My head spins away in the other direction. I shut my eyes and groan loudly. Revulsion grabs me by the throat, and I can’t breathe. As my heart rate increases, I start to gasp for air.
“Rachel, what’s the matter?” His voice is filled with alarm.
Slowly, I respond and turn around to look at him. He’s still holding that damn candy bar!
“I—I don’t like S’mores,” I sputter out. “Please, put the candy back in the bag,” I scream at him like a mad woman.
Ian doesn’t hesitate to shove the candy bar into the paper container. “Shit, Rachel, what’s the matter?”
Horrified, I cover my face with my palms. A second later, he gathers me in his arms, pulls me toward his chest, and rubs my back in a soothing motion. The candy bar in Ian’s hands incited a flashback that I haven’t had for years. I saw my pedophile abuser holding out my payment for his latest jack-off on my body. The candy held by Ian, set off an intense negative recall.
As I’m crying on Ian’s shoulder, I know he doesn’t understand why. I want to tell him, but I’m petrified.
“Damn it!” I blurt out in anger, balling my fists. “I hate it when I do this.”
To my surprise, Ian remains silent. He holds me, until my breathing slows, and the blood stops coursing through my veins at a hundred miles an hour. For some reason, I think he can feel my heart pounding against his chest. Slowly, I pull away from him and wipe my nose with the back of my sleeve, because I’ve forgotten which pocket I shoved his pretty handkerchief into.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Something I did triggered a hell of a reaction in you, Rachel. You want to talk about it?”
“Can you just hold me for a while?” I look into his eyes like a helpless little girl.
“Sure, let’s put this blanket down on the sand and lie down a minute. Is that okay?”
I nod my head to agree and stand up to watch as he situates the blanket far enough from the fire that we don’t roast. He holds out his hand, and I take it, but I can’t look into his eyes. Humiliation shrouds my entire body over what happened.
He lies down on his back and stretches out his arms for me to come to him. I don’t hesitate, and the next moment my head is on his shoulder, his arm is around me, and he’s tenderly stroking me with his hand.
No words come out of my mouth, and he doesn’t pry. I let my emotions take an opportunity to regroup, while I count the minutes before I tell him the awful truth. I’m frightened to keep the secret locked inside any longer. He has the right to know why. If he can’t accept my past, it’s better to break it off before it goes any farther. Already, I’m grieving over the possibility of losing him.
“Feeling better?”
His warm lips touch my forehead, and he plants a sweet, gentle kiss on my cold brow.
“You want to talk about it?”
Some of the past I can, but not all of what it has done to me as a woman. I’m too mortified to show him the totality of the broken child within. I scrunch my lips together, close my eyes, and whisper my painful confession.
“I was sexually abused as a child, Ian. The pedophile used to give me that brand of candy, if I let him do to me what he wanted.” I hold my breath waiting for his response.
Ian grasps me tighter in his arms. “Dear God, Rachel, what the hell?”
A moment later, I find the courage to lift my head and look at him in the face. His eyes are dark and intense. He’s clearly upset.
“How old were you?”
I bury my head back into his shoulder and hide. “Five, six,” my voice trembles.
“Did this go on for long?”
“Long enough,” I reply.
“I’m shocked” His voice is terse.
“I didn’t know any better, Ian.” Why I need to defend myself every time I tell someone is beyond me. It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t ask for this to happen to me—it just did. “Please don’t judge me and think I’m terrible.”
“Good God, Rachel, I don’t think you’re terrible. That asshole was terrible. I would castrate the bastard, if I knew where he was at this exact moment.”
“I don’t know where he is. It was a long time ago.”
“Did your parents know?”
“I don’t think so. He told me not to tell, so like an obedient child I never said a word. I was afraid and filled with shame and confusion. I hid it from them, but I think my brother knew.”
“Why didn’t he do anything?” Ian asks, his voice raised in anger.
“I don’t know. He was young and clueless at ten or eleven years of age.”
