Chapter 29
It’s happening again.
I feel the unbearable weight of it over my head, know what’s coming even before it arrives. I stand in the hallway of my house, staring into the kitchen. Every cupboard is open, bare. There is nothing.
“It’s your fault, Tulip.”
I run to the kitchen, panting, searching everywhere—every shelf, every corner, under the table, behind the TV, even pull the cushions off the couch and throw them over my shoulder.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then I know: It’s coming. I have to get out of this house—out of this town!—or it will happen again.
But when I turn, Dad’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. He’s wearing Mom’s old apron, the one she used to wear when she cooked bacon and breakfast sausage drizzled with maple syrup. The one she had on when he laughed and told her that wasn’t a breakfast for a child. She swatted away his hands and said I deserved a treat.
She didn’t know what would become of us. How could she have known?
Dad stands in front of the stove, between me and the door. I’ll have to dodge him to make it past. His shoulders slump.
I take a step, uncertain how to escape. Sure only that I’d rather be dead than here in this moment again.
“There’s nothing left, Tulip. Nothing but you.”
“No.”
He nods gravely. “He’s coming.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
I run. Around Dad, into the hall, stretching, reaching, grasping for the door. But Dad is already there, looking at me sadly. His hand is on the doorknob to stop me from getting through. “Go get ready.”
“No.”
Dad ignores me, looks out the window.
“No! Dad. I’m not going to do it this time!”
He glances at me, like I don’t know myself. And my feet are taking me to my room. But there’s no lock on the door. No way to stop it.
“No!”
“Tully!”
Hands on my arms, fighting me. And I will fight. The fear is gone and I am my own monster, spitting, clawing. I will tear, I will—
“Tully, wake up! It’s a dream. Tully, please—”
I jolt awake, clawing for the surface, and Chris is there, eyes wide, his shoulders heaving.
“Are you awake?” he says in a voice strained with fear, his palms cupping my face.
“Yes.” I pant. Something in him settles then. I feel him let go, feel his relief.
That’s when I notice his arms are bare. I’ve been gripping him, letting him in my skin.
I yank my hands back into my lap, try to press myself into the wall behind me, curl my knees up between us. Chris rubs my arms, murmuring comfort. I thank God for him, and wish him away in the same breath.
We sit like that for a while. The terror seeps out slowly, until there is only fear.
“Tully, what . . . Tully, talk to me.”
“I can’t.” I drop my forehead to my knees.
“I think you have to.” He exhales hard. “You were screaming, Tully. You were acting like . . . like someone . . . like you were being attacked.”
A shudder rips through my entire body and then he’s hugging me. I am surrounded by him, his warmth, his scent, his love.
“Stop.” I plead with him, even though I don’t mean it.
He combs his fingers into my hair, pushing it back over my shoulders. “No,” he says finally. “I’m not leaving you this time.”
“You have to,” I whisper. “You really have to, Chris.”
“No.” There’s an ending in his voice. He won’t be moved. “Tell me.” He sounds scared, but determined. I shake my head, but I can feel myself cracking.
No one knows this except Dad. Not even Rudy. No one knows my darkness. What I’m capable of. But I can feel the words punching for the surface.
“Tell me,” he whispers. His hands slide up to frame my face again. “I think you have to.”
I meet his shining gaze with my own clouded one, begin to tremble. But he doesn’t move, just waits.
“There was a time . . .” I croak, then clear my throat and turn away because I can’t see his reaction when he hears this. “Dad lost his job. He spent what money we had on alcohol. The electricity got cut off, and the phone. There wasn’t even any food.”
Tremors wrack me from head to toe. The only warm thing in me is the skin under his hands.
“What happened?”
Before that night I hadn’t been home in over a week. I’d been staying with friends. Sleeping wherever I was even a tiny bit welcome, with anyone who could feed me. But very quickly there was nowhere else to go. No one else to tap for a favor. And I was hungry.
I wrap my arms around my middle, where the hole is, where the black is, where it’s hopeless.
My voice cracks. “He was gone really late. Even later than usual. I thought . . . I thought maybe he left. Or got himself killed. I was terrified. There was no food. I didn’t have any money.” I exhale. “I went to sleep. But when I woke up he was in my room. He’d brought . . .” I stop. There’s a sword in my throat.
I can’t say it.
Tulip.
“Tully.”
Tulip, this is my friend. It’s the only way, honey. He’ll be careful. We need the money.
My stomach heaves.
“Tully, what are you saying?”
But, Dad . . .
Just be quiet, be a good girl. You done this before. No big deal. He’ll be careful. He promised.
Dad was right, of course. I had done it before. But not like this. Not for any reason except escape. Always on my own terms. Always guys I chose. I opened my mouth to tell Dad this, but he was already shifting.
Shadows move in my room. The side of my bed dips.
The voice that haunts my dreams is whispering in my ear. Cold hands breach the blankets and I flinch.
