Hope

by Sydney Lane

  In some insane and completely ironic way, he's the glue that holds us together.

  Except he's been falling apart for a while now, and we've let him down. We were all too wrapped up in our little soap opera to notice.

  Looking back, I see the signs. The drinking. The partying. The self-destructive behavior. It's surprising what someone can hide behind a joke and a smile. Some of the happiest people are truly the most sad, their scars running deepest.

  For several moments, I study him and wonder what he's running from.

  "Do you really believe in God?" His question catches me off guard. With his eyes full of anger and pain, his voice is deceptively calm. I get the feeling he's depending on me, this answer, right now.

  "Yes, I do." I speak with conviction because if I believe in anything, it's my faith. "The question is, do you?"

  "I want to." In an instant of vulnerability, his face crumbles, his hands trembling. "I want to so fuckin' bad, but I don't see it. I can't see it."

  "Do you pray?"

  "Nah, man." He shakes his head, and if possible, his eyes grow even darker. He fingers his watch, twisting it back and forth, before continuing. "No reason to. God has never heard me before. Don't see why he'd start listening now."

  "You may not hear him, but he always hears you. He answers. Sometimes, his voice is a thunderous boom, undeniably clear. Other times, the answer is staring us right in the face, and we choose to ignore it. And then, there's the worst- the ones he whispers. So faint that if you aren't listening, they get lost in the wind and all that remains is a feeling that something that should've been... isn't. But, Seth?” He lifts his head in response, his brows arched. "He always answers."

  "In all my life, I've never heard him. Never heard him yell or whisper or any of that bullshit." He winces at his own words, angrily twisting his fingers in his hair and tugging. "I wasn't good enough, never important enough. I don't deserve it."

  "Listen to me," I command. "Listen carefully because I'm only going to say this once. You, Seth Henley, are worthy. Just because I grew up in church and I'm the chaplain doesn't mean I don't make mistakes. I'm far from perfect, and I don't have a direct line to God. The only difference in us, Seth, is that I've learned to stop trying to make sense of the things that aren't meant to be understood." I pause, reflecting on my own life, the mistakes I've made. "Instead of praying for what you want, try praying for what you need. And don't limit yourself. Pray big."

  "I'm afraid." His voice cracks and he quickly averts his gaze.

  "If you weren't afraid, I'd be worried. I mean, we're all afraid of the unknown, aren't we? We're afraid the answers won't be the ones we asked for, and most of the time, they aren't. And thank God for that because he can see things we can't." I lay my hand on his shoulder in encouragement. "Now add that to The Big Book of Sethology."

  Chapter 54

  Eliza

  Pamphlet #2 - University of Tennessee Student Health Services

  Approximately one in four women will experience date rape before or during her college years. Fifty percent of those rapes are committed by a friend or acquaintance. Twenty-seven percent of women who were raped did not realize that what happened met the legal definition of rape. Only twelve percent actually report their assault.

  And people wonder why the world is so screwed up.

  The odds were not in my favor. They never were.

  Twenty-seven percent of women are walking wounded. Going through the motions of life, disconnected and ruined, not fully understanding why they are the way they are.

  I, like them, didn't realize that what happened to me was rape.

  You might ask how that's possible, how a girl could be so stupid. Don't feel bad. I wonder about it, too. As a matter of fact, I don't know how I'll ever understand why I did anything I did after my assault.

  What I do know is this: Once you see it for what it is, you can't unsee it. It's like a movie, replaying in your head again and again, and no matter how hard you wish for a different ending, it never changes. You're still left lying on the floor, broken and bruised, and you're still damaged.

  You were still raped.

  It was so much easier when I believed it was my fault.

  "Liza!" My head jerks up, not sure why Coach would be yelling my name. We're in the fourth inning of our first game, and I'm sitting in my usual spot on the bench. It's where I expected to stay. "You're up!"

