What the hell am I supposed to do with that? “It’s just words.”
“Is it? You have to find your true self. Anger is not your true self. It’s simply an aspect of your personality that takes over to protect you from what experience has taught are very real possibilities. Our emotions are always trying to protect us. If you didn’t have to protect yourself, how would you feel? That’s closer to your true self.”
Whoa … back up a minute. “My true self?”
The sound of steps accompanies his voice. “Yes. You said yourself that you are holding on to your old beliefs and anger. Holding on is as much a choice as letting go. But when you let go, when you truly let go, you are suddenly filled with empty spaces. You miss the burden, the comfort, of what is familiar. As destructive and painful as anger and unforgiveness are, for most people they’re still better than nothing. That anger validates them. Makes them righteous. None of that is your true self.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. I’m getting a headache. “How—how do I fix that? How do I learn to let go and become my true self?”
“It’s different for each person. You can let go a little at a time or all at once. But the key of truly letting go is to fill those empty spaces with something else, so whatever you let go of has no room to come back.”
I rub my temples. My cold hand soothes the building headache. “What do I fill the spaces up with?”
“That’s up to you. Love, hope, kindness, charity. Fill that space and time up with whatever you want as long as it is something good for you and those around you.”
“That’s a lot to think about.”
“Yes, and I’ll let you ponder about that on your own. We have two more meetings to talk about. Tell me about the last time you met your father. You said it was today.”
“We met for breakfast and talked. He’s nice. A good man. The kind of man I always wanted as a father. But now that he’s here, I don’t know what I want.”
“Don’t you?” he challenges me.
“What I want is impossible. What I want doesn’t matter. It will never be.” Why can’t he understand that?
“If by impossible, you mean change the past, then you are right. You can’t change it. But you can change the way you look at it. You can change the way you relate to your past. That’s within your power.”
I laugh. “Power? I have no power.”
“But you do. And we are getting sidetracked again. Working with what you have now—having your father back in your life—what do you want?”
I give in, put into words what I have told no one before. “I want to be loved, cared for. I want someone to care.”
“And your father? What does he want?”
I bite my thumb until it stings. “Forgiveness and to be a part of my life.”
“And why did that upset you so much?”
“Because he already has a family. A perfect one. He has a wife and two kids. I have siblings. I have a brother and a sister. And my father wants me to join them, he wants me to be a part of his family.”
“Isn’t it what you want too? A family?”
“Yes. But how can I? How can I let him—them get closer? My brother, my sister. They’re kids and innocent. How can I let them be tainted by me? By all the horrible things I did?”
“What horrible things?”
“Can we talk about the first time I met him now?” I wait for a response, not sure if he will let it go or ask again.
“Sure. We can. Tell me about the first time you met your father.”
“The first time I met him, it was not what I expected at all.” I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling in the darkening room. “I expected him to be some kind of sleazy asshole. But he wasn’t. He’s young, clean cut, attractive even. And I have his hair and eye color. It was a shock to see so much of myself in this man I had never met.”
“Why did you expect him to be some kind of sleaze asshole?”
“The way my mother always talked about him. She lied. She lied about so many things.”
“What did your mother lie about?”
“Everything. She lied about everything. About his reasons to stay away. About him. Even about me. He didn’t even know he had a daughter. Not until I was seven. And when he found out, she lied to keep him away from me so she could continue to get high and drunk on the money he sent her for child support.” I push the heels of my hands into my forehead and closed my eyes to keep the tears away. “I was so angry. At her for all the lies and at him for believing her and never trying to find me until it was too late.” God. I said too much.
“Why was it too late?”
And there it is. He caught that. I knew he would as soon as I let it slip out. I drag a breath in and pull the blanket over my head, closing my eyes inside my already dark cocoon. The air grows warm and stale in the confined space.
“Because if he had come for me, if he had seen where and how I lived, he would have taken me away, and then Theodore would never have hurt me.” It’s out. I said his name out loud for the first time in years. And it didn’t break me. Not like before when he made me say his name again and again while he hurt me, while he wrapped his hands around my throat and robbed me of air, while he raped me.
The silence that follows is heavy with meaning. “Who’s Theodore?” His voice is so soft, so filled with kindness—I can’t refuse him.
“He was my mother’s boyfriend.”
“What else?”
I could hold my response. I could hang up right now and never call again. No one would know. Except me. I would know, and I’m tired of hiding, lying, and being a coward. “He was my tormentor, my molester … my rapist.”
“Where is Theodore now?”
“Rotting in hell.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Maslow building greets me with its mirrored windows and beautiful lines. I overslept, and I’m late. I hate being late. This disruption of my routine spikes my anxiety and need for control. I’m running now, my heart racing with the exertion, my breath rapid and shallow. With only two minutes before classes start, the halls are mostly empty. I take the stairs two at a time and make my way to the second floor—and come to a halt—my sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor.
I nearly crash into Professor Dick. Inches between us, close enough to inhale his clean scent. It hits me in layers.
