Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Aknock sounds on the door as I’m trying to pull the rest of my thoughts together.
I say knock like it was some sweet, petite tap.
No, whoever is out there banged on the door like they’re trying to pummel it into firewood or serve a warrant.
I hastily approach, “Who is it?” like the second victim in a horror movie.
“Anne!” a voice strained voice replies.
I sigh with a relief I don’t fully want to acknowledge and open the door. Anne immediately rushes in, grabbing my arms and studying my face. The fast shot of pain where her hands squeeze my shoulders has me taking a quick, sharp breath. Anne quickly drops her hands, muttering, “Shit.”
“What…” I manage to begin, but before I can finish the thought, she has her arms wrapped gently around me.
My throat is suddenly tight, burning with tears. I feel them stinging my eyes. I give up, burying my face in her neck and let myself be held.
Anne sways slightly, side to side, like a woman comforting a fussy baby.
After what feels like forever, she gently draws back and studies my face. Suddenly self-conscious, I look down and try to avoid meeting her gaze.
“I am going to castrate that stupid, misogynistic motherfucker with the dullest knife I can find. And then I’m going to take a melon baller to his eyes.”
That’s enough to make me look up, as goosebumps rise on my arms. If she had yelled, even screamed, it would have been easy to ignore the venom in her words. As it was, she spoke softly, carefully. Like she was pledging an oath.
“You don’t have any dull knives,” I helpfully point out, hoping desperately that it will diffuse this emotion-charged moment. I’m kinda fucking tired of emotions.
Anne narrows her eyes at me. “Who says I can’t borrow one from someone else?”
I study my best friend, who still has her hands lightly holding my wrists.
Her eyes are hot with fury, bringing color to her cheeks.
She’s not at all put together, which tells me just how worried she was and the speed with which she got here.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her less than magazine-cover-ready in all the time I’ve known her.
Her hair is in a messy bun that looks like it is one good headshake away from coming entirely undone.
Hey – me too! She isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup.
Instead, she’s wearing baggy sweats, a pair of Uggs that I know have seen better days, and a stained, too-large sweatshirt proclaiming “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun-damental Rights.” I think it’s spaghetti sauce. Down by the hem.
She’s never been more beautiful than she is to me in this moment. My own personal Valkyrie.
I let out a small chuckle, then pull her back in for another hug.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
An hour later, we’re sitting on the couch, sipping wine that it is entirely too early for and eating the baked goods Anne had grabbed on the fly before coming here.
I’ve walked her through what happened from her leaving the shop, skipping only the weird hallucinations I had during my apparent out-of-body experience.
She held me through my crying jag and made me shrug out of my t-shirt so she could view the bruises herself.
She did quirk a brow at the rose bush I had pushed up against the wall, but I avoided it with a “Please don’t ask”. I wasn’t ready to open that particular can of worms.
Despite her growing anger, which was apparent not only from the expression on her face but the vibe she was giving off, she managed to maintain it fairly well after her initial threat of violence against Brett’s person.
She seemed particularly interested in Flint’s break-up of my attempted assault, and the care he had shown to me afterward.
“You mean, he didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what, exactly?”
“Flint didn’t tell you he took care of me? I thought he had given some assurances after dumping the news on you that Brett had tr… had tried…” I don’t want to finish the sentence.
Thus far, no one has said the word ‘rape’. I didn’t want to be the first, even if we all knew that was what it would have been if Flint hadn’t been there.
Thank God for Flint.
“No. I didn’t exactly ask for details in the moment, ya know?” She pauses and seems to brace herself. “Are you going to file charges?”
I freeze, my wine glass halfway to my lips. I know I should know that these cases are grossly under-represented because women don’t file charges, whether it's from fear of retaliation, embarrassment, worries of not being believed.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I manage. I take a sip of wine, trying to ease the dryness in my throat.
She reaches over, and squeezes my fingers.
“Hon, he assaulted you. Whether he actually intended to follow through on the shit he was talking – and I’m betting he did, I fucking hear things – he still laid his hands on you.
Left you with bruises. You have a good size knot on the back of your head.
You have Flint, who can tell the cops that he broke it up.
And you have me, Betsy, and plenty of other old biddies who can tell them that he has been harassing you for months. ”
I know I should say yes. I should ask her to drive me to the police station and file a report.
I know that I should be willing, eager even, to make a report and later testify that he’s a raging piece of shit who thinks he can get away with anything because he’s marginally good-looking and his father has more money than God.
But I don’t want to be a bother. I don’t want to recount this for strangers, especially those in uniform.
Why would they believe me, anyway? I’m no one.
Just a punk-looking girl whose hair is too bright with too much ink.
A girl who just appeared one day with no one and nothing, until Bits took me in.
An unknown, unreliable girl. With no memories.
His dad will just buy him out again, anyway, so what’s to be gained by putting myself through all of that? More than anything, I want to put this behind me.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
Anne starts to speak, then seems to think better of it.
“Okay, then. What do you need from me? What can I do?”
“Just you being here is enough.” I reach over, squeeze her hand. I’m thankful beyond words that she dropped the idea of charges.
