by Leigh, Tara
WE ARE US started with a source much closer to home. As a college freshman, I had a very similar experience to Poppy. And by similar, I mean exact in every way except that, of course, I was not assaulted by my fictional Tucker Stockton.
I was just a girl, a very drunk girl, who went into the room of a guy I thought was cute and nice. I remember flirting with him and kissing him. And I remember wanting to stop because the room started spinning and he was heavy and I felt sick and…
…And then I woke up in a hospital bed.
I was told what Poppy was told: that I was lucky to be alive, that there was evidence of sexual assault, and was then asked to consent to a rape kit.
Poppy’s feelings, actions, and choices are all echoes of what I did, how I felt, and my own decisions. I refused the rape kit. I denied what had happened. And, shortly after returning from the hospital, I even found myself in a room with the guy who assaulted me (let’s call him not-Tucker)
Not-Tucker apologized, sincerely, for what he did to me. He cried about his mistake, talked about his feelings, his regret, even his sister who he hoped would never experience what he’d done to me.
Not-Tucker didn’t ask about my feelings, and I didn’t volunteer them.
Like Poppy, I stood between two doors. Rape, with all that that four-letter-word entailed, or mistake. I chose mistake. Do I regret it? No, because at the time, to my barely eighteen-year-old self, the other option seemed so much worse. I wasn’t thinking about right or wrong, black or white, silent or loud. I didn’t want to make waves or be the subject of ugly, judgmental gossip. I felt horribly, achingly, alone. All I wanted was for the hurt go away and my life to go back to the way it was.
Of course, that didn’t happen. I spent the rest of the year walking through campus, feeling like an open wound, terrified of running into not-Tucker. I considered transferring to a different school.
And I also fantasized about befriending not-Tucker. Why? Because I thought it would make what happened easier to deal with. Friends forgive each other. Friends don’t skip class to avoid running into each other. Friends aren’t terrified just thinking about running into each other in the hall.
I know now that my behavior isn’t unusual. Survivors of sexual assault often pursue relationships with their attackers to regain a sense of control after it is ripped from them.
It doesn’t make us weak. It makes us human.
Reading WE ARE US, you may have had a hard time understanding Poppy’s choices. If you’ve never faced a similar situation yourself, it is nearly impossible to imagine. I hope that one day, victims of assault won’t face so many negative repercussions to coming forward.
As for Tucker, although he was certainly a villain in my story, I purposely chose to show glimpses of his good qualities. Few of us are either all bad or all good. We are usually a messy mix of both, veering (hopefully) toward mostly good.
I don’t believe that not-Tucker is or was a bad person. He did a horrible thing that, even now, I have a hard time defining as rape. Even now, I don’t want to think of myself as a victim. From what I observed, that night was a wake up call to him. Not nearly as much as it could have been, had I chosen to press charges. But, in my gut, I truly believe that not-Tucker went on to live a kind and compassionate life, as have I.
Ultimately, I did not transfer schools. And unlike my fictional Poppy and Tucker, I had no further contact with not-Tucker after his apology (other than seeing him on campus occasionally). I put that night behind me, one day at a time—although it was hardly a healthy process.
I coped, if you can call it that, by retreating into myself and then later, by engaging in meaningless sex with countless men. I treated my body like it didn’t matter. I thought, if I can give it away to relative strangers in clumsy, drunken one-night stands, then having my sexuality taken from me, just that once, while I was unconscious, shouldn’t be a big deal.
But it was a big deal. Somehow those few minutes I couldn’t remember became an event—a trauma—I’d never forget.
I also coped by binging and purging. Bulimia became like a friend, or at least a frenemy. I chased that feeling of fullness until fullness became pain, and then with my fingers down my throat, I made myself empty again. Light and clean. Powerful and in control.
There is so much of me in Poppy, but I feel that I should tell you, her miscarriage is not taken from direct personal experience. Although my first and second pregnancies were touch and go at some points, I never had to face that kind of loss. I can only hope that I’ve done justice to all of you who have.
There is no “right” way to deal with sexual assault or eating disorders or miscarriage, and I am not qualified to give advice in any of these areas. Below I’ve included contact information for places that offer help.
Thank you for reading WE ARE US and taking this journey with me. It hasn’t been an easy road, but I’m so glad we made it through together.
May you find your own happily ever after,
Tara Leigh
(And to read more from me, turn the page for an excerpt from THRONE OF LIES)
National Sexual Assault Hotline
1-800-656-4673
RAINN: The nation's largest anti-sexual violence organization
https://www.rainn.org
National Eating Disorders Association
https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org
(800) 931-2237
Miscarriage Matters
www.mymiscarriagematters.org
SHARE Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support
www.nationalshare.org
Excerpt from Throne of Lies
November 2007
Jolie
“I can’t believe you and Daddy are making me do this.”
“Jolie, I don’t understand your attitude. This is a privilege, not a punishment.” There was a flush on Nina’s cheeks that I’d only seen after I came home from school, usually while she was sipping a glass of Rosé. But it wasn’t even noon yet, and the patches on her cheeks were from annoyance rather than alcohol. “Do you even know what an honor it is to be chosen? This tradition dates back years.”