Soap.
Aftershave.
Fresh laundry.
He’s wearing a baby-blue shirt under the navy jacket. The first couple buttons are open. My gaze gets snagged in that small space of tanned skin just under his throat. He exhales. A minty taste touches my lips. I look up and find his eyes fixed on me. The color more honey than whiskey in the sunlight filtering through the tall windows.
His size doesn’t instill fear in me like so many other bigger men do. There’s no aggression in his stance, no dominance, no cockiness. He has a solid and stable presence, an inner-calm that reaches out to me and tries to dull my sharp edges. He makes me feel safe. Safe enough to get mad and be rude. That familiar twinge of irritation that shows itself every time we cross paths is slowly awakening and dragging me out of my stupor. Is this a defense mechanism? Because he embarrassed me all those years ago. Because of Tommy? Crap on a cracker! The therapist has me analyzing everything now.
We’re standing still, trapped in a virtual tug-of-war. Neither looking away nor making the first move.
He blinks first, opens his mouth, his body sways a little, his head tilts, he leans in, and—all hell breaks loose. Doors slam above and below. The last few people in the halls are running. The insistent vibration of my cell phone in my pocket has me reaching for it. Professor Dick reaches for his phone at the same time. We look at our screens.
LOCKDOWN
ACTIVE SHOOTER ON CAMPUS.
I freeze.
He doesn’t.
Professor Dick grabs my wrist and pulls me down the hall, I resist, my feet dragging with a squeaking sound. My body wants to fight him—flashb
acks of another hand grabbing me and dragging me fleet before my eyes.
“Becca, please!”
The plea in his voice snaps me out of it. We run up two flights of stairs to the fourth floor. My heart is beating so fast it is pounding in my ears. He comes to a stop so abruptly that I slam into his back. He doesn’t even register it. He lets go of my wrist and pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket. His office. The door opens. He urges me inside first and locks the door behind him. I stand still, paralyzed by indecision. I don’t know what to do. He wedges a chair under the door handle. Then he steps back and pulls me with him to the floor. We sit with our backs against a bookcase. His chest expanding and contracting with each rapid breath. I’m breathing just as fast, my chest burns with each inhale. The phone buzzes in my hand again. I look at the screen, but the same message as before appears.
Jesus! I never expected to see that message in the campus-wide notification system. We get weather-related messages. Classes canceled because of a snowstorm. But nothing like this. My hands tremble, and I lay the phone on the floor next to my backpack.
“W-what will h-happen?” I’m shaking so much my voice stutters. Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t catch my breath. I suck in air in big gulps, but it’s not enough.
We’re sitting shoulder to shoulder.
He moves and puts an arm around me. “You’re safe.”
Of all the things he could have said, this is what I needed to hear most.
He tugs me closer. “Shhhhh, it’s okay. It will be okay.”
His presence, his scent, his voice, the heat of his body pressed against mine—all of it seeps into me layer by layer, slowly breaking into my panic attack and dragging me out of it.
His touch, the gentle pressure, calms me down. I should be terrified right now. I should be terrified because I’m locked in a room with a man who could easily overpower me. And no one knows I’m here. And yet, I feel safe. Perhaps because he’s Tommy’s brother, and I trust Tommy. Perhaps because he never made me feel like an object to be used.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s here to talk me off the ledge, to guide me back into reason. Relief washes over me like a tidal wave, slow to rise and then all at once. I shudder. He pulls me closer, tucks me into his chest. His chin rests on my head, and he makes soothing sounds while rubbing my back with one hand and my head with the other. The hum so quiet, it’s more of a flutter against my skin than a melody. Gentle fingers comb through my hair. I don’t resist. I don’t pull away. I wrap myself around him, nestle closer still. Allow myself to be in this moment, drinking in the heat of his body and the comfort of his embrace. Savor the safety of hands that mean no harm. I close my eyes.
Our breaths slow, his beating heart under my ear is strong and steady. Minutes pass. His hands slow until they just hold me.
I should move. I should stop this right now. But I stay. I don’t dare even speak. I don’t want to break away. I don’t want to burst this bubble. I’m in an alternate universe. I like it here. Time stands still inside his embrace.
Our phones vibrate. We don’t move. We stay. There are sounds now. Coming through the door. Steps, people talking. Movement outside. More messages on our phones. The sounds out in the hall get louder, dozens of voices. The outside coming in, breaking this—whatever this is.
His lips press against the top of my head. Not quite a kiss. He inhales deeply. I do the same and fill my lungs with his scent. I want to hold on to this moment, freeze time, and stay here. I crave his touch, the safety of his arms around me. I mourn the impending loss of his embrace. How can I yearn for something I never even knew I wanted?
He disengages from me. Pushes me back with tender hands. We touch no more but the physical sensations linger. My skin prickles under the intensity of his gaze. But coward that I am, I don’t meet his eyes. I look around instead.
