The Complete Irreparable Boxed Set: Irreparable #1-2

by Sam Mariano

  He debated speaking—but only for a second. Quickly ruling that out, he hung the phone up.

  Then he swore.

  He shouldn’t have done that.

  That was stupid and insensitive.

  Cursing again, he put the phone back on the desk and stood up, feeling more frustrated with himself than he had when he slunk into his office in the first place.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head and making his way around the desk and toward the door.

  Then he felt a vibration coming from his left pocket. Pulling his phone out, he glanced at the caller ID…and nearly had a heart attack.

  It was Willow’s cell number.

  Heart plummeting, he debated not answering it. She couldn’t have known it was him—he had called from a blocked number. Preparing to apologize anyway, he answered the phone and slowly put it to his ear.

  “Hello,” he said hesitantly.

  “Hi,” she said simply.

  There were a few beats of silence while he waited for her to ask why he had called, even though he had no idea how she knew he did.

  What did he say? Wrong number? That was stupid. How would he accidentally dial her number? That would be even worse, because then she would know he had it memorized and she’d think he was some psycho stalker.

  Although he was sort of a professional stalker, so….

  The girl cleared her throat. “Sorry. Um, I’m not sure why I’m calling.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. Sorry. I’ll just go.”

  “No, wait,” he said with a little more energy. “It’s okay. Did you need something?”

  The line was silent and for a second, he thought she had already hung up.

  “Willow?” he questioned.

  He heard her sigh, so at least he knew she was still on the phone. “Do you ever have dreams about what happened?”

  Absently glancing at the clock to make sure it was only 6 o’clock, he replied, “Yeah, I do. Sometimes.”

  “Me too,” she said. “They’re different sometimes though. Like, sometimes it doesn’t happen the way it actually happened, and then when I wake up I’m not really sure how to feel.”

  Ethan made his way back to his computer chair, slowly sinking down into it. “Well…how do you mean?”

  Another sigh. “I don’t know. Are your dreams all memories or are they different sometimes?”

  That was the last thing he wanted to willfully dredge up, but he doubted she was eager to either, and she was doing it. “They’re different a lot of the time,” he said.

  “Like how?”

  He got the feeling she was digging for a specific answer, and he was growing too uncomfortable to beat around the bush. “What do you mean, Willow?”

  She was quiet for a second, then she said all at once, like she might chicken out if she didn’t say it fast, “I mean, is it always—is it always rape?”

  Jesus Christ.

  He didn’t realize he had said it aloud until she abruptly apologized and said she had to go.

  “No, wait, Willow.” Fuck. Roughly passing his hand over his mouth, he exhaled and then before he could think better of it, admitted, “No, not always.”

  The line went silent.

  He pulled back the phone to see if she hung up, but she was still there.

  He didn’t prompt her that time. He wasn’t sure he had given her the right answer, and if he did, he wasn’t sure how it was the right answer. Logically he could only come up with one reason for her to ask that, and that was that she was having them, too. Whether that made his answer better or worse, he had no fucking clue.

  She was quiet for another few seconds, then she said, “Yeah, same here. I thought that might be weird.”

  It might be, for all he knew, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Feel whatever you’re feeling,” he said instead. “Don’t worry if it’s weird or not.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  His dark eyebrows shot upward, somehow surprised by that question. “No,” he answered honestly. “But I’m not the victim here.”

  “I don’t like that word,” she stated.

  “Sorry.”

  “I feel like…I keep pushing away everyone who loves me because I just want to be left alone, but when I’m alone…a lot of times I find myself thinking about you.”

  Since she had just described his daily routine exactly, he knew how she felt.

  He was surprised that she was in the same place though. Her thoughts were probably a lot different than his.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know, that’s probably weird.”

  “Probably,” he allowed, nodding even though she couldn’t see it. “But I’m going through the same thing, so… I’m not really one to judge.”

  “Really? You think about me?”

  The way she asked that made him second-guess his honesty.

  Maybe he shouldn’t be encouraging further contact. He had no idea how to help her and she was a young, fatherless girl in a fucked up situation. At the end of the day, despite their shared experience, he didn’t know her.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I think about what happened, of course. Like I said, I have a daughter.”

  Another pause. “How old’s your daughter?”

  “Eight.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Me? I’m 32. An old fogey,” he added, in some ill-fated attempt at levity that only caused him to cringe at how stupid he sounded.

  But she laughed. Just a little. “Nobody uses that word.”

  “See, that’s how old I am,” he joked.

  “You must have been there when they assembled the Statue of Liberty.”

  “No, that was actually finished the week before I was born,” he replied, surprised to feel himself smiling.

  He heard her chuckle again, and his smile widened, turning into a bit of a grin.

  “Does your wife know?”