Don’t worry, Beautiful. It won’t hurt a bit.
I make myself meet Chris’s shocked expression, let him see the fracture in me, let him see everything that’s wrong. I put a shaking hand to his cheek and admit it all.
I didn’t say no.
I wish I had.
If I could do anything now, I’d say no.
Aloud I say, “If I’d known you would come into my life, if I’d known you existed, I would have said no.”
Chris reels, pulls back, hands in his hair, horror etched into his features. I watch him break apart. Watch my words sink into his bones and wish them back.
Ever since that day my shame has been a thing with claws, tearing at me until there’s nothing left.
Now it’s come for him, too.
Chapter 30
After my confession, my stomach clenches and I scramble to the bathroom, heaving. I stay there for what feels like hours until I am calm. Until I have a plan. When I finally leave, Chris is waiting for me. I grab my bag from the floor and cross the room.
“What are you doing?” Chris asks, eyes wide and red-rimmed. There’s a murkiness behind them I’ve never seen before, and I’m sick because I put it there.
“Leaving.” I need to go somewhere where no one can find me. Where another punch can’t be thrown until I’m strong enough to take it.
“No, Tully. Please stay here. I don’t ever want you going back there.” Chris steps forward and hugs me. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine.”
I shudder and he pulls me closer, and I want to relax into him. To let him love me. But I am stiff. Unable to melt into him. Unable to trust his words.
It’s not that I think he’ll leave. Not yet. Not tonight. But I don’t know how to be with him now that he knows.
I let him lead me to his bedroom, where together we slide under the patchwork quilt his mom prob
ably sewed. The irony of the moment, of finally getting Chris into bed just when I can’t stand the thought of touching him, isn’t lost on me. There’s a foot of space between us and I won’t cross it.
Both of us examine the ceiling. Both take too many pauses.
He’s the one brave enough to speak first. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
Hesitation. “That’s rape.”
I jerk at the word. “It wasn’t. I said yes.”
Chris snaps his head around to me. “You were fifteen!”
“So?”
“You can’t be serious?” His voice has crawled higher. He’s incredulous.
He’s pissing me off. “Yes. Actually. I can.”
“Tully—”
“Don’t.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
I huff without humor. “You’re going to tell me that I was too young and they put me in that position and I’m not to blame and blah, blah, blah,” I spit.
Chris turns to face me, folds an arm up under his head. “And I’m wrong?”
I can’t have this conversation. I’m terrified he’ll touch my hand and feel this torrent pounding at me. I teeter on the edge of self-destruction and the only way to survive this is to shut down. To keep myself separate. Without emotion. Including his. I don’t have room to carry his pity, or his fear. Not even his love.
“You have no idea.” I know my voice is cold. I know he doesn’t deserve my sneer. But frankly, I’m sick of his naïveté.
“So why don’t you tell me?” he asks carefully.
I pull the quilt up around my chin, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“Tully?”
“It wasn’t . . .” I trail off. The words are so full and ripe in my head, but so empty in the air. I know he’ll never understand.
“It wasn’t what?”
I want to be anywhere but here. Almost anywhere. “It wasn’t like it was my first time. Not even close.”
His swallow is audible, but he doesn’t say anything.
Self-loathing roils inside me. “And it wasn’t like they didn’t give me a choice.” It sounds pathetic, even to me.
Chris scoffs. “Choice? You’re kidding, right? This is the same guy who left bruises on your face and tore your hair out?”
“He didn’t do anything that night. He just asked.” Inside, I’m squirming.
“He brought a man to his daughter’s bed for . . . for money!” he yells, then rolls over, covering his face with his hands.
I flinch. I hate hearing it put into words. But I also know how it was. And he doesn’t.
Sure, Dad probably would have gotten pissed if I’d said no. But I’d been dealing with that for years at that point. I didn’t say yes because I was afraid of getting hurt. I said yes because I was hungry and I thought it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t the first—or the last—that I’d give myself to. Just the only one I hadn’t chosen for myself.
“I’m sorry,” Chris says quietly a minute later, dropping his hands to his sides. “I shouldn’t have yelled. It’s not you I’m mad at.”
“You should be mad at me. It was my choice and I made it. And it ruined me.” My voice breaks on the last word.
He pushes himself up on an elbow. “It didn’t ruin you, Tully. It hurt you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Chris, would you stop trying to turn me into some victim!”
He gives me a blank look. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Every day. You blame all my problems on other people. You see things in me that aren’t there. And you try to tell me I’m not what I know I am. I don’t know who you see when you look at me, but it isn’t me!”
He reaches for me. “I see a beautiful girl who—”
I’m on my feet and planted on the carpet next to the bed before he can say another word. “No. No! See, that’s what I mean. You can’t whitewash me into purity, Chris.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Bullshit!”
“I’m trying to help! Trying to understand where you’re coming from!”
