by Leanne Davis
Without a word, he obeys me and slides into the passenger seat. I stare for a moment in mild surprise. He doesn’t mention the fact that I don’t even have a driver’s license. I drove vehicles before, but he doesn’t know that. This might as well be my first time in the driver’s seat for all he knows, but he doesn’t ask me since his thoughts are miles away.
I start his truck and pull away from the campus. Lights illuminate his profile in fleeting glimpses and shadows. I keep glancing over at him with true concern. His head is resting against the window. His legs are spread out before him, and his hands are folded together. He doesn’t speak or move.
I still can’t connect how Hans became such a trigger of rage for Wyatt. Did the cheating episode lead to a phobia of lowering his GPA or disappointing the professor? Could that have started the panic attacks? It seems inadequate as a reason. But I don’t discount it. His experiences in life aren’t mine. Being perfect is critical for Wyatt, given so many people’s expectations from all avenues of his life: from his family, to school, to football, to friends, to Dani, and the team. They all hold high standards and expect exemplary behavior and outstanding results from Wyatt. Perhaps he just cracked under so much pressure. Maybe Hans was the last strike of the chisel that expanded the crack and made it run.
I drive the many miles to Silver Springs and pull over near one of the turnoffs along the river. Only then does his head lift, although it seems to take all of his energy. “What are you doing?”
“It’s our bench, remember? It’s private and quiet, and you can talk to me there.”
“Our bench?” His face screws up in confusion before he shakes it a little and stares out the windshield.
“Where you first took me jogging. Remember? I waited for you over there.”
A barely-there smile touches his lips. “Oh, yeah. Our bench.”
I get out, and he follows suit. It’s still really cold. I huddle under my coat and slide onto the cold wooden slats of the bench. The night is cast in shadows and bitterly cold. Lights glimmer up the river beyond the dam. They break up the darkness along with the sparse dots of outdoor lights from the houses. It’s quiet but for the plunking murmur of the Columbia River.
“So what happened last year? Did Hans get you into trouble and that’s what started it?”
Wyatt sighs and shakes his head, scooting nervously on the bench. He is fidgeting now. Uncomfortable for sure. He clears his throat. “No. I lied. He never cheated off my paper. It’s all I could think to say in that moment.”
“You… lied?” The confessional words swirl through my brain. I am surprised. Then, offended. I want to lash out, but I try to stay calm. Wyatt doesn’t lie as a rule. There is something unique in his reaction to Hans. So I nod. “Okay, you lied because something happened last year with Hans that you weren’t ready to tell me?”
“You or anyone else. I would have lied no matter who it was. I lied to Dani. To my parents. To the coach even when he asked me about it. I tried to bury it.”
I suck in a breath of air. Wow. That’s way beyond my perspective. My anger dissolves. Jesus, what is this? I touch his hand that rests between us, palm down and rub my fingertips over his knuckles. “Wyatt, you need to tell someone about it. Why not me? I have no expectations from you in your game of life. I don’t care how well you perform in football. I don’t care if you drop out of school or go on and get a doctorate. I don’t care if you graduate with all As or all Ds. I don’t care.” I turn to face him, but only see his profile. “I care about you. Wyatt the person. Just as you are. You’re already perfect in my eyes. So you can tell me anything. You’re secrets are safe with me. Do you think I would dare to judge your behavior? Or ignore your feelings? Or criticize your actions?” I let out a bitter laugh.
He suddenly turns, flipping his hand over to grasp mine. He pulls on my arm to bring me forward. His arms embrace me, going around my shoulders, trapping my arms next to me as his hands fall to my waist. He turns to face me and pulls me tighter against his chest where he sticks so close to me, I imagine that we’re glued together. He buries his face in my shoulder, and his warm breath tickles the back of my neck. It seems like he’s holding onto me for dear life. I let him do that for a long time. So long that the icy cold makes me shiver in all the places that his warm embrace doesn’t reach.
He shudders as he takes in some deep breaths. He also allows me to breathe. “You might not feel that way after I tell you.”