“Did you ever talk to him about it?”
“No.”
Ian sits up and looks down at me. His eyes are burning with anger, but his face is empathetic. “Oh Rachel, what did that monster do to you?”
Tears burn my eyes. “I don’t want to talk specifics,” I say, turning my head to the side and looking down the beach. I put my hands up in a t-formation. “Time out. You promised me time out, if I needed it.” My face is wet with sorrowful tears rolling down my cheeks.
Ian tenderly touches me with his thumb and wipes them away. “I’m so sorry, Rachel, that you had to endure such a terrible experience.”
His heartfelt words make me inhale a shaky breath, and I look at him with profound respect for his compassion and understanding. My bottom lip quivers. “I didn’t know any better, Ian. I was a silly, little girl.”
He tenderly reaches over and gathers me back into his arms.
“Don’t leave me because of it,” I beg.
“Rachel, Rachel,” he softly assures me. “I have no intention of leaving. It wasn’t your fault.” He kisses me on my cheeks and forehead.
No, it wasn’t my fault, but it changed me forever. My entire life I’ve envied people like Ian, who are emotionally healthy, loved, and untainted by another’s debauchery. In contrast, I’ve hated myself, wallowed in shame and guilt, and wrestled with my need for bondage. Every relationship I’ve had with a man has been unhealthy, until Ian came into my life. The thought of losing him makes me cling tightly. He’s my lifeline, and I know it with all of my heart.
Ian remains quiet, and continues to hold me in his arms. The fire begins to burn down, but I don’t want to go. Now that my secret is out, my fate is in the balance. I pray to God for mercy.
Chapter 12
The Weight of Shame
The shame I bear is so intense in Ian’s presence that I’m having trouble dealing with it. I can barely lift my eyes and look at him without cringing inside. It’s horrible. No one can tell me that this man will not look at me any differently. My past has been exposed. My damage is evident. His mind must wonder about every detail of the abuse, and now I fear that he’s questioning whether to move forward in our relationship.
When the fire dies, we return to the beach house. His hand is tightly holding mine, until we step inside.
“I’m tired,” I announce. I’m not really. My only thought is to hide, so I don’t have to look at him in the eyes.
“Yeah, it’s been a long day,” he agrees. He walks into the kitchen and sets down the unused contents of the paper bag. I see him reach inside, grab the candy bar, open the lid to the waste container and throw it inside. Ian turns and looks at me.
“I’ll never buy another one of those again.”
I’m having trouble watching how this has affected him emotionally. The man is such a tender creature that I’m convinced he’s horrified by my confession. The beauty of our relationship is marred, and I’m deeply saddened.
“What are you thinking?” His face is pensive with narrowed eyes.
“Anger. Confusion,” he says, looking down at the floor.
“Toward me?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not angry toward you, but my mind is filled with questions.”
“What kind of questions?” I hold my breath and wait for his answer.
“For starters, why you stayed in an abusive relationship with your
ex-husband after what happened to you as a child?”
He brings his hand to his hair and rakes his fingers through his wind-tousled locks.
“Second, what you said about how you want sex.” He brings his eyes up toward me, and I feel like a whore. “Is that why you want it rough, because you were treated that way as a child?”
How insightful Ian Richards has become. I am amazed over his perceptive psychological conclusion. Emotionally, I shut down. His questions about my behavior have breached my weak defenses, and I can’t find the words to answer. As I look at him, I have this sinking feeling he’s slipping away from me. He thinks I’m perverted. I am perverted.
“Time…time out,” I whisper. I turn around and run upstairs to the loft.
“Damn it,” he utters in frustration.
I reach the landing and run into the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. I need a safe place.
“Rachel!” he frantically calls after me. I hear his loud footsteps ascend the stairs.
“Time out, Ian,” I yell. I back up against the bathroom wall and stare at the door handle.
“Rachel, please, let me in. I won’t pressure you, I promise.” He knocks on the door. “Rachel, answer me.”
