Erin
There’s something iniquely horrifying about reliving sexual abuse.
For years, I’ve blocked out that night — the shock of it, the pain, the embarrassment. I’ve blocked it out so hard, so fiercely, that it almost feels as if it never happened at all.
Did I imagine it, the way I’d felt more drunk than usual, the way the chandelier light spun and spun above me as we danced at semi-formal?
Did I imagine the way Landon’s warm eyes turned cold, the way he gripped my wrist when he pulled me back to that room, his brothers following us?
Was it all a dream that I sensed something was off, that I got uncomfortable when his friends started touching me, kissing me… that I tried to fight… tried to leave?
Sometimes, it feels like it. It feels like it happened to someone else, or never happened at all.
But reliving it with a room full of lawyers and detectives, it was more real than it ever had been.
The questions they asked, the notes they took, the looks they gave me…
it was the perfect combination to split open the carefully constructed cast I’d worn all this time.
I relived it all — the feeling of being unknowingly drugged, the confusion of being dragged away from the ballroom, the fear when I felt them all moving in on me, their laughter and soft words of assurance that everything was fine like the most vivid nightmare.
Candice, my lawyer, begins to silently cry when I tell the room how Landon slapped me when I tried to run for the door, how he threw me on the pool table hard enough to knock the breath from me, how he wasn’t the first to molest me — but rather, he held me down, his hands bruising my arms as one of his friends took the first turn.
No, not one of his friends. Not a nameless brother.
I list out their names in order of how they raped me — Nick Simmons, Daniel Cole, Landon Turner, and last, Aiden Harrison.
There is a young girl with the lawyers of the boys who raped me. From the way she’s taking notes and listening intently to every move Landon’s lawyers make, I gather that she must be an intern or a new employee.
Her eyes well with tears, too, when I tell the room how I cried through the first one, begging them to stop, but that when Daniel pushed inside me and I knew there was no stopping them, I fell silent.
I numbed out. I grasped onto the only survival mechanism I could in that moment, which was to just hold onto that pool table and wait for them to be done, wait for them to finish.
And silently pray that they would leave me alive in the end.
I didn’t know if they would, at the time. I wondered if they’d kill me, if those terrible moments of embarrassment and pain would be my last.
And in that moment, telling that room full of people what had happened to me, I knew every detail was true — down to the painting of a mermaid sitting on the edge of a sailboat, which I had stared at while they raped me, holding her gaze, letting the anchor she sat beside anchor me, too.
The room is quiet when I finish, and I hold my head high, looking each of them in the eye.
I answer all their questions — clarifying timelines and terms, repeating names, explaining again why I didn’t go to the police immediately, why I didn’t get a rape kit, why none of my friends knew until very recently.
By the time we finish, I’m so tired I could pass out on the spot.
“Thank you, Erin,” Candice says, her eyes still red as she leans over to squeeze my wrist.
My mind goes fuzzy after that, a blur of legal jargon as they explain to me that the process of arresting the offenders is complex, and this is only one step.
They inform me that should Landon or any of the other offenders try to contact me, I should call the police immediately, and that they’ll keep me informed on what happens next.
After a formal goodbye handshake with each of them, I excuse myself, and as soon as I’m out of the door, my legs begin to shake, all the adrenaline that had been coursing through me leaving my body at once.
I stare at the tile floor as my heels click along it, and in its natural fashion, my mind begins to erase the last couple of hours.
I feel it almost like a black wall of steel slowly stretching toward the sky and blocking that part of my memory, as if to say you don’t need to see this, let’s just leave it in the past where it belongs.
When I make it to my car, I shut the door and stare at the steering wheel for a long time. I’m supposed to go to therapy, but all I want is to go home.
No, all I want is to go to Clinton.
But I know after such a traumatic event, therapy is the best place I can go. I know I can’t just leave it all buried, can’t ignore it, can’t pretend like nothing is happening or never happened in the past. I have to face it, sit with it — no matter how uncomfortable it is.
So, I fire up the engine and make my way across town.
***
I’m about five minutes late to the meeting, thanks to South Florida traffic and a random thunderstorm.
So I rush inside with my hair a frizzy mess, not bothering with an umbrella now that it’s just a drizzle.
I take my usual seat as quietly as I can, trying not to interrupt the person talking — a young boy, newer addition, talking about his addiction.
I give him my full attention the moment I’m seated, even as I smooth out my damp clothes and try to fix my hair a bit.
When he finishes speaking, Jackie, our therapy leader, smiles and thanks him for sharing.
There’s a brief moment of silence, some of the other attendees offering words of encouragement to the young man, and I take the opportunity to fully settle in, letting my gaze wander the room to see who’s here tonight.
And that’s when I see him.
