by Ginger Scott
My head feels fuller with every beat of the music, and it’s making it hard to see. I trace the walls of the interior, searching for anything that might get me through the next thirty minutes, my gut sinking, knowing it will probably be an hour. When I finally spot an open sofa, I move to it, my purse in my hands, my drink on the table behind me. I tuck myself into the corner cushions, then look over the other women sitting near me so I can emulate their behavior. All I want to do is fit in long enough to leave.
I settle on curling one leg under the other, then I pull my purse close, next to me and remove my phone, opening the text box. I think about texting Lindsey for a rescue, but then I remember Andrew—he’s telling her.
I can’t call Lindsey. She might not even come after he tells her everything.
My eyes fall to my lap and I slip my phone back into my purse. Graham finds me a few minutes later, and my stomach sinks when I see him hold a finger up to a friend and weave through the people to get closer to me. The heat of him next to me as he sits down close on the sofa repulses me.
“You want me to take you home?” he asks.
Yes! Yes, this is what I want. He’s not a bad guy, and he gets it. Oh thank god.
I nod and apologize. “I’m just not feeling very well,” I say.
He smiles, but briefly, knocking back the rest of his drink—the new one brought to him a few seconds ago from the waiter he badgered and bullied—then plunks his glass down on the small metal table in front of us.
“I’ll take you home,” he says.
I move my purse in front of me, looping the strap over my neck, relieved and ready to go. As I uncross my legs, I feel the eerie tickle of his finger sliding up my left thigh, stopping at the hem of my dress. My leg jerks in response. Graham chuckles, the sound escaping his throat raspy and dirty.
“Come on,” he nudges over his shoulder, standing and pulling out his wallet. I notice several hundred dollar bills unfold before he gets to two twenties. He steps over to his friend and hands them to him, then reaches for my hand, tugging it completely into his grip. My instincts are screaming at me to fight against it. But I desperately want to leave, and right now, this seems like my only way home.
We get out front and Graham practically drags me to the corner, stopping abruptly, looking both ways, then dragging me behind him across the street. My foot jerks and I feel one of my heels break off, so I hop a few steps, his hand still grasping mine.
“My shoe!” I scream.
He looks down at my feet behind him, sighing heavily as I take my shoes off. His hand reaches for my arm when I do, and as soon as I’m able to walk, he drags me to the other side of the street.
“Cabs are easier to get over here,” he grumbles.
We rush to the corner, a closed art gallery and several dark office lobbies lining the sidewalk. We pause by a metal trashcan, and I lean against it to lift my feet one at a time and look at their bottoms, inspecting for cuts. The blacktop has already stained them, and there’s a pebble lodged in the skin of one. I pull it out with my fingers, and as I’m leaning forward I feel the snaking sensation of Graham’s hand on my bare back. I arch myself away from him, straightening up quickly as I take a step away, leaving my broken shoes on the ground near the trashcan.
Graham holds both of his hands up innocently, his eyes still hazy and his mouth in a hard line. His right leg leans a little too far and he falters, but regains his balance quickly, his eyes on me the entire time. I look to the road, looking for a cab to call on my own, and in that second, he reaches for me again, this time his hand grasping around my side, his fingers sliding around my ribs, to my back, pulling up the material gathered around my lower back and causing my skirt to hike up several inches as he pulls me to him.
I shove my hands into his chest, forcing space between us, but I’m no match for his strength as I struggle against him. I feel his hand slide around my back completely, into the scooped curve of my dress, his fingers clawing at my ass. I bring my knee up, but he anticipates me and blocks my blow, turning enough to the side.
“Isn’t this how your man Andrew likes it?” he huffs. His hold is rough, bruising my body everywhere he grips it, and I start to cry.
“Let go! Graham, let go of me!” I scream, my words muffled against his mouth as he forces a kiss on me, his beard scratching at my face and his breath hot. I push so hard that the strap on my purse breaks, and I feel my things fall to the sidewalk below us. I also feel Graham’s other hand reach around me to force me even tighter into him. He tastes of old whiskey and stale smoke.
