by T. K. Leigh
“Then I missed my period.”
I suck in a breath, hanging my head, my lips pinched with tension. “Jesus…”
“That’s when I decided to come forward.”
“So he was arrested, right?”
She barks out a sarcastic laugh, rolling her eyes. “Don’t I wish. My school touted having a sexual assault task force as part of their campus police, which was where I was told to report this because it happened on campus. But when I did, they made me feel like I was the one in the wrong. They didn’t take me to an office. They took me to a fucking interrogation room. Made me sit there in an uncomfortable chair while I waited for someone to take my statement.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I asked myself the same question. Then I figured it out. Do you know what was different about me compared to any of the other students who’d reported that someone had stolen their laptop or their car was keyed?” She gives me a knowing look.
“Oh.”
“Because I’m not white. My father warned me about this when I’d applied to this college. Told me the nearby town wasn’t exactly diverse. Neither was the student body. But I didn’t care. I wanted to go there because they had a great art history program.
“When a supposed sexual assault special officer, who just so happened to be a white man, finally came in to talk to me, he accused me of stealing the keys to the Allen House, threatened to file theft and trespassing charges against me if I insisted on pursuing this. After that, it was justification after justification. He asked what I was wearing, as if that had anything to do with it. Asked if I’d been drinking. Brought up the fact I’d admitted we’d grown close after both being regulars at the same coffee shop. Then that I’d kissed him, insinuating that I should have anticipated something more would happen. Anything to poke holes in my claim.”
“That’s so fucked up,” I choke out.
“I know.”
“So…nothing happened? He got away with it?”
She nods. “He did. After all, Jay had a bright future ahead of him,” she says in a mocking tone. “If they were to file charges, it would destroy his life, his marriage, all for, and I quote, ‘simply a guilty conscience on your part after you’d made the decision to cheat on your husband’. So not only was I fucked by this guy against my will, I was fucked by the system, too. The system that’s supposed to be in place to protect me.” She pinches her lips together in contemplation. “Then again, that’s not entirely true. The system only seems interested in protecting white men. No offense.”
“What did you do?”
“The only thing I could. I graduated and headed home. Or at least my new home. I actually looked forward to seeing Sawyer, to focusing on our marriage. After everything, I just wanted to feel love. Find some sort of normalcy. But that’s the thing they don’t tell you after you go through something like this. Life will never be normal again. You can’t just return to before. There is no before. There’s only after. Putting one foot in front of the other to make it to the next day. Many victims can’t even do that. You’re stuck. I suppose I still am.”
“Did you tell Sawyer what happened?” I ask in a low voice, my tone free of judgment.
“I hadn’t planned on it, as horrible as that sounds. After the police didn’t believe me, I started to question what really happened myself. So once I was home, I made an appointment at a clinic. Unfortunately, someone from Sawyer’s church saw me there and brought it up to him. He asked me why I went there when I had an OB closer to home. I had no choice but to come clean. Tell him everything that happened. And I told him…”
“Yes?”
“That the reason I’d gone to that clinic was to terminate the pregnancy.” She shifts her tear-filled eyes to mine. “It wasn’t an easy decision. Trust me. I didn’t enter into it lightly. I tried to imagine how I would feel if I had to carry that man’s baby for nine months. How I would feel every time I looked at the baby and saw his features. And I knew I wasn’t strong enough to do that. That I wouldn’t survive. So, unlike my father, I chose myself over my baby.”
“How did Sawyer take the news?”
She laughs under her breath, her annoyance clear. “He called me every name under the sun. Blamed me. Accused me of lying about the assault altogether. Claimed the baby was the result of a consensual affair and the only reason I confessed was because I was now carrying evidence of the affair. That if I were telling the truth, the police would have filed charges, which they didn’t.
“I couldn’t believe it. I thought he’d understand. Sawyer had always been an outspoken advocate for civil rights, especially in matters of national importance. He’d routinely accuse police departments of not believing black victims, but when it came to his own wife, he didn’t give a shit. He treated me like I was no one. Like I was the one to blame, when all I’d wanted was for him to hug me and tell me everything was going to be okay. That he would support me and do whatever it took to help me get through this.
“Instead, he insisted I do something to get right with God. That I confess my sins in front of the entire church. Only then would he consider forgiving me for my supposed betrayal.”
“And if you refused?”
“Then he’d have no choice but to cut all ties with me. He said he couldn’t respect someone who didn’t value the sanctity of marriage. Who didn’t value human life like they preach in the Bible. He didn’t care that the baby was the result of rape. In his mind, I hadn’t been assaulted. I’d simply gotten caught being unfaithful. He even turned my father against me. Convinced him it was the only way to save face with his church.”
“You didn’t do what he asked of you, right?”
“No.” She offers me a soft smile. “For the first time in my life, I did what I believed to be right, instead of what someone demanded of me. The following Saturday night, while Sawyer was at the church rehearsing his sermon for the following day, I packed a bag and left.”
“Where did you go?”
“I called the only person I could think of. The only person I knew would help, no questions asked.”
