by Jamie Beck
Cigarette smoke.
Keep fucking quiet, bitch.
“Steffi?” Claire’s voice cut through Steffi’s thoughts.
Steffi released the table and swallowed bile.
“Did you say . . . ‘raped’?” Claire’s face paled and her lips parted. “Is it true?”
I guess so!
“Does it matter?” Steffi sniveled, swiping a tear from her cheek. “The point is that he violated my privacy. He’s as bad as the criminals he represents.” She stood abruptly, fleeing Claire’s pitying stare, and dumped the rest of her coffee down the drain.
“Wait, Stefanie. Just . . . if you don’t want to talk about the . . . thing, then let’s talk about why Ryan did this.”
“He thinks my blackouts will stop if I go to therapy to cope with . . . it.”
“So he thinks the blackouts are what? Repressed memories poking through?”
“Basically.” She closed her eyes and shook her head as if shaking off snow. “I don’t know and I don’t care. How does his force-feeding me horrible news make anything better? Isn’t an occasional zone-out better than remembering something awful!” Her voice had risen to a screech. “How is this news better?”
Claire hugged her, which was unusual for both of them. But Steffi melted into her arms and broke into deep sobs.
“Oh, Steffi. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. How can I help?”
She couldn’t. No one could. If Ryan’s claims were true, would she ever see herself the same? Her body? Sex? A thousand hot showers wouldn’t make her feel less dirty even though she still couldn’t remember. If those memories came back, she might never fully recover. “I hate him.”
Claire stroked Steffi’s hair. “Don’t hate him. He didn’t do this to hurt you.”
“Don’t defend him!” Steffi broke free of Claire’s hold.
“Steffi, his intentions matter. He’s trying to help because he cares. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all this time?”
“I’m telling you, Claire, this house is a Ryan-free zone.”
Claire cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “So you expect me to talk about—and to—Peyton, but you won’t discuss or talk to Ryan? Tell me you see the hypocrisy. At least Ryan had your best interests at heart, unlike Peyton, who only cared about herself.”
“How is it loving to demand I go to therapy in order to have a relationship with him?”
“He said that?” Claire’s brows shot upward.
“Not in those words, but he’s worried about everyone’s safety. He even made an appointment with someone for this morning, but I’m not going. I already left a message with the doc and then texted Ryan not to bother showing up here to take me.”
Claire clapped her hands to her cheeks. “The thing with Emmy must’ve really scared him.”
Steffi couldn’t deny that. “It scared me, too. That still doesn’t give him the right to do what he did.”
Claire approached her like a child trying to capture a butterfly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but just because he went about it wrong doesn’t mean it can’t help you.”
“Don’t start!” How could she talk to a therapist about something she didn’t even remember? Didn’t want to remember, either. “I have to go to work. Please don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Of course not, but is that best? I have to be honest. Seeing you, listening to you today . . . however you got to this place, focus on the positive. This means it can get better, Steffi. You just need to talk to someone who knows how to handle this. Go—go to the appointment. I’ll come if you want.”
“It’s my life, Claire. I don’t need you or Ryan making decisions for me, okay?”
Claire raised her hands. “Okay. Sorry. But at least take the day off. I could hang out, we could rent movies and get ice cream or whatever.”
“How many ways can I tell you and show you that I’ll. Be. Fine.” Steffi snatched her keys. “See you later.”
She would be fine, too. No poking for pain on a shrink’s sofa. No wallowing. Moving forward. Staying focused. It’d worked for her before, and it would work again. She could get right on her own. She didn’t need Ryan. She didn’t need anyone.
On her way toward the Hightop project, she passed the cemetery where her mother was buried. That had been the hardest day of her life . . . until now. Despite her affirmations, she felt loss and lost, uncertain of everything. She couldn’t even trust her own thoughts because, apparently, they were incomplete and unreliable.