He growls as I shove against him hard, breaking his hold enough to get a foot of space from him, enough room to scream.
“Help me! Somebody!” My voice echoes, and I notice a few people across the street turn their attention toward us, but they move in slow motion—everything does. I can’t tell if they’re ignoring us, or coming to help, and soon Graham’s hand is cupping my mouth. He’s intoxicated and his fingers are messy, one of them at the part of my lips, so I open my mouth and grip what I can with my teeth, biting hard and fast. He rips his hand away, but flings his fist at me in an instant, his blow landing on my right cheek and sending my body to the ground on my knees.
“You bitch!” he yells, and I see him lunge at me from the corner of my eye. Before he reaches me, a pair of arms scoop under me and push me toward an open cab, and I notice one of Graham’s friends holding him, pushing him backward several steps as the door closes on me. My belongings are thrown in next to me, and the cab driver looks over the seat mouthing something. I can’t hear him—every noise a siren blaring in my ears, until finally I’m able to read his lips.
What’s your address?
I manage to give him my building, and as the car begins to roll into traffic and Graham’s figure fades from view, I start to cry harder, not stopping until the cab slows in front of my building and an angel is waiting for me on the curb.
Chapter 18
Emma
The light is dim, but it still feels too bright for my eyes. I hold my hand over my face, stretching my other arm and legs out, feeling the burn in my muscles and remembering the bruises on my skin. My fingers are cool over my eyes, and I leave them there until they warm.
I know where I am.
I’m glad I’m here.
I’m scared I’m here.
I wanted to be here, but never like this.
I pull my hand away and roll to the side. I felt Andrew leave the bed sometime early this morning. I thought about waking, but I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t want him to look at me—to see me like this. I feel weak and ashamed. And I feel alone.
Pulling in the heavy blue quilt to my body, I take in the scent on the material. It reminds me of young Andrew, and as I let my eyes look over the thinning fabric squares, I wonder to myself if he’s had this blanket since high school. I smile at the thought of it—imagining him bringing pieces of home here to college with him. Then I wonder if he got to bring these same things to Lake Crest, and my smile fades.
There’s a sound in the hallway, and I watch for movement under the door, wondering if Andrew’s out there, if he’ll come inside to check on me. Several minutes pass, though, so I finally leave the bed and shuffle slowly around his room to his dresser, pulling a few drawers open until I find one with a pair of sweatpants inside. I pull them on, rolling the top twice to keep them up on my waist. It feels good to dress in his things; it feels…safe. The clothes in my bag feel stiff—I don’t want them.
I pause with my hand on his doorknob, closing my eyes and breathing in slowly as I twist and open his door out to the hallway. I see the bathroom across from me and wince at the thought of what Andrew did for me last night, what he could have seen. I know he didn’t look though. As dazed as I was, I know because I watched him. I scoot across the hall to pee, then wash my hands and shut the light off behind me as I slide slowly down the rest of the hallway to the sound of the television blaring. There’s a head leaning on t
he back of the sofa, and I recognize his roommate quickly, the crunch of the cereal as he scoops it from the bowl in his lap making me smile.
“Hi,” I squeak. He jumps slightly, craning his neck to look at me, then moving fast to place his bowl onto the coffee table in front of him as his long legs maneuver around furniture into the kitchen.
“Emma, yeah. Hi…uh…Drew…he’s…he’s not back yet. Shit, uhm…you want breakfast?” he says, stumbling about the kitchen, opening cabinets and searching for something for me to eat. I’m not hungry. My stomach still feels sick.
“I’m okay. Thank you,” I say.
He shuts all of the doors again, then leans against the counter, looking at me, his eyes scanning around the room.
“Can I get you something? I don’t know, blanket maybe? Or…do you want to watch TV?” He rushes back into the living room and starts picking things up, turning the volume down on the program he was watching and glancing up at me every so often. It’s sweet.
“Really, I’m okay. I…I was looking for Andrew,” I say, my eyes falling, embarrassed about why I’m here, that I need someone—that I need him. I know I shouldn’t be, but I feel so helpless.