“Who was that?”
“My roommate from my freshman year.” She blows out a laugh. “When you think about it, it’s kind of depressing. The people you’ve known all your life are the first to toss you out, but the ones you barely know will help you without judgment. And that’s what she did. She offered me her couch in her apartment in Atlanta without a hint of judgment. Just sympathy and compassion. So I jumped in my car and haven’t looked back since.”
I nod, my chest aching at everything she endured. Not only that night, but in the months to follow. How everyone who was supposed to help her and stand up for her abandoned her. It’s no wonder she pushed me away. If I were in her shoes, I probably would have done the same thing, worried I’d hurt her like everyone else in her life.
I slowly face her, struggling to come up with something meaningful to say in response. I’m sorry seems too trivial. Too inconsequential. So I do what she wanted all those years ago.
“Can I give you a hug?”
Her shoulders fall as she chokes out a sob, the sound echoing in the still evening air. “I’d really like that.”
Releasing my hold on her hand, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close. I kiss the top of her head, rocking her gently.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I murmur.
A new wave of tears washes over her as she melts into me, clutching onto me as if I’m a life preserver, the only thing keeping her afloat.
“Thank you.” She nuzzles further into me, inhaling a deep breath before pulling back.
I cup her cheek. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes, Londyn. If you need time to figure things out, to learn to trust me, I’m okay with that. We can take this as slowly as you need. Just, please, don’t push me away again. I won’t abandon you like everyone else. I swear to you.”
“I appreciate that.” She smiles warmly at me, then stands, taking a few step
s away. She peers into the distance, indecision covering her expression as she crosses a single arm over her stomach. “But I can’t ask you to wait for me.”
I rise to my feet, eating up the space between us. “But—”
She spins toward me. “It was your kiss that made me realize this.”
“My…kiss?”
“Yes.” She smiles slyly. “Your kiss.” When she clutches the lapels of my jacket, a thrill trickles through me, my pulse increasing. “It made me realize what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
“Everything.” Her gaze locks with mine. Then she drops her hold, stepping back. “But I’m messed up, Wes. For the past several years, I’ve made it my mission in life to do everything to prevent feeling the absolute helplessness I did that night. That I did for months to come afterward. I took self-defense classes—”
“That explains the boxing photos on your Instagram,” I remark.
She playfully pinches her lips together, a single hand on her hip. “You’ve been stalking my Instagram?”
I rake my fingers through my hair. “Maybe. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” she admits, her expression softening for a moment. Then she steps toward me again. “But I need to work on myself. I thought by taking self-defense classes, by having no-strings sex again, I was taking back control. But they were just bandages on a wound that’s still festering. For five years now, I’ve ignored the source of the problem because the idea of allowing myself to be vulnerable again scares me more than snakes or heights combined. So I can’t stand here and ask you to wait for me, to be patient while I sort out my shit. That’s not fair to you, or to me. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever sort out my shit. I hope I can. But if I’m to finally heal from this, I can’t have any added pressure on me.”
“In other words, it’s not me, it’s you,” I say with a slight chuckle.
“Yeah.” She chews on her bottom lip. “I suppose this was all just a roundabout way to say that.”
I exhale deeply, lifting my eyes toward the sky, trying to think of anything to say to convince her otherwise, convince her it doesn’t have to be like this. Then her words from minutes ago replay in my mind. All she wanted back then was someone to support her and do whatever it took to help her through this. So, as much as it pains me, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
“I don’t like this, but I promise to stay out of your way while you get on the path to the happiness you deserve, regardless of whether I’m at the end of it.”
“This doesn’t mean I want you out of my life completely,” she adds quickly. “Truthfully, these past few weeks have sucked.”
I laugh under my breath. “Yes, they have.”
She pulls at the hem of her dress, lowering her gaze. “So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like it if things can go back to the way they were before we kissed.” She gradually looks up. “If we can work on the house together again.”
“I’d really like that, too.”
“Good.”
“Good,” I repeat.
Neither one of us moves as I simply admire her. Her beauty. Her strength. Her resilience. And in this moment, I feel like I’m finally seeing the real Londyn. I’ve always found her to be absolutely stunning. But now that she’s revealed all the dark parts of herself, I can’t help but grow even more attracted to her.
“Can I hug you again?” I ask after several protracted moments.
She nods, walking into my arms.
I wrap her in my embrace, bringing her head to my chest. I trace a soothing pattern on her back as the sun sets on the horizon, turning the sky a beautiful pink. Silence surrounds us like a protective cocoon as I do my best to provide comfort and security in a world that’s been nothing but cruel and unjust to her most of her life. But I hope I can show her it doesn’t have to be that way.
I hope I can show her what she’s been deprived of for too long now.
I hope I can show her love.
Chapter Twenty-One
Weston
“This is infinitely easier than that wallpaper,” I comment as I roll paint onto the wall of what used to be Gampy’s office but Londyn plans to return to its original purpose — the parlor.
