27. Chapter 27 #2
“Mal,” Delilah says calmly. “First, I want to thank you for sharing this with me. For trusting me.” She pauses, and I nod. “Now, I’m going to say something you might not want to hear, but it’s important that you do.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
“They assaulted you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No. They didn’t. They barely touched us. They didn’t hurt us, not really. They didn’t—”
“Hurt comes in many forms,” she interjects softly. “ Trauma comes in many forms. And even though they didn’t leave lasting physical reminders, that doesn’t mean what you experienced was any less scarring.”
I shake my head again, but Delilah leans forward, catching my eye.
“You were abducted, Mal,” she says, gently but insistently. “While you were a minor. You were held against your will for a month. And yes, you were assaulted. Not only that, but you were forced to pass that trauma from boy to boy with every rebirth that occurred up on that stage.”
I swallow roughly.
“They made you participate because they were trying to break you down. They wanted you to believe the hateful rhetoric they were spewing was real. The water, the demoralizing—it was all psychological games as much as physical. They wanted you to take that part of yourself—your sexuality—and lock it up tight. They wanted you to associate it with pain. With weakness.”
I nod slowly because what she’s saying makes sense.
“But just because they didn’t beat you or use electroshock therapy, that doesn’t make your experience less valid.
What those reckless, horrible men did to you and those boys—you relive it.
Every time you have a panic attack, your body is right back in that church, scared and stress-reacting to the fear as if it’s real.
Because, in your mind, it is. You have PTSD, Mal. ”
I reel back, her words hitting me like a sucker punch.
I blink, shaking my head rapidly because no .
I can’t have PTSD. That’s for war veterans and people who’ve faced horrible, life-changing events.
Not for boys who were dunked in water and told they were sinners.
But Delilah goes on, holding her palm up as if asking me to hold tight.
“What you experienced by the hands of those men was very real trauma. An immeasurable violation. I know facing that—acknowledging it—is not easy, but I need you to hear my words right now because this is a really important step you’ve taken today, telling me about what happened at that camp.
And facing this diagnosis head-on, not running from it, is going to help us—help you —move forward. ”
I swallow repeatedly, fidgeting with my hoodie strings. I want to deny her words, to contradict her. But Delilah knows what she’s talking about. This is her field. Who am I to tell her she’s wrong?
My thoughts run every which way, trying to view what happened to me with perspective, trying to imagine how I’d feel if it happened to someone I knew. Wondering what I would tell them. That it wasn’t a big deal? That it shouldn’t have hurt? Shouldn’t still hurt?
I wouldn’t be able to do that.
I grab the glass of water sitting in front of me and swallow it down in a handful of gulps. My foot bounces incessantly, and I look down at it, at the red Converse I wore today.
“I have PTSD?”
“Yes, you do,” Delilah says softly. “The ‘stage fright,’ as you called it, is one of your strongest triggers. Your panic disorder has exacerbated the attacks, causing your mind and your body to get stuck, in a way, on a loop. Anxiety over having the attacks leads to more, as you well know. But you also have specific triggers that send you right back to when you were sixteen. And now that we understand that, now that we know the source of your trauma, we can work in a more targeted way on breaking your cycle.”
“It could get better?” I ask, hope blooming inside my chest amidst the swirling chaos and doubt.
“It could. Your medications will help reduce your overall anxiety, which will lessen your panic attacks on the whole. But identifying and addressing your triggers and working through your past trauma is what, I hope, will have a greater effect moving forward. We can focus on those things now in our sessions.”
I shake my head, but this time, it’s more in astonishment than disbelief.
“I have PTSD,” I say.
Delilah gives me a gentle, approving smile. “And now, together, we can figure out where to go from here.”
When I get back to Dixon’s, neither he nor Niko are there, and I’m grateful to have a few moments alone to process.
After my session, I’m completely wrung out.
Bone-tired and exhausted. I haven’t had a chance to fully come to terms with what Delilah told me, but I’m working on it.