A bolt of dread travels down my spine at his ominous words. He is warning me. It’s so unlike Wyatt. What the hell could he have done?
“Tell me. I’m here. Whatever it is. I’m sure I must have a more repulsive story of something I did.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” His tone is so quiet, his words ripple through me. Truly worried now, I wonder if he could have somehow hurt someone. But Wyatt? Never. I know about abusive men who frequently lose their tempers. I know how kind they appear or wonderful or charming as they beat the shit out of their loved ones at home. I know all types of men, and none of them come close to Wyatt in any comparison.
I know that.
Clasping his hand, I say, “Tell me.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. He slouches forward as if the weight of his confession is too great for his spine to hold up. His tone is hollow, but laced with emotion. “Last year, there was a playoff game, and I filled in for the starting quarterback. He got hurt, and it was all on me right at the last minute. He was also a senior and a huge celebrity on campus. Being a sophomore, I was always in his shadow. Until that night. We won. The win was lucky, but it was epic. It preceded an insane night of partying. You know me, I don’t drink or party very much.”
“You don’t at all.”
“I used to do it more often. But I don’t now, you’re right.”
“Because of what happened?”
“Yes.”
I squeeze his arm. “What happened, Wyatt? Once and for all, tell me what the hell happened to you.”
His jaw juts forward and clamps shut. He’s going to tell me, and my heart stalls. He’s resolved to the admission, fisting his hands, preparing to confess something he doesn’t want to talk about. When he starts to speak, his tone is hollow and monotonous. He seems completely detached from the experience or what it means to him. He stares down at the sidewalk in front of his knees.
“I started to stumble home at some point, walking from Tanner Street towards my dorm. I didn’t have an apartment then. I was on the southwest edge of campus when a group of guys showed up ahead of me. It was no big deal. What did I care? I was so zoned out and happy on a few tokes of weed and some alcohol, that I didn’t give it a second thought. People were hooting and hollering at me for saving the game for hours. So I thought, hell, this is just more of the same, you know?”
“I’ve seen the crowd’s reaction to you after a normal game, let alone, a special playoff. So I can imagine why you’d think that.” My stomach has already tightened and twisted. I didn’t expect the story to start with Wyatt being caught alone on campus by a group of guys. Thoughts instantly flash through my mind. What happened? What exactly did they do to him? I would expect to hear about a rape if this story came from a woman recalling a traumatic experience. With Wyatt? Well, a whole flood of thoughts go through my mind now.
“I just assumed they recognized me and wanted to backslap me and give me a fist bump and shit. I was stupidly grinning at them when they walked up. Grinning like a total fucking idiot.”
Hans. Hans must have been there. Duh. It all aligns now. The truth slams into me. My hand contracts around his biceps harder. “They made a stupid semi-circle around me. Looking back, I was such an egotistical prick. I just expected them to start back-slapping me and rehashing the game. They were pretty innocuous at first and asked me if I was QB of tonight’s game, and I expected their praise, not the rage-filled anger I received just for being selected the quarterback for that game. It went wrong so quickly. In a blink, it went fr
om being a normal encounter where I’m smiling and ready to act a bit cocky but nothing over the top. Until a fist slams into my face at the same time someone else pushes me down. I fell to my knees in the grass. I remember getting hit but oddly enough, much more clearly was the cold, spongy grass when it began soaking through to my knees. Then someone kicked me in the gut. They spouted some shit about me taking Corey’s place. I didn’t know these guys from anywhere. None of them were athletic. I got more kicks. I tried to get up and slipped, so they pushed me back on my knees and held me down. I didn’t move or resist anymore. They smashed my face into the grass and tried to suffocate me by holding me on the ground. As dumb as it sounds, it took me a few more punches and kicks to realize this wasn’t any prank or cruel attempt at hazing. This shit was real.” He shudders.
I lean my head on his arm, and tears stream from my eyes. I stay silent, giving him all the space he needs to get through it, even while my brain buzzes with questions and comments, and my heart longs to reach out and hold him. I ache to give him the comfort and empathy he deserves.
