Chapter 26
i’m not one of them
Hannah
Rowan
You make it home?
Me
Literally just pulled into my driveway. Give a girl a minute.
Rowan
I gave you fifteen minutes.
Me
And not a second more.
Yes, I’m home. Happy, Dad?
Rowan
Gross.
Me
So that’s a no on the daddy kink then. Noted.
Rowan
Hard pass. Also, I’m not particularly happy. I didn’t want you to leave.
Me
Really? See, I was confused by all the NOT kissing going on.
Rowan
Cute.
You trust me, runaway?
Me
I mean, I haven’t found your black duffel bag yet, so…
Rowan
…when the time is right.
Me
I don’t know if we’re talking about kissing or murder but I’ll take my chances.
Rowan
Get some sleep, Hannah.
Me
So bossy. Really no daddy kink, huh?
Rowan
Good night.
It’s quiet again. Doors are locked—I’ve checked them three times. The stove light is on along with two lamps in the living room and the hallway light. I even shut off the ice maker.
Rowan asked me to stay over again. Yet, here I am. Alone. Why? Pride? I didn’t want to impose? I don’t trust myself around him?
I don’t know anymore.
The everything shower I took when I got home was meant to be a distraction. So were the dishes and the laundry.
Still, silence is a cruel, vicious bitch.
I consider popping a Benadryl. Or a couple glasses of wine. But even though pride may or may not have been the reason I turned down Rowan’s invitation, it’s definitely why I refuse to drug or drink myself to sleep.
Because I’m fine.
All I have to do is keep myself busy and eventually the exhaustion will win and I’ll pass out.
Skin still clammy from the hot shower, I grab my laptop and settle on the couch. My checklist for the gala has more than enough items to keep myself occupied.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m three spreadsheets and a dozen emails deep in finalizing the event timeline when I reach a stalemate in the process and need Kristen’s help. Without thinking, I grab my phone.
She answers on the fourth ring, voice groggy. “Hannah? What’s going on?”
“Hello to you, too. I’m finishing up the timeline for the gala, but I can’t find the list of stage requirements for the band. Can you forward their contract to me?”
“It’s the weekend.” She yawns. “Why are you working?”
“Why are you whispering?”
A pause. “Because it’s one in the morning.”
I pull the phone from my ear to glance at the screen. 1:08. “Dammit. I’m sorry, Kris. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Hang on.” Through the line I hear her quiet steps followed by the soft click of a door. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I drag my fingers over my eyes. “Nothing. It’s dumb. I…couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d get some work done, but I didn’t look at the clock before I called you.”
Another yawn. “Why can’t you sleep?”
I shrug, forcing my tone to remain light. “Restless, I guess.” When she doesn’t respond, I add, “Did I wake John?”
“Don’t worry about him. He sleeps like the dead.”
The line stills. I should hang up, let her go back to bed. Instead, I swallow the thickness in my throat and confess, “I didn’t sleep last night either.”
“No?” I only shake my head, but my friend senses it. “Talk to me, Han.”
“I’m fine, I swear. It’s just…quiet, you know?”
“Yeah,” she sighs.
Neither of us say anything right away. It’s only a second, but the wood floor groans from down the hall and I flinch in response.
Kristen speaks first. “Well, I’m up now so I’ll come over and we’ll get this event timeline knocked out. One less thing to do on Monday.”
She’s already moving through her house. “Kris, no. You don’t need to come over here. This was stupid, I shouldn’t have called. Go back to bed.”
“Too late. I’ll be there in ten.”
My mouth falls open, ready to object. I should object. But I can’t seem to make the words come.
Kristen stays on the phone until she pulls into my driveway, claiming she needed me to help her stay awake on the drive.
I know better. And when she comes inside, she doesn’t ask why all the lights are on or why the television is so loud.
She simply turns everything off and walks me back to my room.
I follow her lead and climb under the covers beside her, propping my computer on my lap to match her.
There’s no inquisition. No coddling. No pitying looks. Just a friend showing up for another friend.
I fall asleep twenty minutes later.
The smell of coffee lures me to the kitchen where I find my best friend leaned against the counter, mug in hand.
“Morning,” she says.
I rub the tired from my eyes. “Morning.”
“Coffee?”
“Please,” I answer, pulling Rowan’s hoodie over my head.
Sleeves tugged down, I take a seat on a barstool as she sets a steaming cup in front of me.