Two blocks later, she made a U-turn and drove back to the cemetery. She’d visited her mother’s grave a few times each year: the anniversary of her death, her birthday, and Christmas. On those occasions, the stoic Lockwoods would gather to talk about memories, and they’d carpet the ground in peonies—her mom’s favorite flower.
They’d leave arm in arm as if they’d been at a party, none of them talking about how, each year, they wished she was there to mark a milestone or celebrate some occasion. How some nights they’d stare at the ceiling wondering if she could see them . . . or if a warm summer breeze or a butterfly on the car was a message. They never acknowledged the gaping hole in their lives that would always exist.
Today was the first time she’d ever come to her mom for advice. If she was already losing her mind, it couldn’t hurt to try talking to ghosts.
She parked the car on the road and crossed to her mother’s grave. The vase was empty. No flowers. No scarf tied around it. A few fallen leaves carpeted the ground and lay scattered on the headstone.
“Hi, Mom.” Steffi sat cross-legged at the base of the marker, tracing the carvings that spelled out MARCH 17, 2001. She touched her forehead to the cold stone and closed her eyes. Something bad has happened. So bad I don’t even remember it. I’ve tried all night, but it’s like a heavy, smoky veil is guarding the memory. The idea of it is terrifying enough, so it’s probably better not to remember it.
She opened her eyes and stared at her mother’s name—MARGARET CATHERINE LOCKWOOD. What if Ryan’s right and I hurt myself or someone else during one of my zone-outs? And what if I can’t have sex without getting violent or crazy or sad? I’m so mad at him for going behind my back and forcing this on me. And from now on, he’ll look at me and imagine what happened. He’ll never see me as me again. He’ll think I’m broken. Violated. Soiled.
Absently, she hugged her knees to her chest. I was so happy before yesterday. Why did he have to ruin everything? What do I do, Mom? I can’t stand this pain. I lose no matter what I choose. You were so brave when you dealt with your cancer. I wish I were more like you and less like Dad.
She lay on the grass, touching the headstone, watching the swirl of clouds pass overhead. A few birds flew by. A hundred yards away, she noticed another mourner visiting a loved one, looking for solace.
But there wasn’t solace here. No answers. Only bittersweet memories and wishes that would never come true. She didn’t know what she would do with her new reality, but there were deadlines and bills and obligations that didn’t care about how lousy and confused she felt.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair to expect her mom or anyone else to hand her an answer. Like most things in life, she had to make her choices on her own. Other people’s opinions wouldn’t change the fact that she alone would live with the consequences. She smoothed her hand over the headstone one last time. Bye, Mom.
As she pulled away from the cemetery, she thanked God she had demolition work to do today. Few things offered as productive a way to unleash a lot of emotion as smashing through walls.
Chapter Twenty-Two
That evening, Steffi removed the final lower cabinet from the kitchen wall in the bungalow. Her phone vibrated on the counter. She’d answered none of the many messages Ryan had left for her throughout the day. Her graveside chat hadn’t provided any answers, so she still had nothing to say.
Even if he spoke the truth, she wasn’t ready for it. She didn’t want to remember. And she sure as hell
didn’t want anyone else to find out. It would be bad enough knowing that every time Claire and Ryan looked at or thought of her, the first thing they’d think about would be rape. That made her want to vomit again.
She worked feverishly now, doing her best to preserve some of the cabinets for recycling while ignoring the manila envelope he’d left on the counter. The screen door clattered as autumn breezes blew through it, but none of them cooled the sweltering bungalow. She peeled her sweatshirt off, but that didn’t help much, either.
A Limp Bizkit song began playing on the Bluetooth speaker she’d brought. She cranked the volume to drown out her thoughts and began headbanging to the heavy beat as she swept debris from the floor. She bagged up the unsalvageable splintered cabinets and dragged them outside to the small rented dumpster.
No moon tonight. Just pinpricks of light against a black sky. Beyond the trees were the glassy waters of the sound. A route to sail off to someplace new and start over. A place where she had no history to overcome.