He shudders again. “There’s much more. I don’t want to keep talking about it. But you get the picture, right?”
I nod my head on his arm so he can feel my affirmation. Something lodges in my throat, and I can’t speak.
“They fucking spat on me, too. Only after that did they stop. They took off in a fucking truck, and the wheels squealed when they left me there, writhing on the ground. I was pretty banged up. Luckily, most of it was superficial. It hurt me but didn’t cause any real damage. I holed up in my dorm, claiming to have a lethal case of contagious flu, and I warned all of my friends to stay away. I hid there for days on end. No one ever asked what happened or knew about it.”
He’s rubbing his hands together, and his nerves are making it unconscious. I slip off the bench and kneel before him, putting my hands over his. I cup both his hands in mine and lean forward, letting my hair fall all around us as I clasp and kiss his hands. “Was it racially motivated?” I can imagine. Been on the receiving end of much milder shit than that when I was in grade school.
“Yeah.” He’s staring at our hands. I squeeze his to pull his thoughts back to me, not my hands. “Yes. You have any idea how fucking naive I was?”
“You’re not supposed to have stuff like this happen to you. No one should get used to it. Don’t. Don’t diminish what happened as if you’re supposed to receive that kind of treatment. No one is, not any of us. You get that, right?”
He shakes his head and takes his hands from mine as he rubs his chin. “I didn’t tell anyone. I just went home and hid. I buried it. I still hide behind it. You saw for yourself. Think about my initial reaction to Hans. You thought it was odd, but not extreme. Not normal. I should kill the little motherfucker, and instead… you saw. Fuck me.” He lifts his hands to cover his face.
“You didn’t ask for this,” I reply. I rise up and straddle his lap. He jerks at my presence and seems surprised when I sit right on top of him. I grab his hands and pull them off his face. I stare right into his eyes. “Fucked up. I know all about it. I was raised on it.”
“And you managed to handle it.”
“This? It’s more fucked up than what I went through.”
He shakes his head. His eyes land on me and for a moment, they lose the haunted and shameful glimmer.
“Jacey?” He touches my neck. “You had a bruised neck from being strangled when I first met you.”
“And I wasn’t brave enough to tell your dad, was I? Or to press charges and have the fucker thrown in jail? I know who did it. Violence hurts more than just the victim, Wyatt. It fucks everyone up. It messes with your brain and emotions and the rules of what you should or should not do. It’s not a clean process. It’s messy and hard. Human emotions are hard to control by themselves, let alone when they dictate what you do.”
“I could have exposed every one of them. I’m Wyatt fucking Kincaid. People would believe me. I’d be supported and they’d be shamed for their stupidity and short-sightedness. I know that would happen at school. But I wasn’t brave enough to come forward.”
I shake my head. “You also must realize that a small segment would think, Really? Did that really happen? Maybe he deserved it? There must be others who could be even more offensive and ask why you’re even upset.”
He nods. “Remember that frat hazing last year that became the story of the year because of the racial shit? I didn’t want to be part of that story. Right or wrong, the thought of being known for that made me sick. But the real reason? Because I’m just… I’m a fucking wuss. I never told anyone to keep it from being publicized. I knew they’d never tell. Now, every time they see me, they know I kept silent. They know I just took it. They know what they did to me. And what they said. And worst of all, that I let them do it.”
Tears roll down my face. I press my cheek to his throat and kiss wherever my lips can reach. I grab his face with my hands and bring his mouth to mine. I touch his mouth with a soft kiss. “You had to survive your own pain. You can’t fix everyone else’s. And fuck what they think. If they gang-raped me and I couldn’t report them or press charges, would you condemn me? Or blame me? Would you think I should have done something better?”
He shakes his head. “I’d kill all of them.”
I roll my eyes. “Stay grounded with me. In reality. No macho bullshit. I know. But let’s be real. You would not. You would hold me close and talk to me and tell me it wasn’t my fault. You’d do whatever I needed from you, never mind what society demands from me. I know you, Wyatt. That’s what you’d do.”