I can’t talk. My throat and chest are constricted. No air is entering my lungs. He turns the handle again, and I hear him tearfully plead with me.
“Open the door, Rachel. I’m worried about you.”
Any moment I’m going to pass out. I can feel it coming. The room is whirling around, and dark blotches dance in my field of vision. I unlock and open the door. As soon as I do, I fall into Ian’s arms. He picks me up and carries me to the bed.
“Enough for today,” he says in a soft voice. His fingertips gently brush my hair away from my face. I feel a tender kiss touch my cheek. I’m relieved he can still caress me without disgust. It’s difficult to look at him, so I keep my eyes shut.
“You need to rest, sweetheart.”
He pulls off my shoes and socks and then bends over me. “Open your eyes.”
I do and look into his dark blue gaze. “You want me to undress you or do you want to do it?”
There’s no strength left in my body or mind. “You,” I say, and then close my eyes to hide again. I feel his fingers unbutton my blouse. He lifts me up into his chest, and I slip my arms out. I’m left in my bra as he lowers my body back onto the bed. Ian unzips my blue jeans, tugs them down my legs, and leaves me in my panties. My body shivers in shame as he covers me with the blanket. His kind hand tenderly strokes the side of my head.
“Sleep, sweet princess. Sleep.” He kisses my lips lovingly, turns off the light, and heads downstairs. I roll over and cry myself to sleep.
* * * *
My eyes shoot open, and I look at the clock. It’s three a.m. I can smell the ocean air inside the house and hear the loud sound of the waves outdoors. I sit up in bed and look out the vast windows. The sliding glass door to the patio is open, and I see Ian sitting in the dark. I feel chilled when I crawl out of bed. Quickly, I dress in my blouse and blue jeans and head downstairs.
The inside of the house is cold, and Ian seems oblivious to the temperature sitting outside in his tee shirt. Quietly, I approach the open door and stand there until he realizes I’m nearby.
“Hey, what you doing out of bed?” He glances up at me with sad eyes.
“What are you doing off the couch?”
“Just sitting,” he says, in a low voice. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I stay in the doorway, hesitant to approach. His attention returns to the ocean, and I hear him sigh.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“No, Rachel, come and join me if you want.”
I’m relieved by the invitation and walk outside. The deck is cold against my bare feet, but I don’t care. Slowly, I make my way to the empty chair next to him and sit down. I lift my head backward and am amazed at the sight. Every star in the heavens twinkles back at me, and surprisingly I feel small and insignificant, in spite of the uncomfortable moment between us.
“God, it’s so beautiful.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Ian reaches over and grabs my hand. He weaves his fingers into mine and locks us together. He has no idea how much I need assurance that I don’t disgust him. I hope he still wants me.
“Sorry about earlier and the way I acted.” I feel compelled to apologize.
He looks at me with somber eyes. “You have nothing to apologize about. I’m sorry for the way I acted. Frankly, it threw me for a loop. Took me a while to process the shock, I guess.”
My face is expressionless as I look at him in the dark. I’m hurting inside, but I don’t want him to know.
“Can I ask you one thing?” he earnestly inquires.
I inhale a deep breath. “Yeah, sure.”
“Have you sought professional help for this? I mean, seen a therapist or doctor to talk about what happened to you?”
My eyes drop to my lap. I cannot look at him and lie. “I told you before that I saw a therapist for counseling.”
“When you left your ex, right?”
“Yeah, and we talked about other stuff,” I concede in a half-truth.
My sexual abuse was only fleetingly touched upon between my counselor and myself. She had wanted to teach me how to say no and set boundaries in relationships, but I shrugged it off. I was too spent after years of an abusive marriage to start poking at another sore spot.
Ian squeezes my hand, and I’m reminded that we’re intertwined as one. At that moment I realize I need something else besides focusing upon my abuse. I need to learn how to receive love. The deep-seated belief that anyone can love me eludes my comprehension.
