by Sandra Block
“About your parents…” I say as I think of it. “Have you talked to them yet? Made up with them?”
He shakes his head, staring at the floor.
“You should,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. I will. Eventually.”
He leans against the arm of my couch, then looks up at me. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight? Or…”
In response, I walk over and sit next to him on the arm of the couch, with barely enough room for us both. Leaning against him, I feel the warmth of his chest, the soapy smell of his T-shirt.
“I want you to stay over,” I say. “If you want to.”
“Stay over…as in…?”
I answer by kissing his neck. His warm skin, the softness of the groove in his neck. His pulse pounding under my lips. I answer by taking off his shirt. And he holds me, gentle but strong against his chest. And we go to my room.
He is shy, undressing the rest of him, against the soft light of the little, white work lamp in the corner of my room. The same lamp I’ve had since college days. I watch him. I admire him, that long arm span, sturdy shoulders, the symmetry of lines cutting through his abdomen. His boxers stretching across his hip bones.
Sitting on the corner of the bed, the pale-purple comforter balloons under me. I shrug off my clothes. He watches me, his eyes serious. I watch him as he lifts the comforter, softly, carefully, and climbs into bed.
I climb in beside him, and we put our arms around each other, lying and breathing.
We hold each other.
Chapter Eighty-Five
James
When we kiss, I feel like I’m breathing her in. Not air anymore, but her.
Dahlia.
She takes up so much room in my head, but now she’s in the room with me, so I don’t have to imagine her. I don’t have to dream about her. She’s here.
There is dried blood on her lip, but her tongue is delicious and tastes like Dr Pepper, and I probably smell damp and sweaty, but she doesn’t. She smells like lotion, like sweetness, like Dahlia. Her hair is purple silk in my fingers and soon we are kissing so much we are gasping.
Her fingers loop on my chest, over my tattoo. She kisses it. From top to bottom. Her lips are so light, they feel like magic.
Her skin is warm and smooth, and I kiss the notch in her clavicle. I lean in to kiss her beautiful breasts. Her beautiful body. She lies back in the bed, rubbing the back of my neck.
“As slow as you want,” she says.
I nod, but I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking of the softness of her. The swell of hips over her bones. My hands run over them, and she closes her eyes, murmuring something. Her skin is so pale white and lovely in the bed. I trace one hand down her stomach and she shivers. “Do you want to?” I ask. After everything that happened tonight, I don’t want to pressure her. At all.
“Yes. But only if you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” And I am. We kiss some more and then she’s breathing heavily, almost panting and she guides me into her and I push softly at first and ask if she’s okay, if I’m hurting her. She shakes her head no and holds on to my hips and I push in all the way. And we fit together perfectly. Like one body, we are rocking together, slow then faster and I have never felt anything so good in my life. And her hands run up and down my back and it’s not too much. I don’t panic. I just breathe her in and I can’t stop pushing, and she tells me not to stop anyway, and then it happens.
Everything stops. The world freezes and aligns.
Solidifies into perfection.
Her breath slows down, and her fingers are still rubbing my back but slowly now, lazy wide circles. I am wonderfully, perfectly tired. Like after a great swim, but better. Much better. When I open my eyes, I see a little earlobe. Her black-purple hair fanning across the pillow. I want to say I love you. I mean to say I love you. But she half opens her eyes and closes them, then smiles a sleepy smile.
And by the time I am ready to say the words, she is already asleep.
Chapter Eighty-Six
HAWK CLUB CHAT ROOM
Desiforever: Did you guys hear?
Bruinsblow: No, what?
Desiforever: She came
Joe25: Who came? What are we talking about?
Desiforever: Dahlia. She went to the after–New Year’s party
Taxman: And?
Desiforever: She shot up the place. Girl’s crazy. The police came
PorscheD: No fucking way
Desiforever: Supposedly she took the cigar box
Creoletransplant: WHAT???
Bruinsblow: How do you know this?
PorscheD: If this is some kind of joke I’ll fucking kill you, dude
Desiforever: It’s not. Christian Ford told me. The guy who I was telling you about. Current member. He was in the hospital for a concussion, I guess.
Taxman: A concussion?
Desiforever: Yeah, he said the bitch sucker punched him.
Joe25: Oh shit
Connorsdad: So who’s got the cigar box now?
Desiforever: I assume she does
Bruinsblow: Or the police do
PorscheD: Fuck
Bruinsblow: I told you. I told you guys this would happen
Taxman: ‘I told you so’ isn’t very helpful right now, Drew
Desiforever: Not time to blame each other folks. Time to figure out a plan
Bruinsblow: A plan? She gave the cigar box to the fucking police! GAME OVER
PorscheD: Calm down, man
Connorsdad: What does Blake say?
Desiforever: Not sure if he knows. Can’t get a hold of him. Off the grid.
Bruinsblow: So what the fuck do we do now?
Desiforever: We chill. Can’t even use it in court, I bet.
Taxman: Oh, what, you’re a lawyer now?
Joe25: We could call Stevie-O. He might know.