I stifled a yawn as Nina launched into yet another history lesson on the origins of the International Debutante Ball. By now I could repeat it, verbatim, in my sleep. Normally, I liked my stepmother, I really did. My own mother died before I was in kindergarten, and Nina was a vast improvement over the revolving door of paid employees that had raised me until a few years ago, when Nina moved in and never left. She was only fifteen years older than me and felt more like an older sister than a stepmother. While that may have bothered others, I enjoyed having someone young and fun to hang around with.
Finally, I interrupted. “You could have at least let me choose my own date. I haven’t seen Remington Montgomery in years—I barely even remember him.” I knew I was blaming Nina unfairly, but this entire affair had rubbed me the wrong way. First of all, it was absolutely galling that debutantes didn’t have dates, they had ‘escorts’—like we needed someone with a penis to shepherd us through this overhyped snob-fest. And then for my father to insist my escort be the son of his business partner . . . it made me want to scream.
Not that I had anything against Remington. How could I? We’d only met a handful of times, despite living just a few blocks from each other on Manhattan’s Upper East Side our entire lives. But he was a couple of years older than me, maybe three, and we’d always gone to different schools.
“He seems like a lovely boy,” Nina said, her tone measured and clearly intending to soothe, but maddening all the same.
“Well, I hope you recognize him, because I don’t know that I will.”
Nina plucked a nonexistent piece of lint from her dress, lips twitching from holding back a bemused smile. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine. Today is only a brunch, Jolie. Maybe I’ll sneak you a Mimosa to get you to relax.”
I sent my eyes skyward, a gesture that seemed the most appropriate response to just abo
ut anything Nina or my father said these days. “Is that a promise?”
When Nina didn’t answer, I sighed and looked out the window. The actual Debutante Ball was still a month away, but today was one of the pre-ball activities. It wasn’t called a season for nothing. Besides the Bachelor Brunch, there was the Mother-Daughter Luncheon, Father-Daughter Luncheon, Pre-Ball Cocktail Party, and Post-Ball Reception.
Yes, it really was called the Bachelor Brunch. And no, we weren’t contestants in a reality show. Although by this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me to come out of this experience with a dowry and a betrothal—or at least a red rose.
Remington Montgomery. The last time I saw him was at some award ceremony a few years ago, honoring our fathers. He’d been tall, that I remembered, mostly because I had a habit of scouring every room for people my height or taller. At seventeen, most boys my age were finally catching up with me, although I said a prayer every night that I would stop growing. I was five-eight and a half, and wanted to keep it that way . . . except my favorite pair of jeans hinted that I’d recently climbed closer to five-nine.
Anyway, that was all I could remember about Remington. He was tall. Or at least, he’d appeared tall back then. Brown hair or blond, surfer-boy cute or gamer-geeky—I hadn’t a clue.
“Will you recognize him?” I prodded Nina, my voice climbing higher from nerves.
“Hmmm?” Nina had been staring out the window, too. It probably would have been quicker to walk from our apartment than to take a car, but even I wouldn’t want to walk twenty-blocks in the shoes I’d squeezed into. I could have sworn they fit a month ago when Nina dragged me to Bergdorfs.
“Remington. Will you recognize him?”
“Of course. At least, I think so. But don’t worry. Your father will be there, and I’m sure Remington’s—”
“Why didn’t Daddy come with us from home?”
“Honey, you know your father has to work.”
“But it’s Saturday. And he wanted me to do the whole debutante thing as badly as you did. The least he could do is suffer along with me,” I grumbled, despite being well aware that my father worked all the time, and weekends were no exception.
As the car finally glided to a stop at the curb, Nina reached out to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. “For now, you’ve got me. Think you can make do?”
I relented. Even if my father had been sitting beside me, his face would probably be buried in the Wall Street Journal or an industry research report. I should be grateful Nina was by my side. “Sorry, I really don’t mean to be such a brat. Thanks for being here.”
My stepmother’s pretty face brightened as her lips pulled into a smile. “You’re not a brat, Jolie. You’re a debutante.”
The ridiculousness of the statement sent a matching grin onto my face. “Not sure if that’s a promotion, but I’ll take it.” I followed her out of the car, keeping my knees together to avoid flashing the waiting society page photographers—I wasn’t wearing a floor length white gown just yet.
This year’s Bachelor Brunch was being held at an elegant French restaurant. Nina and I walked beneath a white canopy and through the double doors held open by men wearing dark suits and earpieces. Security was to be expected. The last name of every debutante could be found somewhere on the Forbes 400. Inside, the lights were soft, every available surface sporting floral arrangements with this year’s colors—pink and gold.
It smelled like a greenhouse, and felt just as humid.