“He’s at work,” he says.
“At…at that gym?” I ask, the thought of Andrew getting hit by someone squeezing my heart.
Trent chuckles lightly and looks at his feet, shaking his head. “No, his real job,” he says. “He’s at the elementary on Fourteenth. He’s probably coloring right now.”
My lips form a tight smile at the mental picture that paints.
“Coloring,” I repeat.
Trent nods and laughs again. “Yep, Harper’s one bad-ass colorer,” he says.
Looking down, I let my smile grow slightly bigger. My feet are bare, and the chill hits them. I wiggle my toes.
“You need some shoes?” Trent asks. I laugh once to myself then look up at him, holding my arms out to show off my Andrew wardrobe.
“Andrew packed my bag, but he didn’t include footwear,” I shrug. “Seems I need a little of everything.”
Trent nods, then holds up a finger and jogs back to his room. I wait in the middle of his living room, listening to the sounds of drawers sliding open and his closet door closing. He comes out with a pair of short socks and sport sandals.
“Here,” he says, motioning to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
I step around to the front, and he kneels in front of me, handing me the socks to put on. I slip them on quickly then put my feet on the floor so he can slide them into the sandals and adjust the Velcro so they don’t come loose.
“You’re like Prince Charming, only instead of a glass slipper, it’s an old Adidas sandal,” I laugh, holding my foot out and moving it to test to be sure the shoe doesn’t fall away. Trent laughs with me.
“I guess so,” he says. “Only, don’t tell Drew that. He’ll rip my head off if he hears you call me Prince Charming. That’s his job.”
I keep my eyes on him, and he glances up at me a few times, his lips in a tight smile, perhaps a little guilty for selling his friend’s feelings out to me. I’m glad he did, though. And he’s right—it is Andrew’s job.
I head down the hall for a quick glance in the bathroom mirror then walk to Andrew’s room to grab my broken purse and keys. Trent catches me before I leave completely, asking if I want a ride, but as much as I appreciate the gesture, I also want to go to Andrew alone. He seems okay with my “Thanks, but no thanks.”
I leave their apartment, looking like a member of the Tech hockey team. It’s still early, maybe not quite seven, and the traffic on the road is light. The fall weather is growing colder, and I notice my breath form a small cloud in front of me as I walk. I blow hard once just to test. I love it when the weather is like this.
I pass a few people walking their dogs, and I push my hair forward, wanting to hide the glaring bruise on my face. I don’t know what drove me to leave the safety of his apartment this morning, only that I had to see him. I have to thank him, and it doesn’t feel like it can wait. When I reach the school, I notice a few cars pull up to a main lot, parents stepping out and walking young kids up to a side building. I head to the open door, holding it as a woman walks out, her phone resting between her cheek and shoulder as she mouths thanks and passes me.
When I glance inside, I see Andrew’s back to me; he’s sitting on a long lunch-table bench with about a dozen six and seven-year-old girls gathered around him—all of them coloring. His hair is messy, tousled in varied directions, and he’s wearing his black, long-sleeved shirt with gray jeans, the laces from his Converse shoes dangling off to the sides, waiting to trip him.
He looks like an innocent little boy in a man’s body as his arm shakes from side to side with his coloring, his head leaning and his other hand twisting the paper in a slow circle so he can fill up something with the bright blue in his hand.
There’s a tiny girl sitting next to him, her legs folded up as she sits sideways and watches him color. “Use pink next,” she says, her voice high and precious. Her ponytails flop next to her face as she turns her head toward me and grins. She’s missing two of her teeth on the top, but she’s smiling like a supermodel. I hold a hand up and bunch my fingers in a wave. She waves back, then taps Andrew on the shoulder, scooting up on her heels to reach his ear. When she’s done whispering, Andrew flips his body around quickly, his eyes wide on me.
“Sorry…Trent…he told me you were here,” I say. His shocked look fades into a happy one, and he holds his crayon out for the young girl next to him to take.