  My ears hear what she says, but my mind can't process it. When I only stare at her, she jerks her head toward the field, a look of impatience crossing her face. I slowly stand and walk onto the field. I'm not pitching. No, I haven't earned it yet, but I'm on the field.

  It's just like I imagined... but bigger. Everything is bigger. The stands are huge, filled with more people than the whole town of Somerset had in it. The lights are so bright I can feel their heat in the muggy autumn air. Even the stars are shining brighter in the sky, making the possibilities seem endless.

  As I step up to home plate, my heart beats a crazy stampede across my chest. My mom and dad, Payton, Taylor, they're all here. It was Coach Senton's idea, and right now, I know it was the right thing to do. I love knowing they're here, supporting me, loving me, even though I shut them out.

  The pamphlet says that victims of assault often give up the things they love the most. Well, I gave my family up once; I won't do it again. They were there the night I lost myself, so it only feels right for them to be here when I find myself.

  I take a bat in my hands, adjusting to the familiar sensation of smooth wood against my palms. I dig my foot into the soft dirt and take two practice swings, the whoosh of air as the bat slices through air energizes me, builds my courage.

  I eye the pitcher in front of me. She confidently rolls the ball in her hand, pounding it into her glove. When her eyes meet mine, she smiles like she knows she's got this.

  She has no clue what's about to hit her. I almost feel sorry for her.

  When she rolls her fingers around the ball, placing her knuckles on the seams, and her arm arches in preparation, I recognize the curve ball even before she releases. I so have this.

  Crack! The bat connects with the ball, sending it hard and high into left field. If I wasn't so busy trying to make it to first, I would smile at the utter disbelief on the pitcher's face. As I race past first, I hear cheering, my parents calling my name, over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I run to second base, finally free, running against the wind as I take back my life.

  I bend over, my hands on my thighs, as I struggle to catch my breath. I'm not sure it's possible to smile while gasping for air, but in my mind, I am.

  When our second batter steps up, I take a moment to search the arena. I easily locate my parents and sisters; they're all holding up signs with my number- 10- printed on them. My mom is smiling so bright, it hurts my cheeks to look at her. My dad yells, lifting his sign over his head while Payton and Taylor cheer loudly, pumping their fists in the air. Like my own personal cheerleaders.

  Thank God they never gave up on me.

  I scan the crowd, just one more quick glance, before I focus on the batter. My eyes pass over him the first time but quickly flick back in recognition. My blood runs cold.

  My friend. My attacker. My rapist.

  He smiles, lifting a hand in my direction. That smile tells me so many things.

  It says he's proud of me, his face beaming with pride.

  It says he's still in control.

  It says he wants to pretend like nothing ever happened.

  I hear the sharp crack of the bat against the ball, the loud cheers, my parents and Coach urging me to move, but I'm frozen in place, transported to a different time and place. Like a deer caught in the headlights, I will my body to move, but no matter how hard I try, it won't cooperate.

  His blue eyes, eyes I once trusted, clash with mine. I'm transfixed, slipping into that familiar sea of blue. Drowning.

  It's as if the lights dim and the people and the noi
se fade away. It's just us- my abuser and me. This is it, the moment when I decide what defines me. The moment I decide to live or not. I stare back at him, in wonder and anger. For one second, I try to convince myself that I really did read it all wrong. Maybe I asked for it. Maybe I led him on. No! I slam the door shut on those lies and excuses. I didn't do any of those things.

  I didn't deserve it.

  A voice penetrates the fog of my brain. I hear it clearly, so familiar, so achingly beautiful, that I'm lured from the darkness. I need to know where it's coming from. As I search the stands, my eyes are drawn to one face, one beautiful set of dark brown eyes. His voice becomes clearer, the sound of cheers penetrating the fog in my head.

  "Third! Go to third! Go!"

  "Run, Liza! Run!"

  "Now!"

  At that same moment, I see my teammate charging toward second base, right at me. Without hesitation, and running on pure adrenaline, I bolt toward third base, sliding into the bag just as the third baseman catches the ball and tags my leg.