Just beyond the lobby entrance, people weren’t mingling so much as clumping together by age and gender. Groups of teenaged girls looked around like frightened rabbits, eyes jumping between their parents and their escorts-to-be. Young men sporting fraternity ties shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking like they wished they were holding lacrosse sticks instead of sodas. Wealthy magnates, clutching crystal tumblers filled with liquor, crowed about their latest hostile takeover or international negotiation while their middle-aged society wives showed off their latest Guilt Gift, designed to distract them from their husband’s most recent affair.
“I think I see Lily Montgomery, but I’m not sure which of those boys is her son,” Nina said, sticking close to me. Reluctance to shoulder her way in with what appeared to be a primarily First-Wives Club came off her in waves.
Spotting a small group of women who resembled Nina at the back of the room—early thirties, blonde, fit, and wearing trendy clothes designed to show off their figures rather than hide their flaws—I tipped my chin in their direction.
“Ah, my tribe.” Her grateful grin faded as she turned back to me. “I don’t see your father yet and to be honest, all these boys look the same to me. Will you be okay?”
I squared my shoulders, feeling better now that I knew we were both in the same leaky boat. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
She rested a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder. “Your father will be here soon, I’m sure of it.”
I nodded, even knowing it was an empty promise. With my dad, work always came first. But at least Nina and I had each other, and I could surely survive the next few hours without drowning myself in a punchbowl. “I know. Now stop hovering. I’ll be fine.”
Nina stepped back, and I watched her weave through the round tables marked by elegant numbered placards and adorned with extravagant pink and gold centerpieces. Hoping to avoid introducing myself to a bunch of strangers all at once, I turned back toward the entrance on the chance of linking up with a straggler instead.
The front door opened, a lone figure propelled forward on a burst of blinding sunlight. Once it receded, my gaze landed on a pair of calm gray eyes, half-hidden by a tuft of hair the color of the roan pony I’d ridden as a child, the ends curling over the collar of his navy blazer.
A frisson of recognition shot through me at the exact instant an unfamiliar ache warmed me to my bones. Remington Montgomery. He looked nothing like the boy I only vaguely remembered, but I knew it was him all the same.
One look cast an invisible tether between us, a lure that hooked over my collarbone with an almost audible clank and entirely eliminated my reluctance to be here. Needing to ease the sudden, sharp pain inside my chest, I instinctively took a few steps forward.
The door opened again. Another beam of sunlight streaked inside, this time revealing my father and his business partner, Remington’s father. Stepping into the lobby, they flanked him, both clapping opposite shoulders. Remington didn’t wince, his eyes widening just enough to convey his restraint at not shrugging them both off. “I see you’ve already found each other,” my dad said, looking between us as he commented on the obvious.
I nodded, not trusting my voice quite yet.
Remington answered with a curt but respectful, “Yes, sir.” Once our fathers had strolled off in search of a drink or a potential client, probably both, he finally addressed me. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve gotten—”
“Taller,” I interrupted, ducking my head.
He closed the remaining distance between us with a rolling stride, waiting until I’d raised my head again before correcting me. “Actually, I was going to say prettier.”
At six-three, or maybe six-four, Remington towered over me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Long lashes cast shadows atop high cheekbones that slid sharply to his lips. Full and almost pretty, they were the perfect accent to soften his hard, patrician features.
A flush broke over my skin, a sudden warmth throbbing between my thighs. The first tender stirrings of lust swirling inside my otherwise empty stomach.
“Thanks, Remington,” I forced out through paralyzed vocal chords.
“My name’s kind of a mouthful. Just call me Tripp, everyone else does.”
Tripp. I hadn’t realized he went by a nickname, but it suited him. “I take it you’re a ‘third’?”
“Unfortunately for me, yes.” He pushed that same errant tuft of hair back again and glanced over my shoulder, his face showing a trace of resignatio
n as he took in the crowd I’d retreated from just a few minutes before, forcing a sideways smile onto his lips. “Can I be honest with you?”
Uh oh. Nothing good starts with that question. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself. “Sure.”
“I wasn’t looking forward to this.”
That made two of us. “Ditto.”
He turned surprised eyes back to me. They were an interesting shade of gray, like the sliver of horizon suspended between the sea and sky on an overcast day. A place you could try swimming toward but never reach. “I thought all girls were into these kinds of things.”
A blush burned my cheeks, and I curled my fingers into my palms, indenting my flesh with the half-moon shape of my nails. “Not this girl.”
“How long do you think we have to stay?”
Except that suddenly I wasn’t very keen on leaving. “Um . . . I’m not sure. Maybe a couple of hours.”
Mischief turned his gray stare silver. “How about we give it our all for the next hour and then get out of here?”
“If you want to go, I’m sure it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you here or anything,” I stammered, fighting to keep the sharp sting of disappointment from my tone.
His brows, two shades darker than the hair on his head, pulled together. “You’re coming with me, of course.”
“Oh.” It was just a soft puff of air as Tripp pressed his hand against the flat of my back and led me into the main dining room.
You’re coming with me.
Did Tripp feel what I was feeling? Even one-tenth of what I was feeling? One-hundredth? The current that seemed to run between our bodies, energy sparking at the slightest touch, a magnetic pull tugging us together—he had to be feeling it, too. Right?
Of course.