Chapter 10
10
ECHO
I grip the edges of my notepad tightly and tuck my legs up beneath myself on Dr. Rodriguez’s sofa, bracing myself for the question I know she’s about to ask.
“You’ve come a long way since we started these sessions,” she says, leaning forward in her comfortably padded chair.
“I like to think so,” I agree. “Although some days, I wonder.”
“You have,” she repeats firmly. “But encountering Tyler isn’t something you were prepared for, and now he’s not only in your class but also doing a group project with you. How does it feel to see him again?”
“Not good.” The words fall automatically from my lips, and then I pause and think the rest of my answer through more carefully. “It’s like I reached this point where everything was stable. I know I still have issues with anxiety and panic attacks sometimes, but it’s manageable. I was in a routine. It was comfortable.”
Her expression is understanding without being sympathetic. I like that. I hate being pitied.
I take my pen from my pocket and begin doodling on the notepad. By trial and error, we discovered that doodling helps distract part of my mind so that it’s easier for me to talk about things I otherwise have a difficult time opening up about.
“Now, everything is on edge. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s making me more prone to overreacting.”
“That’s understandable, given your history.” She smiles and adjusts her silky black hair.
Dr. Rodriguez likely isn’t long out of college, but she’s already become a role model for me. She seems so put together, but not in a way that makes her unapproachable. She’s kind and warm-hearted. I hope that one day I’ll be able to help others as well as she helps me.
“What are you doing to manage the increased anxiety?” she asks.
My hand continues moving, and I give myself permission not to notice whatever it’s drawing.
“I’ve been meditating in the morning, and I’ve ramped up the intensity of my evening runs,” I tell her.
I’m not a particularly athletic person, but once Dr. Rodriguez explained to me how physical activity can help complete the stress cycle—based on a theory about how positive stress developed evolutionarily to help humans escape danger—I tested it out and was surprised to find it actually helped me sleep better at night.
“That’s very good, Echo. Do you foresee Tyler becoming part of your life again?”
I increase the pressure of the pen on the paper, glancing down at the rendering of two men facing off on a muddy lawn that’s gradually coming to life.
I can’t give a yes or no answer.
“I don’t want him to,” I say. “Or at least, I don’t want to want him to, if you know what I mean. I’m angry at him because he keeps pushing my boundaries, but every time I see him, part of me comes alive. I wish I could just hate him and be done with it. I don’t want to see him, but when I do…ugh.”
Dr. Rodriguez hesitates, and it’s enough to make me look up from the paper again. I’ve learned to read her body language, and her brief hesitations usually precede a statement of question that she knows might make me uncomfortable, or that I might find triggering.
“Are you sure the reason you’re so resistant to spending time with him isn’t simply because he reminds you of a difficult period of your life that you’d prefer not to revisit rather than anything he specifically did?” she asks gently.
I swallow my immediate reaction because she has a valid point, and she knows it. Yes, Tyler hurt me. He broke my heart. But most people manage to see their exes without needing to book emergency appointments with their therapist.
“Maybe,” I allow. “Although he did do some shitty things. But whatever my reasons, I should have a choice about who I let into my life, and he’s trying to take that away from me.”
She nods. “It’s good to assert your boundaries, and to defend them when necessary.”
It’s taken me a long time for that message to sink in. For a while after The Incident, my mom spent every minute of every day with me—even sleeping in my bed—and while it was comforting, it was also overwhelming. I didn’t feel like I could ask her to stop though, because I’d feel guilty for causing her any additional distress.
“Are you interested in hearing what Tyler has to say?” she asks when I don’t respond.
“No.” It’s a lie. I’m curious, but protecting myself is more important than a little curiosity.
She tilts her head, her dark eyes seeing more than I want her to. “It might be helpful to get closure.”
“Or it could set me back,” I counter.
She clearly doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t push me on the matter. She fills her water glass from a jug on the coffee table beside her chair.
“Water?” she asks.
“No, thank you.”
She takes a sip, places the glass down, and clasps her hands on her lap. “I need to ask you something that might be upsetting. Is that okay?”
My hand continues to fly across the notepad, taking on a frantic edge. “Yes.”
She glances at my bag, probably wondering if I have my anxiety medication in there in case I panic. Although I’m sure she has some in one of her cupboards too.
“Is his presence bringing up memories of the assault?” Her tone is gentle. “And the trauma that followed?”
I snort. Trauma.
In some ways, it’s such an inadequate word for what I went through following The Incident. The rejection. The name-calling. The way everyone turned against me the instant I accused one of their golden boys of rape.