I wasn’t sure how today would go, considering it’s our first day with things back to normal. Or at least some semblance of normalcy. I’m not sure how normal things will be again. Not after everything Londyn shared yesterday. Her assault. Being made out to be the wrongdoer by the system. Her husband giving her an ultimatum for making a decision any woman in her shoes would.
I’ve always considered myself a fairly even-tempered person. It takes a lot to piss me off. Gampy always told me that the pen is mightier than the sword, and I suppose his admonition stuck, as I prefer to use my words instead of my fists.
When it comes to Londyn, though, that’s no longer the case. I’ve never felt the urge to hunt someone down and cause permanent damage as much as I do now, knowing this waste of space, this rapist, is presumably still walking the earth, free to cause other women the same harm. It makes me sick that our justice system would allow such a thing. Maybe I’ve just worn rose-colored glasses for too long, thinking the system would take care of criminals.
But if I learned anything from Gampy, it’s that the system is flawed. It’s times like these I wish he were still alive. He’d know what to do, what to say to Londyn. Hell, he’d probably go to battle for her, promise to get her the justice she deserves. I wouldn’t even know how to do that. All I can do is what I promised. Be her friend while she finally takes back control of her life.
Although every time she flashes me one of those heart-melting smiles, it takes everything I have to not wrap her in my arms. Press my lips to hers. Kiss her like she deserves to be kissed. With respect. With admiration. With hope. Now that I’ve had a taste of how sweet she is, I’m desperate for another hit.
“Figured I’d take it easy on you today.” She climbs down from the ladder, setting her roller on a nearby worktable made from a couple of sawhorses and a piece of plywood. “But don’t get too used to it.” When she smiles, a lightness envelopes her, as if yesterday never happened. “You’ll have your work cut out for you next weekend.”
“Oh yeah?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.
When I notice her eyes briefly go to my biceps as they stretch the fabric of my shirt, a flicker of excitement fills me. Maybe not all hope is lost. Maybe there’s still a chance, despite her insisting I not wait for her. But what she doesn’t understand is that I’d rather wait years for what I feel in my heart is extraordinary than settle for anything less. I’ve already waited thirty-six years to feel what I do for her. What’s a few more when it’s right? And nothing has ever felt so right, her past be damned.
“What’s next weekend?”
“The kitchen cabinets will be ready to be installed.” One of her curls falls in front of her face, and she pushes it behind her ear.
“You got some paint on your face now.” I laugh at how adorable she looks, the paint smear the perfect accessory to her outfit of cut-off shorts, white tank top, and work boots. She’s a mixture of style and grace, with a dash of don’t fuck with me. It’s this combination that’s drawn me to her from the moment we met.
She grabs a rag off the worktable and wipes at her forehead. “Did I get it?”
My laughter only increases when I see there’s now even more paint, thanks to the rag I’ve used to clean my hands throughout the day.
“Nope. Certainly didn’t.”
“And you’re laughing?” she shoots back, feigning annoyance. “That’s no way to treat a lady. And here I thought you were a gentleman.” She playfully bats her lashes, playing up the Southern accent in her intonation.
“Oh, I’m a gentleman all right.”
A few weeks ago, I would have made another suggestive comment, but I don’t want to push my luck with her. Not yet.
“We’ll see about that.” A mischievous glint in
her eyes, she dips a brush into the gray paint we used on the bottom section of the walls, then flicks it at me, causing paint to splatter across my t-shirt.
I freeze, staring in shock for several moments. Then my gaze darkens. “You’re going to regret that, Londyn.”
I advance toward her, and she squeals, darting around the worktable, as if that will protect her. Grabbing the roller from the paint pan on the floor, I chase after her. She could escape into the hallway, but she doesn’t, heading farther into the parlor instead.
Easily reaching her, I run the roller along the back of her tank and the top of her shorts.
“That’s it, Bradford. This means war.” She briefly glances at the ladder, then the can of touch-up paint perched on the top. It may be small, but it will still do a fair bit of damage.
“You wouldn’t,” I say, keeping the roller stretched in front of me, like a sword warding off an opponent.
“Oh, no?”
“No,” I reply, although I can’t quite be certain.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have thought she’d do anything to risk ruining her hard work. But something about her right now — the excitement in her eyes, the devilish hint of a smile tugging on her lips, the easy, carefree attitude that’s a complete one-eighty from the tension-filled conversation when she shared her past — makes me think anything’s possible.
“What makes you say that?” she muses.
“All our hard work. If you do that, we’ll have to reprime and repaint the walls.”
“That’s true…”
She straightens her defensive stance, putting me at ease. Then she takes a few quick steps toward the ladder and tips it, the can on the top tumbling off. Paint splatters all over the room, the bulk of it landing directly on me.
Her infectious laughter echoes against the walls. “Like you said,” she struggles to say. “Painting is a lot easier than wallpaper. And look.” She nods at the wall behind me. “Only a few drops got on it. I believe the score is now Londyn, one. Wes, zero,” she boasts proudly, hands on her hips, head held high. I want to be mad that I’m dripping with paint, but I can’t be. Not when I see how happy she is.