I have a feeling that part may take a while.
Truth be told, all I want right now is to be back in Henrik’s penthouse, snuggled up next to the man on the couch while I take a nap. I want to feel his hands running soothing circles over my body. I want his arms around me, holding me tight. Keeping me together.
But I might have lost all that.
“Yes, I’m goddamn angry that Mal—or Adam, as is apparently his name—is a porn star. How can I trust him? What else don’t I know?”
My gut sinks as I remember the words Henrik all but yelled at Benji last night. How upset he was. How betrayed he sounded by the truth, even though it was never a secret to begin with.
But the more I mull it over—running the entire encounter through my head again and again—the more I wonder if there’s…well, more to it. Because there was something else Henrik said. One thing that was unlike the others.
“It’s the money, isn’t it? That’s the only goddamn reason he’s here. That’s the only reason he wanted me.”
Why would Henrik have been so torn up, so wounded over the subject of money, unless he saw me as more than his escort? Of course a paid escort would only be there because it was their job.
If I was only a transaction, like all the rest, his words wouldn’t have grated like glass on the way out.
He wouldn’t have been in so much pain.
He wouldn’t have wanted me to care beyond the promise of cash.
Right?
With shaking fingers, I pull my phone from my pocket and open the text thread to Henrik—the one I’d been avoiding.
I scroll slowly past the many requests to call him, to text him, to let him know where I am, or at least let him know I’m safe.
And with each “please” I read, my hope grows a little bit more.
When I get to the most recent message, a smile spreads across my lips.
Henrik: The cats are doing all right. Little Gray spent the night in my bed. He missed you.
He didn’t want me to worry. Niko’s right. I need to talk to the man.
But before I can click Henrik’s name on my phone, another call comes through. Genevieve .
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mal dear,” the woman says, sounding much less peppy than the last time we spoke.
“What is it?” I ask as politely as I can manage.
“I’m afraid I was contacted by Mr. Larsen this morning to terminate your contract.”
I inhale sharply, my butt hitting the floor as those hopeful little butterflies I was nurturing crumple right with me to the ground in a sad, pitiful heap. “Oh.”
“The good news is he had the remainder of your pay forwarded to your account, despite not finishing out the full six months. The transaction should be visible as pending.”
“I…” He paid the full amount of the contract? Why? As an apology for the things I heard? For some other reason?
“He also asked me to send along a message that he would really like to speak with you. What about, I’m unsure, but that seemed important to him,” Genevieve says gently.
“Yeah, okay,” I all but mumble, too caught up in the implications of Henrik officially canceling my employment yet paying me the remainder of the full half million we initially agreed upon. What does that mean? Why would he do that?
“Would you like me to reinstate your status as available for escort services?” my boss asks.
“I, uh… Can I think about it?”
“Of course,” she says. “Why don’t you give me a call once you’ve made a decision. I’m sure we could find you a new client quickly.”
My gut tightens.
I don’t want a new client. I want Henrik.
But Henrik doesn’t want you .
“Thank you, Genevieve,” I say, pulling myself out of my head long enough to finish our conversation.
“Of course, dear. Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
When the call disconnects, I quickly switch off my phone, the prospect of accepting any other calls today too much to handle. Leaning my head back against the couch cushion behind me, I close my eyes and stare up at the darkness behind my lids.
I think about Henrik. About the short month and a half we had. About what I thought was growing between us.
I think about Delilah. About my PTSD. About the monsters from my past I’ve been running from. The ones I never truly escaped.
I think about my mom. About her dementia and the fact that most of the time, she doesn’t even remember her gay son. She doesn’t remember the part she played.
And I think about myself. About the person I want to be. The person I’ve become . Someone who was finally starting to drop their walls and trust again. Who was letting people in instead of lying and hiding and feeling hopelessly adrift.
Someone who’d begun writing their own story.
So, I guess the question is—what do I want my next chapter to be?