They said I was a liar.
A slut.
An attention whore.
They spat at me, threw insults like knives, and ostracized me completely.
I had to finish my senior year listening to recorded classes in a small, isolated room near the principal’s office. As if I had the mental capacity to learn without being able to ask a teacher questions when it was all my overwhelmed mind could do to get me through each day.
I was lucky the school hadn’t kicked me out, but I supposed that expelling an alleged rape victim wouldn’t have been a good look for them.Especially not after the jury passed a guilty verdict. Although even then, a large portion of the community seemed to believe the jury had gotten it wrong.
“Echo?” Dr. Rodriguez prompts.
I drew in a slow breath and exhaled to the count of six—long enough to ease the constriction in my chest.
“Yes,” I reply. “It’s brought up some old memories.”
“What, specifically?”
I consider this. The memories are never buried deep. They’re always right there, beneath the surface, which makes it difficult to pinpoint any changes.
“Honestly, not the parts you might expect.”
She cocks her head. “Go on.”
I sigh. “It just makes me think about how nice it would have been to have a support system. Someone who believed me and stood by my side. I had Mom, but that was all, and no matter how hard she tried, sometimes it wasn’t enough. I was so alone.”
I’d survived The Incident on my own. At first, I’d fought as hard as I could. When I’d been injured and overpowered, I’d closed my eyes and prayed for someone to save me. I’d imagined Tyler showing up at the last moment like some kind of white knight, but it hadn’t happened.
No one had come. But I’d gotten through it anyway. Surely it shouldn’t have been too much to ask for someone other than my own mother and our attorney to stand by me in the aftermath.
Dr. Rodriguez glances at her voice recorder, which she chooses to use rather than writing notes while we talk because she thinks it makes the conversations flow more naturally. I appreciate that. I’d feel too much like a science experiment if she was scrawling notes. As if she was weighing and judging everything I said.
“So, it’s not the assault itself, or even the breakup that’s on your mind?” she clarified.
I shrug. “I mean, that’s there too. It always is. But it’s not the main issue in my head at the moment.”
“So, how can we ensure you have a support system in place now?” she asks. “How can we limit how often you feel alone and abandoned?”
I bite my lip. Dr. Rodriguez knows I haven’t told my friends what happened, and she’s said more than once that she thinks it would be good for me to share, but I haven’t done it. Three years into a friendship feels a little too late to be dropping bombshells like, ‘Oh yeah, by the way, I was raped in my senior year.’
“I have Mom,” I say hesitantly.
I don’t like to lean on her though. She had a difficult time with separation anxiety after The Incident and it took over two years and a lot of therapy on both our parts before she’d agree to stop calling me every morning and every evening. Now, we talk two or three times a week. That’s closer to what most people would consider normal.
“And…?”
I picture each of my friends in turn. Anita has shown that she’s willing to coddle me, but her overprotectiveness reminds me too much of my mom. Cassie—as much as I love her—is too self-centered to devote much time or emotional energy to anyone else.
“Ryan,” I decide. “If I need support, I’ll call Ryan.”
“And you’ll explain why?” she asks.
“If it’s necessary.”
She arches an eyebrow, obviously doubtful.
“I promise,” I add. “I value my mental health.”
“Good. We’ll set a few things for you to work on before our next appointment, but before we do that, I’m giving you advance warning that next time we see each other, I’ll be asking you whether there’s anything you want from Tyler. Okay?”
I tear off the page I’ve been doodling on and scrunch it up. “Okay.”
I don’t want to want anything from Tyler, but I know she’s right to advise me to think about it.
We agree on a few tasks for me to complete prior to our upcoming appointment and then I leave through the back exit, which opens onto the parking lot.
The sun shines overhead, but it doesn’t warm me. My fingers have been cold ever since Dr. Rodriguez asked me about Tyler, and now that my nerves are scraped so raw, the chill is settling into my chest.
I scan the lot, trying to recall where I parked, and freeze.
Standing beside my battered Ford is Tyler Kinsey.
TYLER
I straighten and put my hands in my pockets when Echo appears, framed by the exit. She stares straight at me for a long moment, and I wonder whether she’s thinking about running. In the end, she must decide it would be too inconvenient because she approaches warily.
As she draws nearer, I notice that her eyes are rimmed with red, and slightly puffy. Her cheeks are blotchy and the tip of her nose is pink. My heart grows heavy. She’s been crying.