No doubt, I’ll eventually sabotage our relationship, particularly the closer we become. When you’re convinced that nothing ever good happens in your life, you have a tendency to end a relationship before another beats you to the punch. At least that way, you’re not rejected by another human being. Being cast aside is more devastating than walking away on your own terms. I only hope that I get to spend a few more months with him before it all ends.
I turn and look at him. He’s still staring out at the dark ocean, and I want to know what he really sees.
“Do you think of me differently now?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he impassively replies.
I wonder if he’s skirting the question so he doesn’t have to tell me the truth. “Do you think I’m sick or something?”
A sigh escapes his lungs, while his dark eyes look pensively into mine. “No, I don’t think you’re sick. My heart goes out to you, because I can see it has seriously affected your life.”
I feel like a soiled piece of trash in his presence. My eyes pull away from his, and I turn my gaze toward the dark ocean that mirrors my soul. Tears threaten to fall, as I huff out my frustrated response from between my lips.
“You’re right, it has affected me.”
Ian squeezes my hand. “Rachel, I don’t want it to affect us.” He gently touches my chin and encourages me to turn my head. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Like a little girl, I obey his command and submit.
“I want to understand what makes you who you are,” he says sweetly, as his thumb gently traces the edge of my jaw. His dark, expressive eyes encourage me to trust. “Because I think I’m falling in love with you, Rachel Hayward.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I know there are tears inside of me, but they don’t come to my eyes. How can he love me? Men don’t love. I’m convinced the male gender is incapable of the emotion, but Ian’s eyes beg to differ with me. He looks so sincere, that I cannot deny his confession.
Embarrassed, I glance away from his intense gaze. I know he’s waiting for me to acknowledge his words and express my own. My voice trembles.
“I want to feel the same for you, Ian, but I don’t want to be hurt either.”
“Listen, Rachel, I won’t ever lie to you. If I say I’m fa
lling in love, then I am. Believe me that there is no ruse on my part or dishonesty in my words.”
I scrunch my brow as if I’m in pain, and my lips clamp together. It’s so hard to expose my feelings when so much is at risk, but I don’t want to spurn him.
“Me too.” My answer sounds elusive. “I mean I feel the same way about you.”
I find the courage to look at him, and my heart is overwhelmed by his loving presence. My mind runs rampant in conversation with the powers above. God, I do love him. Look at him! He’s my Prince Charming—my dream come true. He’s normal, and he wants me. Can this really be happening?
Ian flashes me an endearing smile and gathers me in his warm arms. “Glad we got that settled,” he says in a relieved voice. He strokes the side of my head with the palm of his hand. The peculiar feeling of tenderness attempts to melt my heart.
“You’re a beautiful and wonderful woman, far deserving of good things,” he whispers.
I don’t believe him. Ian kisses me, and I relent to his sweet taste at three thirty in the morning.
Chapter 13
The Confessional
I return to bed, and Ian returns to the couch. We both wake up mid-morning. About an hour later, we have a small breakfast. Neither of us possesses an appetite.
Ian appears absorbed in his thoughts, and I don’t blame him. He probably wants to know what happened to me as a child, but I’m not sure that I can specifically tell him every detail. The thought of doing so intensifies my fear that he’ll leave me. Anxious about the wandering of his mind, I try to pull his thoughts elsewhere.
“Can we go for a walk? Just a short one?”
He turns his head and looks my way. “Sure, sweets, whatever you’d like.”
“What is it with this sweets thing?” I ask him with a coy smile.
“Because I think you’re sweet, sweets.”
I have no endearing names for him. One day when I was bored, I did an Internet search for the meaning of Ian. I almost choked when I read that it meant “the graciousness of God.” Of course, I wondered if God decided to be merciful to me, even though I’m a masturbating slut. Every now and then, I think the man above toys with us by dangling a carrot of promise and then snatches it away. It feels like that since my relationship with Ian has been tainted. I don’t know what to believe any longer.
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