Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jennifer
It’s truly amazing how many layers there are to the human psyche.
I knew things wouldn’t be magically fixed while I was in the psychiatric ward. But it did help me to get a mental grasp on things, especially on how I felt after the initial assault all those years ago.
They tore the lid off my mind and forced me to face what was inside.
We addressed problems I didn’t even know I had. Or maybe I did, I just buried them amongst the layers of grime so I couldn’t see them.
Mild anti-depressants have helped untangle some of the webs in my dark mind, so now when I search through it, it’s not such a scary place. I’ll stay on them for now, and we’ll reassess at a later date.
But I knew going in that I wasn’t going to tell them the details about Jacob yet. They only know that I feel like I wronged someone so deeply that I’ve been punishing myself for it. And part of that punishment was cutting myself.
They told me that hurting myself wasn’t helping him.
Those words hit me harder than I thought they would, reaching in and grabbing hold of my soul.
And thus, the healing process started.
But you can’t piece your soul back together when there are still misshaped pieces in the form of unresolved issues.
And unresolved issues won’t fix themselves when you’re the cause of them. Action is needed. Only then can you fit yourself back together.
I’ve been out of the psych ward for over a month now, and I’ve spent the time building up the courage to come here.
Sweat gathers in places I didn’t even realize could produce it as I lift my trembling hand to the handle, looking over my shoulder for the tenth time. It’s the same office he’s had for the past several years, yet everything feels unfamiliar.
I can do this, just open the door.
Along with building my courage over the past two months, I’ve been missing Mase every second of every day, wanting to reach out, wanting to talk to him, but keeping myself from doing so.
I’m used to the sensation of an aching chest, of having my body manifest my emotions in a painful physical form. But the feeling produced from missing Mase is not something I’m familiar with.
My whole being aches to be near him. His absence in my life is like drinking several glasses of liquid and still feeling thirsty because it wasn’t water. Nothing will be able to fill the empty space, except him.
I know this separation has been for the best, though. For both of us.
Sometimes I can’t believe what I did to him.
Sometimes I can’t believe what I did to myself.
I’ve still been attending therapy, though it’s not as intense as the program I was in.
I no longer work at the club, either. It turns out when you don’t show up to work for a few weeks, you no longer have a job. Good thing, because I was going to quit, anyway.
When I went to collect my stuff, Melody, Candy, and I said our teary goodbyes, and I wished them luck while handing them my number—something I’d never done in the two years prior.
As part of my healing process, I’ve been visiting women’s shelters to talk with other victims of sexual assault. As much as I never wanted to even think about it in the past, there’s something cathartic about discussing it with others like me.
Of course, there’s always a speck of hope when I walk through the door to the shelter, thinking I might see Mase there at the same time, but after a quick sweep, the speck is snuffed out.
I grip the handle tighter. I didn’t give any warning that I was coming today, didn’t reach out beforehand. I don’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to give myself an out if I decided I wasn’t ready yet.
Finally, with my heart whooshing in my ears, I turn the handle and propel myself inside, so I can’t change my mind.
My dad is standing by the window with his back to me, but he spins around at the sound of an intruder.
New wrinkles line his face, and the gray streaks in his hair have multiplied since I last saw him.
He looks tired and weathered, but still like my father, wearing a starch white dress shirt and dark gray slacks.
Emotions flood my chest and fill my eyes with tears at the sight of him.
I feel like all I’ve done lately is cry, but I don’t attempt to keep it inside.
The mug in his hand drops to the ground, shattering and spilling the contents onto the floor. Dad ignores it, staring at me with his mouth parted like I’m a ghost. I guess, in a way, I am.
As if snapping from a trance, he rushes across the room, grasping me tightly in his arms. “Jennifer.”
It was hard to know what to expect from someone who never really showed affection or love in any typical fashion.
This . . . this right here, is what I needed today.
“Dad.” I wrap my arms around him in return, and hold on just as fiercely as he is, wetting his shirt with my tears.
For years this has been all I wanted from him. Not money, not things. Love.
His gray eyes are glossy when he pulls back, grasping my biceps as if I might slip away from his fingers. “Jennifer,” he repeats, running his eyes over my face, my hair, and body. “Is it really you?”
