Chapter 8
MAYA
"We're going out."
I look up from where I'm sitting on the guest room floor, Max curled in my lap. Emma's standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a flowy top that hides her barely-there bump, hands on her hips.
"What?"
"Out. Dancing. Drinks. Girls' night." She steps into the room. "Chase and Jackson have Ethan duty tonight. We're going to get you out of this house."
The thought of going to a club makes my stomach turn. "I'm good here."
"You've been here for almost two weeks, and you've barely left except for groceries and that coffee run with Jackson." She sits on the edge of the bed. "Come on. We used to do this all the time."
We did. Before Lily. Before the rape. Before I became this hollow thing pretending to be human.
"I don't know, Em—"
"I'm not asking." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You need to get out. And I need to pretend I'm not a pregnant lady who can't drink. We'll be each other's excuse to leave early if it sucks."
I want to say no, want to stay here with Max and my journal and the four walls that feel safer than anywhere else.
But Emma's looking at me with that expression that says she's worried and trying not to show it. And I owe her this. Owe her the performance of being okay, of being the friend she remembers.
"Fine. But I'm not dressing up."
"Deal."
An hour later, I'm in jeans that actually fit, borrowed from Emma's pre-pregnancy wardrobe, and a black long-sleeved top that covers my arms. I've done my makeup, though my hands shook the entire time.
Left my curls down because Emma insisted, and I'm wearing the silver bracelet Jackson gave me for my birthday years ago.
Keep shining, Stardust.
I don't feel like I'm shining. I feel like I'm barely flickering.
Emma drives because she can't drink anyway. The club is downtown, next to a tattoo parlor. There's already a line outside despite it being barely 10 p.m.
"We don't have to wait," Emma says, leading me past the line to the bouncer. She says something I don't catch, and he waves us through.
Inside, the music is so loud I feel it in my chest. Bass that pounds in time with my heartbeat. Lights flash: red, blue, purple, turning everything into a strobe. Bodies everywhere, pressed together on the dance floor.
Too many people. Too close. Too loud.
"Let's get drinks!" Emma yells over the music.
She leads me to the bar and orders herself a cranberry juice and me a vodka soda. I down it in three gulps and order another.
"Easy," Emma says, watching me. "We just got here."
"I'm fine."
The second drink goes down easier. The third even easier than that. The alcohol blurs the edges, makes everything feel less sharp, less real.
Emma gets us a spot near the edge of the dance floor. She's moving to the music, trying to get me to dance. I try, forcing my body to move even though it feels disconnected from my brain.
But then the alcohol starts working, loosening the tight knot in my chest, making the music feel less overwhelming and more like something I can actually move to.
Emma grabs my hands and spins me around, laughing, and for a moment, I remember what this used to feel like: being young and free and not carrying the weight of everything that's happened.
The song changes to something with a heavier beat, something that makes it impossible not to move. Emma's dancing like she doesn't have a care in the world, and I find myself actually smiling, actually feeling something other than numb.
"There she is!" Emma yells over the music, grinning at me. "I knew you were still in there!"
We dance through three songs, maybe four. My feet hurt in these heels, but I don't care. For the first time in months, I'm not thinking about Lily or the supply closet or the blade hidden under the bathroom sink. I'm just here, in this moment, letting the music drown out everything else.
A group of girls near us is celebrating something, a birthday or a bachelorette party, I can't tell, and they pull Emma into their circle. She drags me along, and suddenly we're all dancing together, strangers who don't know my history, who just see a girl having a good night.
I catch my reflection in one of the mirrored walls and barely recognize myself. Curls wild around my face, my brown skin glowing under the lights, actually smiling. I look alive.
When was the last time I looked alive?
Emma leans in close. "Having fun?"
"Yeah," I say, and realize I mean it. "Yeah, I actually am."
"Good. You deserve this."
I'm not sure I deserve anything, but I don't say that. Just let myself have this moment, this brief escape from everything waiting for me back at the house.
The thought of Jackson flashes through my mind.
He's home right now with Chase, probably helping put Ethan to bed or playing video games in the basement.
I wonder if he noticed I went out tonight, wonder if he's thinking about me at all, or if I'm just another problem he's stuck dealing with because his sister took pity on me.
The thought shouldn't sting, but it does.
"You okay?" Emma asks, noticing I've gone quiet.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing important." I shake my head. "Come on, I need another drink."
We head back to the bar, and Emma orders our drinks. I'm on my fourth vodka soda now, or maybe my fifth, and the world has that pleasant fuzzy quality that makes everything feel manageable.
For about ten minutes, anyway.
Then the pleasant buzz from the alcohol starts to curdle into something else. The club suddenly feels too small, the music too loud, the bodies pressed too close. My heart rate picks up, and I can feel sweat beading at the back of my neck.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I tell Emma, but I'm already moving away from her, weaving through the crowd toward the other side of the bar instead.
The bartender's busy with other customers, and I flag him down, my hands shaking. "Tequila. Shot."
He pours it and slides it across. I throw it back without waiting for a lime, the burn familiar and grounding.
"Another," I say, and he pours again.
