by Sandra Block
“No,” I say. “Stay, please.”
Nodding, he settles back into the chair. I touch the contact number then wait. As it keeps ringing, I feel my heart tapping against my sternum. James leans forward, his chin held up by his fists.
“Hi, this is Kevin Riley. I’m not here right now. But if you leave your number…”
I inhale, realizing I’d stopped breathing. “Hi, you might not remember me, but I’m Dahlia. Eli’s friend. You had left me a message a while ago. Well, a few years ago, but…if you wanted to talk about that…I want to listen. Um. I don’t even know what I’m saying here. Anyway, call me, if you can.” I leave my number, while James watches me intently.
Then I put the phone down, the glaze of my sweaty handprint still on the case.
Chapter Ninety-Two
Dahlia
The evening is dreadful.
After some convincing, James agreed to go straight home from work, while I went back to my little apartment. Eli called a few times, leaving messages with a hint of uneasiness, a slight quiver to his tone. Unless, of course, I’m imagining that. He called about the logistics of the move, when Brandon is coming by, doing breakfast this week…things he could have easily texted me, or even run down two flights of stairs to say.
When my text rings, I jump up from the couch and Simone stares at me.
Did he call yet? It’s James.
Not yet. I will definitely tell you when he does.
Hopefully, he’ll take the hint. It’s the third time he’s texted me. I turn on the television, but after a few minutes decide there’s nothing worth watching, and the commercials are blaring and annoying. As I click it off, there is silence, followed by the sound of wind beating against the pane. Warily, Simone watches me.
With a sigh, I reach down on the coffee table for my issue of The Economist and flip through an article, glossing over the words. Why our trade policies are failing in China. Blah, blah, blah. I drop the magazine and lean back in the couch.
A weird part of me wants to call Eli and simply ask him. Were you there? Did you rape me? Just to hear him say of course not, angry for even asking him, then I can go on with my life. I can be okay knowing three out of four of the rapists. I can be fine with that if I knew, at least, it wasn’t him.
The phone wails out from the coffee table, and I lean over to see Kevin Blow on the screen. My hand trembles when I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Hi. Is this…Dahlia?” His voice is low and sounds nervous.
“This is she.”
“It’s Kevin Riley.” There is a pause then. “You called me? About Eli?”
“Yes.” I take a second, figuring out how to ask the question.
“Did—”
“He—”
We both speak at the same time, then laugh nervously. “Okay,” he says. “You first.”
I swallow. “I know you don’t know me very well, at all even. But when you broke up with Eli… I don’t know if you even remember this. Or if you were just upset or on drugs or something…” I can hear myself rambling. “But you said that Eli was evil. I think that’s the word you used.”
“Yes,” he confirms. “Evil. That’s what I said.”
“Right, so you said he was evil, and I should call you if I wanted to find out why.”
There is a long pause.
“So, I guess that’s what I’m doing. Calling…to find out why.”
I hear him take in a breath. “Dahlia.” The word is pained.
“Just…tell me. You can tell me. It’s all right.”
“This is so hard.” He sighs, and then waits so long that I’m not sure if he will speak again, but he does. “It was years ago now. Do you even…”
“Could you just tell me what it was?” I know I sound desperate. I don’t care. My hand is squeezing the phone. “Just tell me, please.”
“You deserve to know, if you want to. It’s just—”
“Did he?” I ask. Tears are falling down my face. “Did he… Was he there that night? Did he…”
“He was there, Dahlia,” he says, almost breathing out the words. “He told me he was there at the party.”
“Okay.” The word is choked, barely intelligible. “Okay.”
“He said he didn’t want to do it. But someone made him. Though I don’t understand how someone can make you do that.”
I nod. I don’t try to speak. I am swallowing tears.
“And I don’t want to excuse him for what he did, at all. But to be honest with you, I think he’s been pretty much tortured by it.” His voice is soft, as if trying to soothe me. “It might even be a relief to him that you know.”
I try to sniff softly, so he can’t hear me crying.
“We couldn’t get past it. Well, obviously, I couldn’t anyway. But it was like he couldn’t either. He was just kind of stuck.”
“Right,” I say, my voice cracking. “I could see that.”
We don’t speak for a while. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry, Dahlia. I have to go, but…are you safe? Will you be okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’ll be okay.” But I feel like I will never, ever be okay.
“Do…do…” he says, struggling. “Do you want me to call you back later?”
“No, that’s okay.” I inhale deeply to calm my breathing. I appreciate his honesty, but I don’t need his pity. “Thank you, Kevin, for telling me.”
We hang up, and I put the phone down on the table. I stand up because I have to move. As if this would change something, erase the ugly truth in my head. The truth that I knew as soon as I saw the ball cap in his drawer. I am pacing, trying to outrun this new reality, but I can’t do that. It chases me down.
The vortex, the tidal wave, sucking me in.
“No,” I say out loud. The room is tottering under my feet.
