Chapter 5
WILLOW
“Did you decide whether you want to register for fall courses?” Mom asks, assuming the impending deadline is the reason I’ve asked to talk to them this afternoon.
We’re knee-to-knee, she and my dad on the couch, while I’m on the ottoman between it and the TV against the wall. Allie sits quietly in the oversized chair in the corner. My dad catches on first, eyes narrowing as his gaze darts between Allie and me.
He knows I wouldn’t have her here for something unimportant, and he knows Allie wouldn’t be the silent, trembling, wide-eyed mess she is right now unless the news was dire.
Allie has never been afraid to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and normally I admire her for it, but right now her fear is written all over her damn face.
“No.” I run my palms up and down my thighs. God, I’m sweating. “I actually . . . I’m not sure if I want to return to Berkeley in the fall.”
I bite my lip, cutting my gaze to Allie, afraid to look at my parents. I know they’ll be upset, and the worst part is that this is the least devastating news I have to share with them today.
I gave myself a full forty-eight hours to grieve my past life, all the versions of myself I’ll never become.
I gave myself two days to figure out a plan, so that I could have a clear head going into this conversation.
I gave myself two days to prepare for the look of disappointment on their faces when they found out the perfect ray of sunshine they raised is not at all who they hoped she’d be.
“Because of Parker?” my mom asks.
I’m still looking at Allie, and she nods, as if to say, Go on.
I turn to face my parents again, and the moment my eyes meet my dad’s, they begin to feel heavy. I don’t want to look at him when I say this. I don’t want him to know, because I know it’s going to hurt him as bad as it hurts me.
“Yes,” I murmur, dropping my gaze.
“What happened, Willow?” There is a curt, clipped tone to Dad’s voice that slices right through me.
“I lied.” I link my hands together at the center of my lap, keeping my eyes fixed there. I can face them when I say the words, but I don’t have to look them in the eye. The sorrow within them can continue belonging wholly to me. “He didn’t cheat on me. He . . .”
“Call it what it is,” Allie whispers, cutting through the tension that’s hazed this room to the point of near blindness. As if I can’t see anything but my own self-doubt.
“He sexually assaulted me.” I trade the words in my mouth with the air in front of me, inhaling sharply enough that I’m damn near choking on it.
I’m still staring at my hands, and I hadn’t realized I was crying until a drop lands on my thumb, cascading down my knuckle and over my wrist. There is a gasp, and a muttered fuck before a shuffling in my periphery tells me that my dad has risen from the couch, his footsteps now pacing back and forth between it and the ottoman I’m sitting on.
“Oh, Willow.” My mother’s hand lands on top of mine, and I finally lift my head, meeting her face. There are tears shimmering in her hazel eyes and raw devastation in her features. “Can you tell us what happened, baby?”
I nod, taking a shaky breath before I say, “The sex was consensual.” I wince, hating that they’re hearing this.
“It wasn’t until afterward I . . . I went to the bathroom and thought the condom broke.
He said that was what must’ve happened, but .
. .” Parker had a habit of lying to me. Always small incidents, things that were easy to brush off and overlook, but I could tell when he wasn’t being truthful.
He’d spin the situation and make it my fault, call me paranoid, or quickly change the topic and force us to talk about something else.
When I asked him about the condom, he asked me when I planned on getting back on birth control, because he hated condoms, anyway.
So . . . “I fished it out of the trash can, and found that it wasn’t broken .
. .” I sigh, shuddering with tears. “After pressing him about it, he admitted he hadn’t been wearing one when he .
. . He’d taken it off at some point, and I .
. . I didn’t notice.” My voice breaks, “He never told me. He never asked.”
“Baby.” Suddenly, I’m pulled into the space my dad vacated and wrapped in my mother’s arms. Her chest expands rapidly against my ear, her body shaking with sobs, though I can feel the restraint of her attempt to keep them under control. “I’m so sorry.”
I lift my head, and through tear-blurred vision, I find my dad standing in front of us, utter desolation on his face.
“I told him I wasn’t okay with that. I told him I hadn’t consented.
I asked if he had planned to tell me about it.
” I wipe beneath my eyes and clear my throat.
“I got angry. I felt . . . I felt violated. Disrespected. Like my body didn’t matter beyond a means of him finding pleasure.