Bruinsblow: You guys do what you want. Chill. Call Stevie-O. Call Blake. Whatever the fuck you want.
Desiforever: Yeah? And what are you going to do?
Bruinsblow: I’m doing what I suggest all of you do. Getting the hell out of town.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Dahlia
Eli comes by with bagels later in the morning, after James has left.
“I’m not even hungry,” I say.
“Yeah, me neither.” In silence, we stare at the brown bag. “You look like shit by the way,”
“What a coincidence, I feel like shit too!” Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I am definitively sore. My lip is swollen, my eye cut, and I’ve got a bear of a headache. But none of this diminishes the sweetness of my night with James.
Not in the least.
“But you got your damn cigar box,” he mutters. “So it was worth it.”
“It was actually. Those Hawk boys aren’t going near me ever again.”
Eli glances around. “Where’s Simone?”
“Still with Daisy…until…”
He grimaces, then taps his fingers together. “So, did you see all the guys then? Could you identify everyone?”
“No.” I rub my forehead, still waiting for the Motrin to kick in. “There were tapes in there, just not mine. But I got the evidence for the other girls at least. I’m going to talk to Connor about it, figure out what we can do for everyone.”
He exhales, then shakes his head. “You scared me you know.” Then, he frowns. “James too. He was a basket case. And honestly, Dahlia, I hate to admit it. But he actually seems like a decent guy.”
I smile, cracking my lip. “He is a decent guy. And I’m sorry about scaring you. But I had to do it. That’s all. There was no other way.”
He sits up in the kitchen chair. “It’s just… I won’t be here to protect you forever.”
“For the
hundredth time,” I grumble, digging into the brown bag finally. “I don’t need your protection.” I pick out a poppy seed bagel, and as I break off a piece, something about what he said nags at me. “What do you mean anyway, you won’t be here to protect me forever… You planning on going somewhere?”
Eli scratches the back of his hairline, looking uncomfortable. “I was going to talk to you about it, but obviously now is not such a good time.”
“Talk to me about what?” I rip off another piece of bagel, and he still doesn’t answer. “Come on, now you’ve got to tell me.”
“Okay.” He rifles through the brown bag and also comes up with a poppy seed bagel. “I got back together with Brandon.”
“That’s good, right?” A piece of bagel gets stuck in my throat as I swallow.
“And he asked me to come with him. To Colorado.”
“Oh.” I take a sip of water to hide my wobbling frown. “That’s…that’s great. Terrific.”
“Anyway,” he says after smearing cream cheese on his bagel. “I thought about it for about two seconds…” He gives a wry smile. “I decided I might as well go. I mean, nothing’s really keeping me here.” He looks up from his plate. “Besides you.”
I don’t want to, but I start crying. And I’m too damn exhausted to even try to stop it.
“Oh, Dahlia.” Eli looks miserable.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Don’t mind me. It was a crazy night.”
His gaze darts around the room, then he pops up when he sees the tissue box. Kneeling by my side, he gives me a handful. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t…don’t be sorry,” I say with an embarrassing sniffle. I ruffle his hair, hard, and he lifts his face to me. “Of course you should go, Eli. Of course. I’m just going to miss you, dummy.”
His expression scrunches in a funny way for a second, and I realize he’s trying to keep himself from crying too. “I’m gonna miss you too, dummy.” He reaches over, pats my head, then stands up. “And now, I’ve got to start packing.”
“You do that,” I say. “I’m going to drown my sorrows in a bagel.”
“Ha.” Then he reaches into his coat pocket. “I almost forgot. I grabbed the mail for you.”
After he leaves, I look through the mail at the kitchen table. It’s at least something to take my mind off things for the moment. Eli is leaving. And of course he should. The end of a chapter for us. And hopefully a new, better one for Eli. I knew it would happen eventually, I just didn’t think eventually would come so soon.
Taking a deep breath, I sort through the mail. Bills, more bills, an office supply catalog that should have gone to work, a glossy shoe postcard, some coupons. And then I see it. I hold it between my thumb and index finger tightly, like it might fly away.
An envelope. From Stanford.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
James
My arms are slow, like I’m swimming through molasses. (That idiom I do like, because it completely makes sense.)
I hate these days, when my strokes go like this. Sometimes, I can’t figure out why. It’s just some kink in the machine. The mitochondria not working right. But today, the reason is obvious. Last night was exhausting. Wonderful, but exhausting. I’ve never had a day that was so low, and then so high.
My feet push off against the wall and the water shoots past me. My breath is stacked up in my chest, and I start working my arms again and letting my thoughts flow wherever they want.
Men are evil. That’s the sum of it. Maybe because we have all the power or it’s a testosterone thing, but it’s hard to argue about who starts all the wars, who shoots up schools, who beats up women and rapes them. Men. Not all men maybe. Not me for instance, but enough men. Men who would corner a girl in a room on a mattress. Year after year after year. And videotape it.