“Go back from whence you came. Go home.” I hold on to the table by the wall. Simone appears next to me, her tail straight up. “Go back from whence you came,” I repeat, stronger now. “Go home.”
I hear her mewing as the roar of the vortex dies down, recedes. Carefully, I sit back down on the couch, and Simone leaps right next to me. The phone beeps, faceup on the coffee table.
Sorry to bother you. Just want to make sure everything is all right.
It’s James again, and I text him back.
It was him.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Dahlia
Moments later, I climb the interminable two flights of stairs and open the door to his apartment. Eli is sitting on the sofa in the bare room, drinking a beer. He looks me up and down. “What’s up?”
Plodding over, I sit down on the lone wooden table left in the room. I can hardly even look at him.
“What’s up?” he asks again, a jitter in his voice.
“I know, Eli. I know everything.”
He doesn’t answer for a minute. “You…you know what?”
“Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t. I talked to Kevin.”
When I finally look at him, his face has gone deathly white. His gaze skitters about the room. “Did he… What did…”
“I know, Eli.” I take a deep breath. “I know.”
He looks down at his hands, his expression shattered. The silence is overwhelming. Finally, a small, tired voice breaks it. “I suppose I’m sorry doesn’t mean much right now.”
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead, licking his lips.
“Has this been some kind of sick game for you all along?” I ask.
“No.” He clasps his hands together. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. For years.” The heat register clicks on beside him, then starts humming. He leans forward in the couch. “I didn’t want to do it, you know… I didn’t even do it.”
“W
hat do you mean?” I ask.
“He told me I had to. But I couldn’t. I just pretended to…”
“To rape me?”
“Yes.” He starts wringing his hands. “I told him I was gay. He was the first person I came out to.” The heater clicks off again to utter silence. “He said I wasn’t. That he knew I wasn’t. And he was going to show me. Take me to a party for some ‘good old-fashioned fun.’”
I shift on the hard table, my stomach clenching.
“And if I didn’t go along with it, he’d tell everyone I was a faggot.”
“Who?” I ask. “Who did all this?”
“Hank Holstein. My best friend from high school. I was up there visiting him.”
“And you couldn’t say no? You couldn’t say…” Then it wallops me. “Wait, is that Henry Holstein? The one on the tape?”
He nods, looking ill.
“And you just pretended you didn’t even know him?”
“I couldn’t… I didn’t know how…” Eli slinks down farther in the couch and for a moment, we don’t speak. “How did you find out?” he asks finally. He chews on his lip, his teeth stretching the skin. “I mean, what made you ask Kevin?”
“The Red Sox cap,” I say. “The fourth guy was wearing it in the video.” Then I remember—not the fourth guy. Not Rapist #4, the guy in the ball cap, the one filming. Just Eli Sawyer, my best friend. “You,” I say. “You were wearing it.”
“It was Hank’s,” he says, his voice strangled. “It wasn’t even mine.” A single tear drips down his face.
I shake my head. “Why on earth did you keep it?”
Quickly, he wipes his eyes. “I don’t know… I tried to throw it out. More than once. But I couldn’t do it.” He shrugs, helplessly. “I guess I wanted to keep it as evidence of what I’d done. So I wouldn’t forgive myself. And maybe in some sick way, I was hoping you would find it.” He looks up at me with those haunted, ponderous eyes. “So I wouldn’t have to tell you.”
“But why, Eli? Why couldn’t you just say something?”
“How could I?” he asks, his voice a plea.
“Easy. You say, Dahlia, I have something to tell you. You’re going to hate me, but I have to tell you anyway.”
“Oh my God,” he moans. “I’ve been wanting to, for years. Every single fucking day. Don’t you think I’ve been wanting to do that? Dying to do that?”
I smooth my fingers against the grain of the wood. “When did you figure it out? At McLean?”
He nods. “Talk about a fucking awful coincidence.” His jaw clenches. “And I couldn’t say anything then. I wasn’t in the state to. You weren’t in the state to.” Sitting there in his empty apartment, snow clogging the air outside, I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. This isn’t Eli. This is an imposter. A stranger. This couldn’t be Eli.
“When the video came out…it was awful, of course. But I thought maybe it was a good thing. You could get over it finally. Move on.” He is wringing his hands again. “You were always so tortured over not remembering it. I was afraid you’d find out about me, of course. But I also hoped it might help. Give you the time back so you could go on with your life.” He stares glumly at the floor. “I didn’t know you’d go all Kill Bill on everyone.”
“We didn’t…” I shake my head in anger. “We didn’t hurt anyone. Not a single hair.”
“You know what I mean. Those guys are screwed.” Then he seems to remember which side he is supposed to be on. “Which is fair, I mean. Totally fair.”
“Eli,” I say, exhausted. “You are one of those guys.”
He blinks. “Not really. I didn’t mean to be. I didn’t want to be.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I won’t let myself cry. I won’t let him see that. No more crying to Eli. He is not my shoulder anymore. The truth of this guts me. We are no longer friends. I straighten myself off the table. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.”