“I wasn’t raped. So it’s not the same. Not even close.”
“I disagree. It’s still violence. You were violated. Maybe not raped, but you were at their mercy. They had a power trip over you. They tried to make you small so they could seem like they were bigger. Rape is a lot like that.”
He stills and listens to me as he tilts his head. “Were you ever…?”
“No. Not technically. Never attacked. But Rachel said I was raped in the statutory sense because I was too young to know any better. I had sex at age fourteen with adults. Again, it was all about power. But I also got hit, and I was strangled. I know how it feels to be powerless and worthless. I know it, Wyatt, because I never told anyone either. Being female, do you think that’s special to me? That I deserve to have that space and right, but you don’t?”
He shrugs. “I have a platform. A following. Administration and even strangers who’d believe me.”
“Would they? Can you guarantee that? Your first instinct was to be quiet. Be cautious. How do you know that’s wrong? That was my first instinct, too. Get out. Get away. Stay quiet.”
He nods and sets his hand on my waist as he squeezes me towards him. “Maybe, yeah. I never wanted to discuss it. Not even now. At this moment.”
“But you think about it all the time.”
“Yeah.”
“You have panic attacks, too.”
“I guess so. I never really defined them.”
“I think they are. I think you need to tell your parents what happened.”
He tenses under me. “No. My dad’s a cop. And he’s white. They don’t think this shit can touch me, I can’t—”
“But it did touch you, and therefore, them. They need to know that. Not as a member of law enforcement, but as your parents. You have them, Wyatt. They are there. Always right there for you. They want you. They love you unconditionally. Hell, yeah, I’m jealous. Take advantage of it. You need them. You need help to get through this. They’ll be so glad to help you. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you smart.”
“I never could come up with the words.”
“Why didn’t you tell Dani? She’d have cared enough to be there for you.”
“I didn’t want her to know there was this shit out there. I didn’t know how to deal with it. How could I tell her? And anyway she didn’t get it.”
For once, my screwed-up past made s
omething easier to understand in my life. Wyatt knew I lived with unprovoked violence and saw many unpredictable reactions to it. “Mostly you thought she’d be disappointed in you.”
He nods. “Yeah. She’d say out loud what I knew to be true. I’m a wimp. I failed myself and everyone I know. I let a mob of punks get away with a hate crime. Whether they intended that or not, it was. And I have the platform to actually make people aware of it. I can make a big noise about this, and yet I let them shut me up. They kept me gagged in silence. But I still—even today, as I say this to you, cannot imagine telling anyone else. I have trouble even saying it out loud. I can’t, Jacey… I just can’t. I knew Dani would expect me to. She’d demand it from me. And she’d be right, but I couldn’t talk about it.”
“So, you pushed her away and found someone who could understand you?”
“I don’t think so. I just realized I couldn’t tell her the bad things about myself. And I can tell you anything.” He shrugs. “Take that however you like. Good or bad. It’s the truth.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and cuddle against his chest. He sighs and holds me tightly to him. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and I feel his warm breath at my ear. He whispers, “You’re the only one I could tell.”
My breath hitches. Powerful stuff. Especially to a woman like me. In all my life, no one told me I had anything of value to offer. No one ever went out of their way to assist or engage or even care for me. Including my own mother. It messes with a person’s psyche when their only parent refuses to take care of them. I never fail to notice the unconditional love demonstrated by other mothers toward their children. The kind that Tara gives to Wyatt, and I know they’d kill anyone who tried to harm their child.
My mother was the kind that handed her child over to others and didn’t care if anyone hurt me.
I let Wyatt hold me for several heartbeats but then lean back so I can stare right into his eyes. “And now, you must know that I don’t think you did anything wrong. It’s not your fault. Not reporting it doesn’t diminish what was done to you in any way. It doesn’t make you an unwitting accomplice either. It doesn’t lessen the heinous monstrosity of it. I would tell you. Honesty comes easy for me. But you need to talk to your parents. Alone. Tell them everything. Whatever part you omitted in my version.”