I stand up straight and put my hands on my hips. “Perfect, then understand this: I am not a good person. I use sex to get what I want, and I use drugs and alcohol to escape the things I hate. I hate what I did that night, but I did it! Me! And that’s the reason I hate it so much. That’s the reason I never told anyone. Because I had control that night and I went and made a decision that I regret. No one else can take that away. So stop trying! Stop trying to paint me as some kind of . . . of . . .”
Chris gets out of bed, too, stands in front of me, flannel pants hanging off his hips. He is soft. Concerned. I need him to be angry. Otherwise it’s like throwing a punch underwater. I can’t get any momentum.
“You’re right about one thing,” he says carefully. “No one can take away what happened. I don’t think it’s your fault, but if you do—if you think this is all on you, anyone could forgive you. I could.”
My head jerks back on the word. Forgive?
“If you say you’re to blame for that night, it doesn’t matter what I think,” he continues thickly. “If you’re sure you could have stopped it and you didn’t, then I guess you have to live with that. But it doesn’t mean I can’t forgive you for it.” He pauses. “And I sure as heck hope you can forgive yourself.”
I am a whirlwind of emotions, weirdly and wildly raging at him for not disagreeing with me, knowing that’s unfair when I insist on taking responsibility, but feeling it anyway. Yet simultaneously floored that he can just wipe it clean like that.
“It isn’t yours to forgive,” I say, my tongue struggling to form the words.
He never breaks eye contact. “Sure it is. I don’t want anyone to hurt you. And you’re saying you hurt yourself. So I forgive you for the thing you did that makes you feel so bad. I forgive you, even if you can’t forgive yourself. I don’t hold it against you. I won’t throw it in your face if you make another mistake.” He hesitates. “Tully . . . I love you.”
“No!” I scramble back, put a half dozen steps between us, my hands up. “Don’t!”
His face gets softer. “I mean it.”
“Don’t!” I flinch.
“Tully—”
“No! Leave me alone!” I race out of his room and down the hall, swallowing tears. Thinking the words I can’t give voice to.
Don’t try to heal what has already scarred.
Don’t take this dark and dangerous thing and put our love inside it.
It will die there.
I think maybe it already has.
Chapter 31
The rest of the weekend is heartbreaking. We spend most of it circling each other without speaking. Chris, because he’s afraid of hurting me further. Me, delaying the inevitable. No matter what he says, my confession sits between us now, a red-eyed monster, reeking, souring the air. This day was always coming. I just wish it had taken longer to arrive.
By Monday it’s so awkward it’s painful. Chris drives me to school in the heavy silence and parks as close to the main entrance as he can. It’s raining, which feels right. The grinding of the emergency break as he pulls it up snaps me out of a daydream where I never told Chris the truth.
He unclicks his seat belt, but doesn’t get out of the car. Neither do I. Because this is it. The last moment before we walk away. And I, for one, won’t be coming back.
“Will you be careful today, please?” he asks softly.
I’m surprised. “Careful of what?”
“Yourself.” He turns and I feel naked in front of him, and not in the good way.
“Sure,” I say, even though I have no idea what he’s asking for.
His expression turns skeptical, so I turn away and put my hand on the door handle.
“Tully . . .”
I turn back, reluctantly. He’s holding out his hand.
I stare at his open palm, inwardly listing all the risks that would come with placing mine in it. “Not today.”
“But, Tully—”
I open my door and get out of the car, ignoring his voice and the sound of him following. I beat him to the main entrance and plow into the Monday-morning crowd. I’m smaller and more motivated. He can’t catch me before I dodge into one of the girls’ bathrooms.
But I do make the mistake of glancing back as the door swings shut. He’s there, reaching for me. He has to pull his hand back to stop the door from closing on it. It’s the perfect image of the shitstorm we just walked through. Because I know if I let him, he’d keep trying to help. Trying to get close. But I’m slamming every door in his face.
If he isn’t careful, he’ll lose a limb.
~
I ditch woodshop for the first time ever. I’m trying to get my feet under me again. Trying to find my way back to who I was two months ago, the strength I had. The walls. I don’t want to go home before school’s out because I’m not sure when Dad’s shift starts. I don’t think I could handle seeing him. Not yet. There are too many questions I don’t have the answers for. So instead, I hide in the handicapped bathroom and read.
Before the bell rings for lunch, I head to my locker. I’m going to my afternoon classes to kill time—and because Chris isn’t in any of them. I dig through the trash and torn books to find my folder and my history textbook. Then I straighten and close the locker door, freezing in place because Rudy’s standing next to me with a slimy grin, hair falling into his eyes in oily clumps.
“You missed class. Golden Boy looked pissed,” he says. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Fuck off, Rudy,” I grumble. Incapable even of putting heat in my voice.
“He’ll never understand people like us, you know.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “What did you say?”
Rudy sidles closer. “You know we always had something different, Tully. Something other people don’t understand. But that was our thing, right?”
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