The second shot goes down and the world tilts, steadies, tilts again. The edges blur even more, and I grip the bar to keep myself upright.
I should find Emma. Should get some water. Should stop drinking.
I turn to head back toward where we were standing, and that's when it happens.
Hands on my waist.
I freeze.
I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything except stand there while someone's hands grip my hips from behind, pulling me against them. The contact is firm, possessive, unwanted.
"There you are," a male voice says in my ear. "Let's dance."
The music fades. Everything fades except the pressure of his hands on my body and the way he's moving against me like he has every right to touch me.
I can't move.
Can't fight.
Can't scream.
It’s just like before. Frozen like the pathetic coward I am.
"Get off her."
Emma's voice cuts through the panic. She's here suddenly, shoving between us, physically pushing the guy back. "She's not interested. Leave."
The guy holds up his hands, laughing like this is all some big joke. "We were just dancing."
"She doesn't want to dance. Go away." Emma's voice is sharp, protective, and she positions herself between him and me like a shield.
He disappears into the crowd, still laughing, and Emma grabs my arm. "Come on. We're leaving."
She pulls me toward the exit, and I let her, my legs moving on autopilot. The cold air outside hits my face like a slap, and I gulp it down, trying to stop the shaking that's taken over my entire body.
"Maya." Emma's hands are on my shoulders, gentle but firm. "Look at me."
I can't, can't look at her without falling apart.
"We're going home. Come on."
The drive back is silent. I press my forehead against the cold window and focus on counting streetlights. One. Two. Three. Anything to not think about those hands on me, that voice in my ear, the way I just stood there and let it happen.
Emma parks in the driveway and kills the engine. Neither of us moves.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Her voice is quiet, careful.
"I'm fine."
"Maya—"
"I'm fine, Emma. I just had too much to drink too fast. I'm good."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her face when I finally look at her. But she doesn't push, just nods, and we head inside.
"I'm going to bed," I say, already heading for the stairs.
"Okay. But Maya? If you need to talk—"
"I know. Thanks."
I take the stairs two at a time, slip into the guest room, and close the door behind me.
Max is on the bed. He looks up when I enter and meows.
"Not now," I tell him.
I should shower, should wash the club smell off me, the feeling of strange hands on my skin. But I can't move, can't do anything except sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.
His hands on my waist, yanking me back. The supply closet all over again.
I couldn't fight then either. Couldn't scream. Just froze while he—
No.
I stand up and pace the room. Max watches from the bed, tail twitching.
It’s been just over three months since the rape, and I still can't handle someone touching me without consent. I still freeze like a fucking coward.
My wrists itch.
I know I shouldn't, I know it's not the answer. I know all the things a rational person would know.
But I'm not rational right now. I'm drowning, and the blade is the only thing that makes the water stop rising.
The bathroom is small but clean. White tiles, good lighting. Emma keeps it stocked with the expensive soap she likes.
I open the cabinet under the sink and pull out the small bag I've hidden behind the cleaning supplies.
The blade is wrapped in tissue. I unwrap it carefully, and the metal catches the light.
I know where to cut. I studied it in nursing school. Upper thigh, inner arm. Places that can be hidden. Places that hurt enough to ground me without going too deep.
I sit on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, and pull up my sleeve.
The old scars are there. White lines crisscrossing my brown skin like a map of every time I couldn't cope. Some are months old. Some from just last week.
I press the blade to my forearm. Not hard enough to cut yet. Just feeling the pressure.
The pain will make everything else manageable and will give me something I can control when everything else is falling apart.
I press harder and feel the skin start to give.
Jackson's face flashes through my head.
You don't have to do that with me. The performance. You can just be you.
I lower the blade. Everything's shaking—my hands, my body, all of it trembling against the cold bathroom floor.
I want to do it, want the release, the clean pain that makes sense, want something I can control.
But I don't.
Not tonight.
I wrap the blade back up and put it away, then pull my knees to my chest, wrists burning with the ghost of cuts I didn't make.
Max appears in the doorway and meows at me like I'm an idiot.
"I know," I whisper.
He walks over, climbs into my lap, and purrs against my chest.
I close my eyes and try to breathe, try to remember what my therapist said about grounding techniques. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. Three things I can hear.
But all I can feel is those hands on my waist. All I can hear is that voice in my ear.
All I can think is that I'm never going to be okay again.
I don't know how long I've been sitting here. Could be minutes. Could be hours. Time doesn't work right anymore.
Eventually, I get up, change into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and climb into bed with Max still purring beside me.
The blade is under the sink. Waiting. Always waiting for the next time I'm not strong enough to resist it.
Tonight I resisted.
Tomorrow might be different.
But tonight, I didn't cut.
I lie here in the dark, Max's weight warm against my side, and think about the club. About those few minutes when I was actually dancing, actually feeling something other than this constant ache. About the way Emma looked at me when she said I deserved to have fun.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come; it just lies there out of reach while my mind replays every touch, every moment of panic, every second I stood frozen instead of fighting back.
Max shifts, pressing closer, and I focus on his purring, on the weight of him against my ribs, on the fact that I'm here in this bed and alive.
That has to count for something.
Even if it doesn't feel like much.