I’ve never been in his office. It’s small. The walls painted sage green. There’s a dark wooden desk, a chocolate-brown leather chair and a bookcase behind us. The window lets the sunlight in. The rug under us is also dark brown. The space is masculine, austere even. But spotless. No dust, no empty bottles or old coffee cups. He gets up, standing in front of me. I stare at his shoes.
“Becca?”
I look up, his hand waits for mine. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet.
“You okay?” He bends his head, trying to catch my eyes.
I look up. “Yeah, thanks. I’m okay.” There’s no judgment. No inquisition. No coldness in his gaze or voice. And it’s like I’m seeing a different person. Or like I’m seeing him for the first time. Who’s this man standing in front of me? So cold one moment and so kind the next? What is he hiding behind the harsh façade?
I want to take a step closer to him, push into his chest and lock his arms around me again. Find that safe place I’ve craved my entire life.
I don’t recognize him or myself in this moment. We are two different people, pushed together by circumstance and playing a role neither is sure of.
It’s too much. I grab my backpack and cell phone from the floor. There are several messages. Some from the school with updates. They got the guy. The shooter. They have canceled classes. Students are advised to stay in their dorms or leave campus. There are messages from River and my father. And one from Tommy.
I look at him. “Tommy is okay.”
He looks at his own phone, and his eyes widen. “Jesus. Tommy! I forgot about him.”
He mouths the words, but I read his lips. The words are as clear to me as if he had said them out loud.
“What?” I try to catch his gaze, hold on to the magic a little longer.
His face goes distant. His shoulders straighten back, becoming rigid. Does he blame me for not thinking of Tommy?
He steps aside, moves the chair away from the door. Opens it.
“Miss Jones.” He gestures toward the hall.
Message received loud and clear. He wants me out. Whatever happened in this room is now gone. And I don’t think I’ll ever find it again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“How could I forget Tommy?” My brother. My only family.
And what for? A girl I barely know, but can’t stop thinking about.
I pace the small space in my office, talking to myself.
“But she was so scared.” All I could think of was keeping her safe. Taking her from harm’s way. Protecting her. I want to reach out and erase the pain I see in her eyes. And hurt whoever put it there.
“If something had happened to Tommy, I would never forgive myself.”
I can’t have someone else die because of me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The campus is total chaos. There are people everywhere, some crying, some huddled in small groups, some hugging and some standing as if in shock. Students, police, and EMTs litter the way. I cut through the throngs of people and walk to the dorms, catching snippets of conversations here and there.
There was a shooter on campus.
The police got him.
He was at the Jane Austen building.
No one got hurt.
My phone keeps buzzing in my hand. There are messages from my father, from River and Tommy. I ignore all of them, instead rushing for the safety of my room. For the only space that’s mine, even if it’s temporary. I need to put distance between myself and the moments I shared with Dylan. I miss his touch. I miss the comfort of his presence and the care with which he held me. The time we spent together brought to light a hole in my heart. An empty space I wasn’t aware was there. And a sweet ache of longing I never imagined possible.
What is this? How could he have done so much damage to my defenses in so little time?
I make it to my room and lock the door behind me. I fall against it, my body heavy like lead. The space from the door to my bed may as well be miles away. I let my backpack drop to the floor, kick off my sneakers, stagger the few steps and fall backward into my bed. I stare at the ceiling as if it could give me answers to qu
estions I don’t even know how to ask.
My phone buzzes again.
River: Are you okay? Where are you?
I drop the phone to my chest, squeeze my eyes shut, drag in a breath, release. Shake my hands as if the physical motion could also shake off my thoughts. Pick up the phone again.
Becca: Yes, I’m fine. I’m in my room.
My hands still tremble. I can barely type.
River: Jesus! Why didn’t you respond before?
I call her. She answers before the first ring ends.
“Where were you? I’ve been texting you for over an hour.” The worry in River’s voice is unmistakable.
“I’m sorry. I was in Maslow. Almost to my classroom when the alert went out.” I sit up, and I’m momentarily dizzy.
“I saw people from your classroom, they said you weren’t there.”
“No, I never made it inside. I was in the hall when all the doors began to close and lock.”
“Oh my God, where did you go?”
“I was … I was with Professor Dick.” I can’t still believe it myself. Did I imagine it?
“What? How?” Her voice drops to a whisper.
I lie down again. “He was in the hall too. I nearly slammed into him running up the steps to the second floor. When the lockdown message came through, he grabbed me and we ran to his office.”
“He saved you!”
Did he save me? “Technically, I was never in danger because the guy was not in Maslow.”
“Pfft,” she makes a dismissive sound. “He didn’t know that, and neither did you.”
I shift the conversation to her. “What about you? And Skye? Doesn’t she have most of her classes in the Jane Austen building?”
“I was in my class. Everyone is fine. But Skye—God. She was there. And the guy, the shooter? He’s one of her professors’ husband. And Skye was in that professor’s classroom.”
I almost drop my phone. “Jesus! Is she okay? That must have been terrifying.”
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 13