I threw up after I saw the cigar box. Detective Harrison leafed through the underwear with confusion on his face, disgusted like he might throw up too, with sweat beading on his forehead. I felt my stomach lurch like someone punched me straight in the gut, and I got to the bathroom just in time. When I came out of the stall, some other police guy was in there but didn’t say anything. Maybe it’s not so odd in this line of work. Evil does that to you, makes you want to vomit sometimes.
Grabbing the rough concrete wall, I steal another deep breath, then jet off again. My arms are cutting through the water better now. Not so slow and leaden. More like my usual rhythm. I love her. I know that now, with absolute certainty. Not a hypothesis…a theorem. But I’m not sure if she loves me too. She should probably be with someone easier, like Connor. Someone normal who could say funny things and make her laugh all the time. Like Eli, but not gay.
But she’s not with them. She’s with me.
This thought lifts me for another twenty laps. And then my number is done, and I get out, shower off, and get dressed. As I zip up my coat, my hand finds my phone. There’s a missed call from my mom. I sit down on the metal bench, staring at it, deciding. I think back to what Dahlia said. I should talk to them, I know. And I will, just not right now. Later.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Dahlia
I take a couple of sick days to heal, then I’m back at work, sorting through a hundred unread emails. Sylvia’s out today, which is just as well. I’m not sure if I could withstand her wedding soliloquy anymore. And anyway, I’m just going through the motions today.
It’s odd. I feel like I’m stuck in a sort of liminal state.
We’re done with the project, and yet nothing’s done. Blake Roberts is stuck in step two. I got the cigar box, but it’s in police custody and my video wasn’t in there to see the guy filming anyway. And those assholes are still out there threatening my family. Though I haven’t gotten any more texts, I also haven’t heard back from Detective Harrison.
But I have an appointment with Connor at 2:00 p.m., which should go a long way toward ending this thing, once and for all. I turn back to my interminable emails when I hear someone whistling, and then Snyder is at my desk. For the life of me, I’ll never figure out how he appears like that.
“Hi, gorgeous.” He’s got a rolled-up newspaper under his armpit.
“Hi, Snyder.”
“Got something for you.” He sweeps the newspaper from under his arm and unfurls it. “Turns out my friend at the FBI caught a big one.”
“Oh yeah?” I take a peek at the paper.
“Yeah, Omar got a hot anonymous tip. Found some banker funneling money into terrorist cells.”
“Is that so?” Laying the newspaper out, I see another picture of the wunderkind Blake Roberts. But he doesn’t look quite so self-satisfied in this one, and there’s no adoring wife looking on. “What’s happening to him?” I ask, scanning the article as fast as my eyes can manage.
“U.S. District Court,” he says. “In Boston.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Sounds serious.”
He raises an eyebrow. “If he’s a terrorist? Yeah, I’d say that’s serious. He won’t be getting out of prison anytime soon. If ever.”
I almost feel bad. Almost. Then I think of the other women that he gang-raped in his time at Harvard. And I don’t feel so bad anymore. He should be enjoying step three for quite a while.
“Funny,” Snyder says, “how I gave you Omar’s name, and not a month later he makes a big bust.”
“Funny indeed,” I say, and go to hand him the paper.
“Keep it,” he says. “In case you want to frame it.”
I smooth the paper out, over his expression that looks more angry than afraid. But that will change I expect. And then I fold the paper up. Because I don’t need to see his face anymore.
The finality of this act gives me a certain satisfaction. All of the rapists on the video are in jail, except of course for the one filming. Rapists #1 through #3 are
finished off at least.
Now, only five more hours until my appointment with Connor. Then, it will be really over.
• • •
The sky is gray, with curdled clouds.
I am waiting in the little corner chair in Connor’s office, when he finally comes in.
He’s wearing a powder-blue shirt and a navy pin-stripe that suits his coloring. He pulls the door not all the way shut. “Claire said you wanted to talk to me about something?”
“Yes.”
He chuckles. “You didn’t have to make a formal appointment, you know. You could have just grabbed me. I even know where you sit.”
“Yeah, I know.” I chuckle too. I feel weirdly nervous, considering this is the same man I’ve seen most days for the last five years.
But he looks nervous too. “Is it about the party thing? I talked to them. They’re not pressing any charges about the gun or anything—”
“No,” I interrupt him. “It’s not about that. Well, not directly…” Right then, someone sticks their head in the door, notes our meeting, then backs out again. One of the new lawyers, whom I don’t recognize. “It’s about the evidence they found there.”
Revulsion streaks across his face. “The cigar box.”
“Yes.”
He nods slowly, his eyes on the desk. “What about it?”
“Can we use it?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“Against them?”
His eyes narrow in thought. “Yeah, we should be able to. Why wouldn’t we?”
“Even if the police have it?”
He wipes a chalk mark off his suit sleeve. “Yes, especially since the police have it. That’s actually a very good thing. It means it’s not tainted.”
“You think it’s admissible?” I ask. “Even if I was in there under false pretenses with a gun?”
He shrugs. “The police were investigating the commission of a crime in the act and found the evidence. That’s the much better argument.”