  The entire crowd rises to their feet in anticipation of the ump's call. I hold my breath, releasing it in a rush as he proclaims, "Safe!"

  I slowly stand, firmly planting my feet on base.

  He is here.

  My family is here.

  Declan is here.

  "Good job, Liza!" Coach Senton yells. When I turn to her, she's smiling. The first time I've ever seen her smile on the field.

  The rest of the game is a blur. I wanted to watch my teammates pull out this win, but my eyes had a different idea- straying over and over again to the smiling brown eyes and adorable dimples of one Declan White.

  And just like that, I feel thirteen again, my heart pitter-pattering at the mere sight of my crush, hoping he likes me as much as I like him, giddy at the idea that he might.

  But I'm all grown up now, and I'm praying he loves me as much as I love him.

  We are way past like.

  Chapter 55

  Declan

  By definition, I'm a stalker. In reality, I'm just a man following his heart.

  Wherever Liza leads, I will follow.

  It doesn't matter that she has no idea I'm dogging her every step. I'm here. I'm ready to catch her if she falls. Always.

  On Wednesday, I watched softball practice from my carefully concealed SUV. I parked between two other cars across the street from the field. From there, I could remain hidden, but it wasn't close enough. Not close enough to drown in her captivating green eyes or kiss her delectable red lips. Not close enough to be granted a snarky smile or to catch her strawberry scent on the breeze. Not. Close. Enough.

  On Thursday, I waited outside her class just to catch a glimpse of her. From across the courtyard, I watched as she appeared in the doorway, hesitating on the steps, her eyes roaming right to left. For a split second, I felt her eyes on me, imagined that we connected, but she moved on, oblivious to my heart beating for hers. I needed her to see me. I wanted her to feel me.

  On Friday, I didn't see her. It was the hardest day of them all. In my heart, I know she loves me, and I understand that she needs time alone... even then, the devil on my shoulder tells me she's moving on. Away from me. That's why she hasn't called. She only used me. She didn't need me the way I thought she did. I need to see her, touch her, convince her that she's mine. I already belong to her.

  Today is Saturday. Game day. I promised to give Liza time, and I have. One week. If she doesn't come to me tonight, I'm gonna bust in all caveman like and carry her away to my secret lair. If she doesn't come easily, I'll throw her over my shoulder, kicking and screaming. I'll make crazy love to her day and night until she can't deny it any longer. She loves me. And I love her.

  I feel all sorts of creepy as I search for a seat in the stands. I want a clear view of the field. It's not like I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm here. I don't care if she sees me. In fact, I want her to.

  I don't know if I'll ever know what made her stop playing ball, or what changed her, but I want to be here to witness her rebirth. Like I told her, I'm not trying to rescue her. I just want to be here when she rescues herself. There's something breathtakingly beautiful about the way she picks up the pieces and molds them back together.

  It's a moment I wouldn't miss for the world.

  The nice guy in me says I should've stayed away, let her come to me. I don't want to rush her or scare her away. But the not-so-nice guy says that I should be right where I am.

  It's obvious which one I chose to listen to.

  A few minutes into the game, Quincy and Jenna, followed by Brody, Seth, Corrine, and Whitney file up the steps, filling the seats beside me. I'm overcome with emotion; their support means so much.

  Can I tell you how awesome my friends are? They showed up for her, for Liza. They made her one of them without hesitating. They knew what she needed, and they came.

  That's what friends are for.

  I'm still reeling from my talk with Seth. I knew something was going on, knew that he wasn't himself, but he completely shocked me with the truth. I never could have imagined the story that fell from his lips, raw and rushed, like if he didn't tell me right then, he might not ever tell me. My brother, my friend... Just goes to show that you never really know some people.

  He needs help. Real help. But that's Seth's story to tell.

  A family two rows in front of us loudly cheers, holding up homemade signs. I'm intrigued by them, one of the girls strangely familiar to me. It's not until I hear them chant Liza's name that I realize that they must be her family. Her sisters. Almost as beautiful as her.