“Okay?” He sounds eager to follow any command, any action to start earning his forgiveness.
“You’re going to turn yourself in.”
He pauses as if he didn’t hear the words right, then his expression turns shocked. “What do you mean?”
“You can go to Detective Harrison if you want. Or whoever the fuck you like. But you’re going to the police, and you’re going to turn yourself in.”
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do this, Dahlia. I beg of you. I’m moving in with Brandon. I’m going to be out of your life. You can hate me. You should hate me. But it’s time for both of us to move on.”
“You can turn yourself in,” I say, “or wait for something worse to happen.”
He stares at me, then lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Is that a threat?”
“It is what it is.”
Eli glares at me. “You and your freak of a boyfriend? You’re going to come up with some fucking revenge for me?”
For the first time ever, I feel a stab of hatred for this man.
“I’m sorry,” he says, frowning. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He searches my face for softening perhaps, or some forgiveness, but finds none. “No, you’re right. I know you’re right. That’s what I have to do. That’s what I should have done five years ago. If I were brave enough.”
I nod, and then move away from the table, feeling like I’ve aged a thousand years.
“Can I wait until tomorrow though?” he asks in a small voice, like a little boy. “I just want to talk to Brandon first.”
“You know what, Eli?” I start walking toward the door because I need to get out of there. I need him out of my sight, now. “I don’t give a fuck what you do.”
• • •
We are lying together in the dark.
Just being with him helps. Simple, healing. I appreciate his as-is nature more than ever tonight. WYSIWYG. James is James, kind, smart, loving. No false advertising, no games.
I realize then that it’s time to tell him, and let the chips fall where they may. No more secrets. No more black holes. “I have to tell you something,” I say.
He turns to me, his face half shadowed by the pillow. “Okay?”
“I got into the Stanford program.”
A long pause follows this. His face is hard to read in the dark. “Uh-huh,” he says finally. “Are… Do you think you’ll come back then? After?”
I move an inch closer to him, feeling the warmth radiate off him. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Connor said he’d save my job. But I don’t know. I think it might be time for me to move on.”
He nods, the motion scratching the pillow. “It’s a good school.” His voice is husky.
“Shoshana’s there. And…she might give me a loan. I might let her.”
“Yeah.” He is staring at the wall, not at me.
“But I was thinking…” I reach out to touch his hand. “Maybe you could come too.”
He turns his whole body to me. “To Stanford?”
“Yeah, why not?” I scoot even closer, our knees touching. “I’m sure you could find something out there in IT. It’s California, after all.”
“Right, but…” He lets this trail off. He turns his body again, staring at the ceiling. I can’t see his expression at all. “It wouldn’t work.”
“It could work,” I argue. “Why not? I mean, I know you don’t love Miller and Stein, that you’re too smart for what you’re doing. Why not come?” I put my hand on his chest. “What do you have to lose?”
When he turns to me, there is hurt in his eyes. “Everything.”
His voice vibrates on my hand through his chest. “I know it would be an adjustment but—”
“No,” he says. “You don’t. You have no idea.”
“You’re in tech, James. There’s a ton of jobs out there for people like you.”
He pauses and takes my ha
nd off. “What does that mean, people like me?”
I shake my head. “Not what you think it means.”
At once, he sits up. The sheet yanks away from me. He is rumbling around, bouncing the bed, throwing on his jeans, his shirt.
“James,” I say. “Come on. Don’t leave like this. Let’s talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
I sit up on my elbow. “I don’t mean to pressure you to move. You can visit at least. It’s only a plane ride away.” I am speaking to his back, his beautiful broad back. “It’s only the summer anyway. Who knows what will happen after that.”
He turns and looks at me in the darkness. “I have to go.”
Chapter Ninety-Four
James
For people like you.
The words bounce in my head painfully like rocks. Like sticks and stones from that saying. I can’t believe she would say that. I can’t believe she would do this to me.
Leave.
I run down the street to my car, the snow above my ankles, soaking my shoes. Yanking open the door, I slide into the frigid leather seat.
I can’t go there. Of course, I can’t. I don’t know anyone there. I don’t have my place, my routines. My parents would be too far away. Though, the thought sickens me. My parents. I haven’t even talked to my parents. My fucking father. Who always loved Rob more than me.
People like you.
Losers like you, with Asperger’s. She feels sorry for me is all. She feels fucking sorry for me. The heater shoots cold air straight at me, and I drive too fast through a yellow light.
And what if I did leave? Leave everything I know here, and she didn’t need me anymore? What if she met some other guy, some guy who talks all the time and wears the right clothes…someone who’s actually in her league? What then?
No, I can’t do it. It’s impossible.
My phone rings in my pocket, and when I take it out, I see it’s Dahlia. I turn the ringer off and put it on the seat. The light shines as the phone buzzes on the leather.
No. I can’t do it.
She knows I can’t do it, and she’s leaving anyway. What an idiot I was, to think someone like Dahlia could love me. That she would want to stay with me.