While she heaved the first bag over the edge, footsteps and a snapped twig behind her made her freeze, breath burning her lungs.
I’m alone.
Please, God.
Oh God, a gun. A gun.
Be still.
Don’t die. Don’t die.
“Hey!”
At the sound of the male voice, Steffi spun and swung the bag of broken wood, clocking Benny in the head.
“Jesus!” he yelled from the ground, grabbing the side of his head.
“Oh God, Benny!” She collapsed beside him, crying. Adrenaline surged through her limbs until she trembled. “I didn’t know it was you. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“What the hell, Steffi?” He pushed her away when she tried to see the lump forming on his temple. “I called your name twice.”
She couldn’t stop crying, even though she never cried in front of her brothers.
“You’re crying? I’m the one who’s hurt,” Benny groused.
The leafless trees in the yard surrounded her like prison bars. Tears of shame choked off her words. Bone-deep fear—the thing she hated most—gripped her stomach and clenched hard. Ryan was right. She was a danger to herself and others.
“Sis, settle down,” Benny said when she failed to pull herself together, misreading her misery as stemming solely from hurting him. “I’m okay. I just came by to razz you for blowing off my training run tonight. Dad said he hadn’t seen you in days, either.”
“I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. Then another wave of tears crested and broke open. She couldn’t control the wellspring of emotion.
“What’s happening?” He scooted across the grass to sit beside her. “Are you hurt?”
She blinked at him, gulping down snot. “I’m in trouble, Benny. I don’t know what to do.”
Benny’s puzzled expression morphed to concern as he hugged her. “What kind of trouble?”
She couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t face him if he knew. He’d never look at her the same. Neither would her dad. They’d be wrecked, and for what? They couldn’t help her. She’d have to save herself.
“Sis, talk to me,” he pleaded.
She hugged her knees to her chest. “Ryan and I had a fight.”
“About what?”
“Trust.” Not exactly a lie.
Benny’s face pinched. “Ryan doesn’t trust you?”
With good reason, she thought. Then again, he’d proved himself to be less than trustworthy, too. “It’s complicated.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Benny gently touched his goose egg, which had swelled to the size of a golf ball. “Damn, this hurts.”
Taking full advantage of a way out of his interrogation, she pushed herself upright and motioned to help him up. “Maybe you should get that looked at. You could be concussed or worse.”
He waved her off, like a good Lockwood would. No need for advice or help. Lockwoods could handle anything on their own. “I’m good. Now tell me what Quinn did to upset you.”
“It’s fine. I’m overreacting,” she lied. “I can manage my own problems with Ryan, thanks.”
Benny reverted to teasing, per their norm. “Must be pretty bad for you to cry like a girl.”
She hiccupped. “I am a girl.”
“Well, don’t feel bad. Not like you had a choice.” He yanked her ponytail.
His playful banter made her feel less the victim and more like her old self. That’s all she wanted to be—just Steffi Lockwood. Not a victim. Not damaged.
“So how about tomorrow? Join me on a ten-miler? You can burn off all your tension.”
“No.” She glanced over her shoulder at the light shining through the screen door. “I’m too busy now with all these new projects.”
“Aw, come on. You said you’d do this with me.” He set his hands on his hips. “I can’t believe you’re quitting on me. This is like the time you said you’d help me remodel my kitchen and then left me hanging halfway through the job.”
“I sent someone to help when I couldn’t take enough time off work to finish.”
“Not the point.” Benny’s accusation echoed Ryan’s point about her spotty follow-through.
“I’m sorry, Benny. I can’t be in two places at once.”
“Always some excuse. Guess I’m on my own.” He grimaced. “You seem better now, so I’ll get going.”
“See you later.”
“Need an ice pack.” He touched his head while walking away. “If I didn’t know you loved me, I’d think you were trying to kill me.”