How I walked in without sensing him, without feeling those brazen eyes on me, I don’t understand. I could blame it on the afternoon I’ve had, I suppose, but even that shouldn’t have kept me from noticing my ex sitting in the same chair he used to, right across the circle from me.
Smiling.
Smiling, as if he never left.
Smiling, as if he didn’t leave me with nothing but a note to explain.
Smiling, his eyes heated, ankle crossed over his knee and leather-jacket-clad arms folded across his chest like he owns the place.
Like he still owns me.
Gavin’s sky blue eyes watch me unabashedly as I gape back at him, and it’s only when Jackie says my name that I snap out of what I convince myself must be a daydream.
“How are you this evening?” she asks.
“I…” I swallow. “I’m fine.”
Jackie gives me a sympathetic smile. “Do you want to talk about what happened today? I believe you told us last week that you were meeting with the lawyers and detectives. How did it go?”
I open my mouth to answer, to do what I came here to do, but then my eyes snap back to Gavin, and I have to zip my lips closed again to keep them from trembling.
He’s not smiling anymore.
I want to scream at him. I want to demand answers. I want to punch him in his stupid face and throw him out of my safe place and tell him to never come back.
I want to ask him why he left.
I want to tell him his letter wasn’t enough.
I want to make him feel the way he broke me.
But more than anything, I want to get far, far away from him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and immediately reaching down for my purse. I don’t offer any other explanation before I’m heading for the door, and I don’t take my next breath until I’m through it.
I know Jackie will tell the room that it’s okay, that I’ll be alright, that she’ll check in on me — and she will. I know I’ll have a call from her likely as soon as session is over. She’ll move on and ask someone else to share because that’s what has to be done.
She won’t press me to stay.
That’s what I love about her.
The rain has mostly stopped when I push out into the evening air, warm and humid, the sky quickly fading from gray to deep navy as night settles in. I fumble in my purse for my keys, the familiar beep beep of my car unlocking hitting my ears right before an even more familiar voice calls my name.
“Erin,” Gavin repeats when I don’t stop, and his footsteps splash through the puddles behind me as he jogs to catch up. “Hey, please, wait.”
“You don’t get to ask a damn thing of me,” I say, whirling on him.
I point my finger right in his face — his face that is far too close for my taste.
“You don’t get to show back up here, in my space, in my life.
I don’t know why you’re here, why you’re back, and I don’t want to know. Okay? So just fuck off.”
The words shock me more than him when they roll off my tongue with ease, but I hold my chin high as I turn on my heels and set for my car again.
“I’m sorry.”
I stop at the sound of those words, but I don’t turn. I just stand there with my hand on the smooth metal handle of my car door, waiting.
“I’m sorry I left like that. I’m sorry I did that to you. I’m sorry for…” He sighs. “For everything.”
Tears burn my eyes.
“I can explain, if you’ll give me the chance.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Please,” he begs, and I feel his hand warm on my shoulder before I shrug it off.
I turn on him then. “How dare you,” I spit.
“Don’t be like this. I care about you, Erin. I know you still care about me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Even as I say the words, they burn as only lies do. I do care about him. I do want him to be okay.
But I also want him to leave me the hell alone.
“I know I hurt you, but if you just give me another chance—”
“No,” I say, more firmly than the last time. “I’m sorry, Gavin, but I’ve moved on and you should, too.”
I open my car door, slipping inside and slamming the door shut. Gavin stands there dumbfounded for a moment, the drizzle soaking his shirt and jacket before he taps on my window.
I grit my teeth but roll it down just an inch.
“Moved on, huh?” he asks, hurt evident in his voice. “It’s Bear, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
He laughs. “Well, that was fast.”
“Goodbye, Gavin.”
“Wait,” he says, slipping his fingers in the gap my rolled-down window has made.
He must trust me an awful lot more than I trust myself to think I won’t smash his fingers.
“It doesn’t have to be romantic. It doesn’t have to be anything more than…” He pauses, blowing out a breath. “Can I take you for a drink? Please.”
I swallow, my chest tight and heavy with all the things left unsaid and unfinished between us.
“Maybe another time,” I whisper, but when our eyes meet through the crack, I know he sees what I’m really saying.
Never going to happen.
His jaw is tight when he withdraws his fingers, and I roll up my window and peel out of the parking lot without a glance in my rearview mirror.
I don’t even tell Clinton I’m coming, just burst through his front door when I finally make it to his house. He’s on the couch watching a basketball game, a full plate of chicken and veggies in his lap.
One look at me, and the plate is tossed aside.
He runs to me, swooping me into his arms as the first sob chokes through me.
“It’s okay,” he promises. “I’m here.”
And with that permission, I fully let go.