Like I didn’t matter.” I swallow, and it feels like my insides are filled with cement.
“He got defensive. He told me . . .” I shake my head.
I don’t want to share what he said back to me. I don’t want to admit to my parents—to anyone—that another person could think such a thing about me. I’m terrified of the words sticking in their heads, that they’ll never be able to see me as anything different ever again.
I’m still looking at my dad, watching the slow fall of one tear down his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
That desolation morphs into indignation as he rapidly shakes his head, forcing the ottoman out of his way with his foot before dropping to the floor in front of me. He grabs my face with both hands, lifting my head from Mom’s chest and leveling me with his gaze.
“Do not ever apologize for his actions. For anyone’s. This is not your fault.”
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt.
It rushes out before I can catch it. I don’t know why I say it.
I didn’t plan to share it this way. I’d planned to give them time to process what happened with Parker first. I didn’t want to bombard them with the news, and the way my dad’s frozen face stares back at me now tells me I absolutely fucked this up.
His hands remain on my cheeks, stiff and hard. He’s blinking, staring back at me like he’s trying to figure out if he’s even conscious—I wonder if he thinks he’s inside his own worst nightmare. I turn within his palms, facing my mother, who’s giving me the same expression.
My eyes flutter to Allie. She’s folded over her knees with a hand covering her mouth, brown eyes wide with a what-the-fuck look.
Allie and I went to the local clinic a few days ago after I broke down in her apartment.
I had an exam, a full STI panel, and they took a urine sample too.
I hadn’t even thought about pregnancy—a fact I’m ashamed of now.
It never crossed my mind until I received a call from the clinic yesterday afternoon: all clear of infections, not cleared for a bun-less oven.
I don’t know how I hadn’t considered it sooner. I don’t know why it wasn’t my first thought that night.
Maybe it flashed through my mind, but I was too afraid to address it. I can’t remember now.
I’d been on birth control for years. I stopped taking my pills just a couple months ago because I was having side effects that I didn’t like.
Honestly, I should’ve seen the signs then.
Parker wasn’t happy when I stopped taking them and told him we had to use condoms. He was okay with my constant headaches, mood swings, and nonexistent libido if it meant he could explore his breeding kink without repercussions.
It was a point of contention for us, but I promised him I’d make an appointment to have an IUD inserted by my primary doctor here in Pacific Shores this summer during a visit to my parents.
I didn’t want to have something like that done at a clinic I was unfamiliar with, and knew I’d be more comfortable doing it here at home.
He was frustrated at having to use condoms for a period of time, but I thought he’d accepted it.
I also thought it was unlikely I could get pregnant so soon after stopping birth control.
I’ve heard it takes some women years, so I easily pushed any fears to the back of my mind.
I’m so fucking stupid.
Dad’s hands fall from my cheeks, and I look at my mom again. Her eyes are on him, some unspoken communication written on her face. She blinks rapidly, sighing before directing her gaze to me.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay. That’s . . .” She shakes her head, clearing her throat. “Okay.”
I turn to my father. His eyes are fixed on the floor as he runs a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” I whisper.
A strained laugh leaves my mom’s lips. “Is there a better way to say it?”
Suddenly, a chuckle escapes me too. I shake my head. “Guess not.”
She cups my face, smiling gently before pulling me back into her arms. A moment later, a second strong pair of arms wraps around me. Emotion pricks my nose once again, and suddenly tears are spilling over, soaking the fabric of my mother’s shirt.
She hushes me, running a hand over the back of my head, whispering reassurances like, We’ve got you, you’re all right, we’ll be okay, you’re safe.
My parents say that often. The reminder that I’m safe with them, we’re safe with each other.
My dad once told me he couldn’t guarantee a life free from pain, but he could promise me a safe place with him.
That there would never be anything I’d need to hide, nothing I could do beyond forgiveness—that I could always come back home and find acceptance.
I sure am testing those promises now.
Pulling back, I turn my head to face him. He’s still sitting on the floor in front of me and my mom. His hand rests on my shoulder, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze, offering a wistful smile.
“Do you want to talk about what comes next?” my mom asks quietly. “Or have you already explored your options?”
I sit up, wiping my eyes. “Oh. Well . . .”