  Liza's up to bat. My eyes are glued to her, to her long legs and the hint of sheer determination in her stride. She takes the bat in her hand, swinging it a few times, looking every bit the athlete she is. I'm enchanted, mesmerized, by her grace and beauty. So strong.

  How could I have ever believed that this girl was broken?

  The crowd goes wild when Liza sends the ball careening far into left field. When she halts at second base, my heart swells with pride. Her face is flushed, glowing with energy and satisfaction. Her eyes briefly flutter closed as she turns her face up to the stars, basking in her newfound freedom.

  Her family rises to their feet, loudly calling her name, encouraging her. Supportive. It would seem that Liza's surrounded by love. If only she would learn to love herself.

  The next batter steps up to the plate, grinding her heel into the dirt. As she prepares to bat, Liza's eyes scan the crowd. Her eyes suspiciously shine when she spots her family, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. And then, she scans the crowd, stopping on someone else, someone I can't see from where I'm sitting. Her eyes dim, and her smile freezes, morphing into a look of sorrow. I stand, searching the crowd for who or what might be upsetting her.

  The quiet is broken by the sharp snap of the bat against the ball. The ball flies through the air, and the batter takes off, rounding first base. Liza stands frozen on second base, the same sad smile stuck on her face. I yell her name. Once. Twice. And then her eyes meet mine.

  My heart stops beating while I hold my breath. The connection between us is palpable, electrifying. I feel her heart reaching out to mine in those few precious seconds, and my heart answers its call. Then, just as suddenly as she froze, she charges forward. The batter is almost to second base when she makes a run for third. She narrowly slides in, her foot touching base only moments before the third baseman tags her leg.

  She's safe!

  When she stands and dusts her pants off, I see a renewed determination in her stance, a fire in her eyes that wasn't there before. The fierce intensity of her gaze burns into me, a reminder of why I love her in the first place.

  For the remainder of the game, I watch her family, her, the rest of the team. She doesn't get to bat again, but her face, filled with strength and resolve, never changes.

  At the end of the game, the players line up on the field, shaking hands with the other team. I stand close to the fence, where
I know the players will walk by on their way back to the dugout. When Liza passes, she's absorbed in thought, her eyes on the ground.

  "Yo, number ten!" I yell, feeling giddy, like a teenager with his first crush.

  Her head jerks up, and she easily finds me. I give her a thumbs up, and she flashes a smile in response, shaking her head at my antics.

  If she can't believe I'm here, then she's really going to have a hard time believing I'm staying. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.

  No one else I'd rather be with.

  Chapter 56

  Eliza

  Pamphlet #3 - University of Tennessee Student Health Services

  Approximately fifty percent of victims of sexual assault are able to maintain healthy romantic relationships while the other fifty percent struggle to define the boundaries and establish the trust necessary to sustain a healthy romantic relationship.

  It's a good thing the odds have been in my favor so far. I was the one in four women who became victims of rape. Therefore, I reason, fifty percent gives me a one of two chance of developing a successful relationship.

  Fear of intimacy, pushing loved ones away, promiscuity, and fear of being blamed are natural responses of rape victims. Heck, they could've written this pamphlet about me.

  Oh, wait. They kind of did. I'm a victim. I'm a survivor.

  I'm not sure I like those words or the way they make me feel.

  Victim. Just saying the word evokes a feeling of weakness deep inside of me, deep down where a damaged seventeen year old still lives. She's a victim, but she's infallible.

  Survivor. Even the word is strong, yet survivors can be so damn fragile.

  It's not exactly what I'd call fair.

  I've been rebuilding my foundation, and for one terrifying moment tonight, I felt as if the ground had opened up beneath me. I saw him for the first time since I left Somerset, and it's messing with my head. Continually, I play the events of that night over and over in my mind, wishing it would end differently or that I could re-write the storyline.