I never do make it out for my fresh air.
We compromise by opening all the windows, and Anne lights incense.
She insists I’ll find it calming. Mostly, Anne spends the afternoon making dark jokes, plying me with wine and the goodies she baked…
essentially, doing her best to make me laugh.
Betsy calls at some point to check in. I guess Flint must have told her, too.
She assures me that Brett is banned from being anywhere near the store and that she has no problem hiring security to help ensure he stays away.
Honestly, she sounds pretty fucking excited at the prospect of having some hot security guards hanging around. I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Despite my attempts to convince her that everything is fine, Betsy insists I take some time off to take care of myself.
I know she means well, but the idea of being at home, alone, for the next few days is more daunting than I want to think about.
Especially with Flint gone. Maybe I can bribe Calida to hang out, if I offer pizza and unlimited pop music videos on the TV.
I won’t be able to get any work done on my writing, but at least I’d have someone here to distract me.
It’s still not quite evening when I hear Flint’s key in the door. Not that I can see him, even once the door has opened. He fumbles, dropping his keys, in his attempt to right the giant box in his arms. I go to help, but Anne is quicker off the mark.
“Jesus, Flint, what the hell did you buy?” Anne asks, stooping to grab the keys, then skipping back out of the way to allow him access to the apartment. Once he’s actually made it inside, Anne darts behind him to close the door while Flint makes his way to the kitchen with his box.
“I’m not entirely sure what all is in here.
Before I left the shop, Betsy came in like a tornado to drop off a couple of bags, with instructions I bring it home to you.
I had some stuff of my own that I had picked up, so I just loaded it up.
Figured it would be easier than trying to juggle all the bags. ”
He begins pulling things from the box. Pasta. A jar of sauce. Heating pads, eye masks. A pair of pajamas that looked soft as a cloud and warm as a hug. Some sort of oil. A dozen roses. The new release I had meant to snag a copy of but oddly, forgot. A new blanket.
While he finishes unloading, a knock sounds at the door. I tense, automatically. Anne catches my eye and moves to open the door. Thankfully, it appears to just be a delivery man and not the asshole of my nightmares.
Exactly how long is this trauma gonna haunt me? Asking for a friend.
Absently, I think how awesome it would be if I could erase memories willingly. I mean, I already don’t have much of a past. If I could erase Brett from all our memory banks, I feel like we’d all be happier.
Anne accepts two bulging bags from the very confused teenager at the door, digging for a tip, giving him a saucy smile and then shutting the door in his face. She turns to Flint and says “Did you lose your mind? Who the fuck is going to eat all of this?”
Oh. It was a food delivery.
Studying the large bags that appear to be quite heavy, I’m also starting to wonder who’s going to eat all the food.
Then Calida soars through the window and Anne succinctly says, “Well, holy fuck.”
I thought about mentally cursing when Calida made her entrance, but what difference would that make? Annemarie took it a lot better than I anticipated. And by that I mean, she sat down, right there on the floor and had a giggle fit that was — probably — not entirely healthy.
We respected her space until she gestured for me to hand her her wine glass. Then Flint collected the food bags and went about dividing it for all of us, muttering something about day drinking under his breath.
Why is everyone constantly muttering?
I couldn’t call him on it though because the man is dealing with not one, but two, traumatized females and I really feel like someone needs to cut him a break.
It’s me. I need to cut him a break.
I manage to heave Anne off the floor and get her to the couch.
I get her settled with a blanket and some pillows.
Flint offers her one of the two heating pads he brought home and refills our wine glasses.
Then, he plops two heaping plates of food on the table before making direct eye contact with me and almost snarling “Eat” in our general direction.
I settle next to her and pick up my fork. My eyes fill when I realize that he ordered an abundance of all of my favorite things, from all my favorite places.
While I’m settling back with my food, Flint snatches the remote and stabs at the buttons with one long, scarred finger until one of my comfort shows is playing on TV.
Calida is eating pasta in the kitchen — Flint decreed she can’t survive off pizza and rats alone.
The break is probably a blessing. Hopefully Annemarie will be able to get her bearings while Calida snarfs down chicken parm.
All in all, she’s taking it better than I did.
Then again, Calida has been talked to about the problems that can arise if she sets a fire in our apartment.
“You good?” I ask, gently.
Anne sits forward and takes a long sip of her wine.
“That’s a fucking dragon.”
I nod.
“Exactly how long have you been living with a fucking dragon?”
I shrug, like it’s no big deal.
It’s a very big fucking deal.
“Since Flint got here,” I mutter, trying to focus on my food because I’m a coward.
“And Flint…” she allows her sentence to trail off.
I take a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure he is, in fact, the main male character I’ve been writing. I wrote his description before he just… showed up, so yeah….” I let my sentence trail too. I love the woman, but I also wouldn’t blame her for calling the psych ward and making a reservation for three.
She studies my face for a long time. I finally force myself to meet her gaze. Traumatized, yes. Crazy? I don’t think so.
She nods once and takes another long sip of her wine. “Well, introduce us. I feel like I should know all your roommates.”