I huff a watery laugh. “It’s me.”
Disbelief still lingers in his eyes. “I never thought I’d see you again.
” After pulling me in for another quick hug, he directs me to sit in one of the chairs at his desk.
Then, instead of sitting on the opposite side in his custom-made chair, as I would have expected, he perches on the one closest to me.
“Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
Other questions sit behind his lips, but he closes his mouth, waiting for me to answer those ones first.
I’m not used to this version of my father, and it takes me a moment to recalibrate.
The difference in his personality is almost startling. A shock to the system when you’ve become accustomed to a certain temperature your whole life.
I like it, though.
Fidgeting with my fingers, I prepare myself to tell him the truth.
Well, most of it.
Anything about what happened the night I told Mase will be kept to myself for now, along with what I’ve been doing for work.
As for the rest . . .
“I’ve been living here in the city, I just stayed in areas you wouldn’t go.”
His responding sigh is at least the same as it used to be. “I should have listened to you when you said you didn’t want to work for me. After you disappeared, I blamed myself, and I knew I was too hard on you. I should have—”
“No, Dad. That’s not why I disappeared.” I separate my fidgeting hands, forcing them to relax on my thighs. “It was because of Dylan.”
“Dylan?” An unsettled expression covers his face. “I didn’t realize the two of you were involved.”
The breakfast in my stomach immediately tumbles around. “We weren’t. Not like that, at least.”
He stares at me, expectant, wondering what the hell I’m talking about.
I can do this.
And so, I tell him.
I tell him about the night it happened, my interactions with Dylan afterward, when I found out the truth, and the threats he made against Dad and the company.
I spent years avoiding discussing anything to do with that night, but the more I’ve talked about it over the last couple of months, the easier it has gotten.
Of course, Mase and now Dad are the only ones who’ve heard the entire story involving Dylan.
The worry about his retaliation is still there, but it’s time to face that head-on.
Dad’s face is drained of all color by the time I’m finished. Horror, shock, and a multitude of other emotions flood his features as he sits there, absorbing everything.
I admit, I wasn’t sure he’d believe me, but by the look on his face right now, there’s a strong chance he does. I need him to believe me.
Dad doesn’t say anything right away, and neither do I.
It’s a lot to take in, especially after I’ve just shown up after years and tossed a bomb into his lap.
After some more time passes, he stands abruptly, then walks back to the window, looking out at the street, his expression disturbed. “So, Jacob was innocent.”
It’s not a question, but I answer it anyway. “Yes.”
Another minute passes in silence. “There were moments over the years where Dylan acted a little inappropriately—the odd time where a girl would exit his office, looking a little frazzled—but I never thought . . .” Reaching up, he lays a hand on his chest and grips the fabric of his shirt.
I stand quickly, concerned that maybe his heart is bothering him. But when he turns to face me, he releases his shirt, his eyes glassy again.
I’ve never seen as much emotion from him as I have since I walked through his door.
“All that time, he was right under my nose. And he did that to you. It makes me sick.” His hand reaches higher to rest at the base of his throat, and I realize he’s probably trying to press against the ache like I sometimes do.
“I wish you felt like you could have come to me when he threatened you. I’m so sorry that I didn’t make it easy for you. ”
Slowly, I step up beside him, looking out the window at the cloudy sky. “He’s always been like a son to you. I didn’t think I’d have a chance of you believing me.”
When I face him again, I see a pained expression. He knows it as well. “Yet you still tried to protect me and this company from him.”
“I’m just glad I finally had the courage to tell you the truth,” I tell him softly. “But we need to figure out what to do about him. I still don’t want him to hurt you or your company. Is he still at the same office?”
My father’s expression falters, his brows coming together as he faces me fully. “You don’t know?”
I straighten. “Know what?”
“Dylan . . . he’s dead. It was just recent.”
“What?” I stare at him, frozen, while the words I wasn’t expecting to hear swim through my mind.
Dead. Dylan is dead. No longer a threat. Gone, gone, gone.
Should I be feeling some kind of sadness over that news, over the loss of life?