“Kaitlyn, you mind finishing?” he asks. She pouts at first, but he brings both of his hands together in a begging motion and she finally sighs and begins coloring.
It takes him a few seconds to untangle his long legs from the bench that’s clearly too small for him, then he looks over at the group of coloring girls until he reaches me.
“Just like you to have all the girls hovering around you,” I tease.
He laughs, looking down and pushing his hands in his pockets, twisting one foot nervously as he nods in agreement, his eyes finally meeting mine. He squints the left one closed slightly, his right lip curling up—he’s adorable. He’s always been adorable.
“The boys all sleep in, so I don’t get to play the boy things until the bell almost rings. They’re lazy, I guess. The girls all get here right when I open up,” he shrugs.
“I don’t think they’re lazy,” I smile. “I think the girls just really like you.”
He sucks in his bottom lip and nods to one side.
“Maybe,” he grins. His gaze shifts from my eyes to the bruise on my right cheek, and I bring my hand up, sweeping hair back in the way to hide it. Andrew reaches to me slowly though, pausing to make sure it’s okay that he approaches me. He’s being cautious. He moves my hair back out of the way when I nod that it’s okay, then leans his head to the side to look at my face, running the backs of his knuckles down my cheek slowly. It burns along my tender skin.
“It’s not a very deep bruise,” he says, tracing the skin one more time with his thumb. “I think it will start to fade quickly. It already looks better than it did.”
His eyes come back to mine, and I notice the deep cut and stitches on his chin. This time it’s my turn to assess the damage, and I run my finger along the rough edge of the threading then flit my eyes to his.
“You have another fight?” I ask, my gut twisting at the memory of what Graham said, that he plans on fighting Andrew. I wonder if that’s true.
Andrew’s brow lowers and he purses his lips.
“What?” I ask, worried that he may have done something else, that he might have hunted down Graham early this morning.
“Lindsey…” he starts, and I pinch my brow. “I…I told her the truth. And maybe I wasn’t quite as…sensitive in my delivery as I should be?”
His face is bunched, not even hiding his shame, and my stomach sinks a little.
“So you did…tell her,” I say
. He said he would, and I had a feeling he would follow through. But that means Lindsey is probably angry with me.
“It’s going to be okay, Emma. I promise,” he says, cupping the side of my face with one hand. I stand there stiff, and I can see the hurt in his eyes as his hand slides away. “I told her it was all my fault, and I swear to god, I will make it right between you two.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll…I’ll talk to her,” I say, looking down.
“Yeah...maybe not quite yet though?” he says, and when I look up, he’s squinting one eye again. I exhale a deep breath and let my shoulders slump. “She wants you to move out.”
I can’t help the whimper that escapes me, and I bring my hands to cover my mouth. I stare at him, waiting for the part where he says he’s kidding. But all I see is sympathy. He wears it well, and at least I have that—Andrew looking at me like he cares. Like he’s deeply affected by my unhappiness.
“Emma…I’m sorry,” Andrew says, shaking his head. He reaches for me, but pulls back again, instead putting his hands in his pockets. I hate that he’s still so unsure with me. His touch—it would be so healing right now. But I understand his caution—it’s out of respect. He’s worried about what I’ve been through. “I’ll fix this,” he says, looking down at his feet. He repeats it again, this time more for himself.
I stare down along with him, not sure what to do now. I look at my hands, the way his shirt falls over my palms, and as upset as I am that I’ve lost Lindsey, my heart lurches that I have Andrew.
His foot kicks into mine, and I breathe out a small laugh before looking up at him, his lopsided grin saying he’s sorry but he’s happy he has me too.
“You look better in my things than I do,” he smirks, unable to hold my gaze for long, his grin growing into an embarrassed one.
“I like the way you look in them,” I say, biting my lip and flitting my eyes. This is the first time I’ve ever overtly flirted with him, and the thrill of it rushes my body. A few girls giggle behind him, and Andrew turns to look, chuckling when he faces me again. This—it’s all such a wonderful distraction from the scenes I keep replaying in my head.