just realizing that melts me. I’m not sure if he’s making an effort to look presentable for church because it’s church, or because he knows every eye in the place will be on him. He bows his head down as I slide the tie around his neck, adjust the collar, and start to tie it. I think about instructing him how to do it himself, but decide against it, bec
ause then he’ll have to look down. And then he’ll see how my fingers are trembling.
Why are they trembling?
Why is my whole body buzzing? We’re on our way to church!
The phrase Sweating like a sinner at church locks itself in my head, and I have to fan the back of my neck with my hand. It is a hot day, but I don’t usually sweat buckets like this.
It’s déjà vu when we pile into the Mercedes. It’s on its last legs, really, at nearly eighteen years old. But every year, my dad says he’ll get a new one, and every year, we go car shopping and my mom decides the one we have will last a little longer. We sit in the back, plenty far apart, and I can feel Noah doing his best not to stare at my legs. He’s so nervous, he keeps playing with the buttons on his jacket.
Making sure my father can’t see in the rear-view mirror, I reach over and take his hand, urging him to calm himself. For someone so nervous, his palms aren’t sweaty. Mine are. I try to move away, but he tightens his grip, entwining his fingers with mine. We stay that way the whole time, until my father pulls into the lot.
The mass is nothing different, expect for the curious glances that Noah ends up fielding by most of the congregation. I half expect my father to say something when he gives the closing announcements, welcoming home, which I know will embarrass Noah to no end, but he doesn’t. We sit in the front and keep our eyes trained ahead of us, and the time passes.
While we’re walking back to the car, someone calls to me.
I turn around and cringe. Claire.
She’s wearing a little white sundress, and her boobs are on full display, once again. She’s also wearing this contradictory, wholesome puppy-dog pout. “Hi,” she says shyly.
And no wonder, I realize, when I look over at Noah, who scowling at her like she slept with his boyfriend. Noah’s always been fiercely loyal to me, almost to a fault—he’d take on my opinions of everything. If I liked cherry Jell-o, so did he. But this is something twelve-year old Noah never possessed—the ability to look downright scary and threatening.
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