“Need to work on my aim,” she called, relieved that he hadn’t pressed her more about her crying jag, yet saddened, too. And curious. Did everyone in her family keep secrets? What might Benny be hiding? And why hadn’t she ever sought more from them?
She went back inside the house alone, still shaken. She didn’t know how to lean on people. Or ask for help. Or be vulnerable. Those traits weren’t conducive to intimacy. She’d never have any loving relationship without that.
The manila envelope mocked her. She stared at it, recalling Ryan’s face last night. His tone. His contrition. His love. She picked it up and shoved it into her sweatshirt pocket. Undecided about whether she wanted to read it, she locked up the house and went home.
“You’re back earlier than I expected,” Claire said from the couch, where she’d curled up with her laptop. She set it aside. “How are you?”
God, she hoped that question didn’t become a regular thing from Claire. Steffi sank onto a chair. “I almost killed Benny.”
“What?” Claire’s mouth fell open. “Is he okay? What happened?”
“He surprised me from behind. I hit him with a bag of broken wood.”
“Oh, goodness.” Claire slapped her forehead.
“He’s okay, thankfully.” Steffi tossed the envelope on the coffee table. “But I’m not.”
Claire glanced at the folder. “Is that the report?”
She nodded without a word, picking at her cuticles without looking at Claire.
“Did you read it?” Claire asked.
She shook her head.
“Do you want me to read it?”
Steffi shook her head. “I don’t want anyone to read it. I wish Ryan hadn’t. I don’t want you two to think of that when you look at me. Like I’m pathetic and helpless. Powerless. Victimized.”
“I’m the last person who’d think of you that way.” Claire sat forward. “I’m sorry it happened. I wish it hadn’t. I wish I could change it or make it better.” She paused. “But it isn’t the defining thing about you unless you let it be. Trust me, Stef, I know something about this. And if you let this file—this history—be what keeps you from being healthy and happy with Ryan, then you’re giving those creeps even more power over your life than what they took that one night.”
Steffi slouched deeper into the chair. If only she could’ve remembered anything about those men, they might’ve been apprehended. Murky voices and the cold barrel of th
e gun pressed to her temple were all she could ever recall with clarity. They got away with everything because she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—remember more. “Maybe.”
“Well, then, maybe you should consider talking to that doctor.” Claire leaned forward.
Steffi’s phone rang. She peeked at the screen.
“Who is it?” Claire asked.
“Ryan.” Steffi tucked it back in her pocket.
Claire let loose a long sigh. “I know you think that ignoring this and moving on is being strong. But wouldn’t it show more strength to accept—and even grieve—what’s happened? Face it head-on with the therapist Ryan found. Don’t let it destroy what you’ve rebuilt with him. Forgive him. Lean on him. That’s not weak . . . that’s love.”
Steffi’s lungs burned as if a heat lamp had been fired up inside her chest. She dabbed her eyes and reached for the file. “I’ll think about it.”
Her friend had survived a gunshot wound that had robbed her of her identity. She’d overcome losing her healthy, vital body and accepted a slightly disfigured, disabled one in its place. She’d learned to deal with people’s pity. She’d found a way to claim some happiness. A career. Good relationships with friends and family. And even love, until Peyton interfered.
If Claire could overcome those setbacks, surely Steffi could come back from this. Somehow recognizing their similarities—sisters in survival—made her feel less alone and less pitiful.
Claire flashed an understanding smile. “Does chocolate help you think better? I always keep an emergency supply in my room, you know.”
Of course she did.
Steffi managed a genuine smile for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. “Chocolate sounds good.”
“I take it you looked over the proposal I sent you this morning?” Ryan lowered the speakerphone volume while seated in his car, staring down the lane toward the bungalow where Steffi’s van was parked.
This morning the ground had been encased in frost, sort of like his chest and heart since their argument three nights ago. She’d refused all his calls this week, but at least she hadn’t broken down or curled up into a ball and hidden away. He could march down the street and beg her to talk to him, but forcing her to do anything before she was ready felt like another violation.