She eyes me sideways, a smirk tipping her lips. “I guess now I understand where the sweatshirt came from.”
I smile into my coffee but neither confirm nor deny the years-long mystery of Hannah’s army hoodie. My story of buying it at Goodwill didn’t survive the oh look there’s a hot soldier named Rowan who knows your name and defends your honor test, apparently.
“Goodwill my ass.”
I choke on my coffee, wipe a bit from my chin. “You sleep okay?”
“Like a tit-drunk baby. But that’s what I get for letting John choose our mattress. Yours is so much better.”
“John would disagree.”
“John would be wrong.”
The room goes quiet. A swarm of questions flash over my friend’s face. It’s so much I have to look away.
“How did you sleep?” she finally asks.
Glancing at the clock for the first time since I woke up, I see it’s after ten. My stomach uncoils and I fill my lungs with air. I slept for eight hours.
“Good. I feel much better.” It’s the truth. “Tell John I’m sorry for calling so late.”
Kristen pads softly through the kitchen, settling her forearms on the island across from me. “John’s not upset, Han. He understands. We both do.”
There it is. The knowing. The concern. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth as I try to formulate a response. The “Thank-you” I offer up isn’t the opening she’d hoped for, but it’s not a denial either.
My friend nods once and pushes off the counter. After emptying her mug in the sink, she collects her purse. “I need to head home. John’s parents are coming over for lunch.” She rounds the island, stops beside me. “You sure you’re okay?”
I roll my eyes, making sure to smile so she knows I’m not serious. “I’m fine. I just needed a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”
She doesn’t move. After a long moment, she drops my gaze, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a business card.
“It’s…just…in case,” Kristen stammers as she slides it across the granite. I lean back like the card is on fire, folding my arms over my chest. “In case you decide you wanna talk to someone.”
I roll my lips, attention locked on the printed text: Miranda Ferguson, licensed professional counselor.
“She really helped me last year after my miscarriage,” she continues.
Funny how something as small and insignificant as a piece of card stock with black Times New Roman can feel so imposing—like every dark part of me is suddenly exposed.
A hand lands on my shoulder but my eyes are lost in the marble swirl of the counter top.
“Think about it, Hannah.”
My nose begins to burn and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek.
“I love you and I’m here for you.”
I cough past the lump that holds words hostage in my chest until I can finally whisper, “Love you, too.”
Kristen leaves. I don’t watch it happen, but I hear the front door open and close. Then the sound of her car’s engine in the driveway. All of it feeling a million miles behind me.
I stare at the card until my coffee goes cold. Until the tears I refuse to let fall are locked down for good. See? I’m in control here.
On a sharp sniff, I hop off the stool, swipe up the card, and march to the other side of the kitchen.
I yank open the junk drawer and toss the card inside.
It glares up at me from the mess of loose batteries and capless pens.
My hand is frozen on the handle, unable to slam the drawer shut like I’d planned.
Before I can question myself, I grab the card.
The wood floor pounds beneath my feet as I stomp to the entryway for my purse.
I tell myself it’s so I don’t lose it. I’ll keep it for emergencies, but I probably won’t actually need it. Maybe I can pass it on to someone who really needs it—someone who’s been through something truly traumatic.
Like a miscarriage. Or a sexual assault that lasted more than sixty seconds and involved something beyond a drunk creep who got too handsy. Because that’s all my experience was. Brief—over before it escalated to a point I’m certain I would have never recovered from.
I would never say it was nothing. I know what happened to me was something. But I also know what it wasn’t.
I wasn’t raped.
I wasn’t drugged.
I wasn’t unconscious.
It could have been worse. Other women have been through worse.
Therapists are for those women.
The women for whom help didn’t arrive in time. The women who suffer through more than a few sleepless nights. The women whose bruises last longer than forty-eight hours. The women who fear another man’s touch for months…years even.
I’m not one of them. Help came when I needed it. I got a full night’s sleep. My bruises are gone. I spent the better part of yesterday in Rowan’s arms and have never felt more cared for.
Maybe I’ll report it someday. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I should report it. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I really do need to talk to someone. Or, maybe it’s okay to try and forget—pretend it didn’t happen.
I slide the card inside the interior pocket of my purse.
Maybe, I decide, I don’t need to know the answers right now. Maybe I’ll keep it for when I do.