“What are you doing here?” she demands, holding her chin high even though her lower lip is wobbling.
If I was a better person, perhaps I’d leave. But I never claimed to be anything other than an asshole.
“Waiting for you,” I admit.
She thrusts her shoulders back, but it’s clearly just for show. I ache to pull her into my arms and hug the shit out of her, but stealing an embrace is a line I won’t cross. Not from someone who’s already had too much taken from her.
“Can you move away from my car?” she asks.
I glance at the Ford and scowl. It’s a real crap heap. If I had my way, I’d drive her to the dealership and buy her a shiny new BMW right now, but she wouldn’t accept that from anyone, let alone me.
“I’m glad you’re getting therapy,” I say.
Something haunted flickers in her gaze. She folds her arms over her chest defensively. “How do you know that’s what I’m here for?”
I gesture at the sign above the clinic, which proclaims it to be a Mental Wellbeing Clinic. “Educated guess. Does it help?”
She clutches her arms tighter around herself. “What would help is if you’d stop following me.”
“I can’t.” It’s a weakness. Maybe it makes me a bad person, but I can’t let her go.
Going without speaking to her for three years was hell. Sure, I kept tabs on her, but it isn’t the same. I can’t go back to that.
It must be the wrong thing to say because she unravels her arms and puts her hands on her hips, her puffy eyes narrowing. Suddenly, she’s nothing like a cornered mouse. She has teeth and claws, and looks ready to rip my throat out.
“Yes, you fucking can.” She takes a step forward and rolls her shoulders. “It’s as easy as dropping a class you have no purpose for and living your goddamn life instead of trailing me around like some kind of stalker.”
I press my lips together. If she knew how much I’d involved myself in her life over the past three years, she’d probably try to run me over. Death by rusty Ford.
“Don’t you give me that look,” she snaps, and then she does something I never saw coming. She plants her hands on my chest and shoves with all her might.
I don’t budge. As someone who’s spent years getting knocked around on the ice—and at home—it takes more than a ninety-pound woman to move me. She growls in the back of her throat and tries again. I fall back a step because that seems to be what she wants. My back hits the car as she advances.
“Why are you here?”
The absolute bewilderment in her voice stuns me. How can she not know?
“For you,” I tell her. “I want you back. I’ve always wanted you, but I screwed up.”
“Lies.” The gold flecks in her eyes flare. “What kind of twisted game are you playing?”
“No games.” I place my palms against the panel of the car door, so she knows I have no intention of pushing her back. “I missed you. I want you in my life.”
The words aren’t enough. They never are, but I don’t know how to do better. I’m a hockey player, not a poet.
“You are my life,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “As if I could ever believe that. Our whole relationship was a setup. A scam.”
“It wasn’t.” And I hate that I made her doubt us. “Just please hear me out.”
Another flash of gold in her eyes. So beautiful. Far more precious than money, or the fame and recognition my father craved.
“I don’t think so.”
My desperation growing, I glance over her shoulder at the Mental Wellbeing Clinic.
“Would your therapist say you should listen to me?” I ask.
She exhales through her teeth, visibly fighting the urge to take a swing at me. “I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks is best for me,” she growls. “It’s my decision.”
“But what if I could help with—”
She laughs bitterly and turns away, running her hand through her hair.
“I don’t need your help,” she says tiredly. “I’m managing just fine on my own. Last time you and your hockey buddies messed with me, I spent the following year self-medicating with alcohol to numb myself, and though I’m recovering, I still can’t stand men touching me.”
I wince, suddenly glad she’s looking away. There’s no way I could meet her gaze right now.
She chokes back tears. “Does it make you happy to know I haven’t had sex since the rape?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. I always thought I’d be glad to discover she hadn’t created new memories with someone else, but this isn’t how I wanted it to be.
She spins toward me, her eyes wild. “They all claimed I made it up, even after he was locked away. I guess I really went the whole hog, huh? It takes a lot of dedication to give up sex for years just to sell a lie.”
I drop to my knees, barely noticing the pain as my kneecaps hit the pavement. Her anguish is like a stake through my heart. I drop my eyes to the ground as guilt swamps me.
Guilt for what my so-called friends did to her.
Guilt for what I did to her.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is thick with emotion. “I believe you. I did then, and I do now.”
She scoffs. “Then why didn’t you do something about it?”
She pushes past me, and I let her. She unlocks the car door, gets inside, and starts the engine. I scramble out of the way as she backs out of the parking spot and drives away, leaving me to fall apart on my own.
I guess that’s karma.