  Just like that, the smile was gone. “No. I couldn’t…”

  “I understand. I wouldn’t have said anything either. Didn’t,” she amended. “My parents want me to go see a counselor.”

  “Maybe you should. It might feel good to have someone to open up to.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided if I’ll go or not.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should.”

  “I should probably listen to someone as old and wise as you, huh?”

  Smiling again, he said, “Yeah, probably.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” she asked suddenly.

  “What am I doing?” he reiterated dumbly. “Well, I’m about to go have dinner. What about you?”

  “My family’s taking me into the city to go to my favorite Italian restaurant. We were supposed to leave about ten minutes ago actually, but they won’t dare rush me. If I wanted to go on a puppy-kicking spree they wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, porcelain-doll syndrome.”

  “Is that a thing?”

  “Not a real thing, but it should be. You could probably get away with murder right now and they would just help you hide the body. Not that I should give you any ideas,” he said lightly.

  “Nah, the people I would want to murder are all in jail right now anyway. Hopefully some hardened prisoner will shank ‘em for me.”

  “Jesus,” he said on a laugh.

  “I’m sort of joking. Not really though. Fuck those guys.”

  “Indeed,” he replied.

  “Well… I should probably go before I make us lose our reservation. I’m on my cell, but… I can’t exactly talk to you in the car with my whole family listening.”

  “Probably not a great plan,” he acknowledged.

  “Sorry if I kept you from your dinner.”

  “No, not at all,” he assured her. “I was just sitting in my office anyway.”

  “Thanks for talking to me.”

  He wanted to thank h
er, too, but he couldn’t put into words what for.

  So instead he found himself saying, “Feel free to call anytime.”

  Which, obviously, was not the smartest thing to say.

  “Okay,” she said, after missing a beat. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  And then she hung up, without another word.

  Ethan just sat there staring at his cell phone, unclear on what the hell had just happened.

  For a minute, he just let himself absorb the fact that the phone call had actually happened, not even delving into the contents of it.

  He felt oddly guilty, and he couldn’t say exactly why.

  The doorknob jiggled as someone tried to open it. “Ethan?”

  Of course, it was Amanda.

  Weirdly, the guilt started to swell. He assured himself he hadn’t done anything wrong—anything new anyway—but it was still there, in the pit of his stomach.

  “I’m coming out,” he called back. “Just finishing up some email.”

  “Well, you can do that later. Dinner’s ready. Why’d you lock the door?”

  He stood, and as he did he felt his cell phone vibrate again.

  It was a text that time, and it was from Willow. “This is probably going to sound really weird, but did you call me a couple of minutes ago?”

  Shoulders slumping forward, he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Ethan?” Amanda asked more sharply.

  “Sorry, I’ll be right out, I’m sending an email and then I’ll be right there.”

  He wasn’t sure if he should tell the truth or ignore the text altogether, but he didn’t want to be mean, and he really didn’t want to lie to her, either.

  So before he could consider the possible ramifications of his answer, he typed back, “Yes. Sorry.”

  Half a minute passed, then she replied simply, “Don’t be.”

  He went into his messages and deleted those texts, then he opened the call log and hesitated, wondering if she would call back. Maybe he should program her number into his phone under Bill or something… of course, he didn’t know anyone named Bill, and due to the nature of his work he didn’t program any numbers into his phone anyway, so that was probably a ridiculous idea.

  Clearing the call log, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and told himself to stop acting like a shady asshole.

  Willow had no desire to go back to school.

  It wasn’t even because of what she had experienced over the summer; she had never really liked high school. It didn’t help that everyone knew some version of what had happened to her though.

  Mostly because of her own actions, she didn’t have any girlfriends left to go school clothes shopping with. Briefly she thought about calling her old friend Kathy, who could always be relied on to want to go shopping, but the prospect of enduring the inevitably awkward phone call in order to achieve that was enough to put her off the idea.

  So, for the first time since she was 13, she went school clothes shopping with her mom.

  Frowning as she looked through the hangers of clothing Willow had handed her for the “yes pile,” Lauren said, “Honey, don’t you think these are a little…mature?”

  Willow glanced over her shoulder at the bright chiffon blouse at the front of the pile. “What are you talking about? That’s totally bright and playful. I could pair it with a tight black mini-skirt and wear it out clubbing.”

  “Well, sure, but…I mean, do you think this is what you really want to wear to history class?”

  Rolling her eyes but smiling slightly, Willow said, “I’m not taking any history classes, Mom.”

  “Everything you bought from that last store was very business-casual. Don’t you want to go to that Abercrombie store?”

  “Ugh, no. I wore crap like that last year—not Abercrombie, because ew, but…no. I want to try out a different style this year. Change it up a little.”

  “It just doesn’t look like anything your friends would wear. It doesn’t look like how a high-schooler should dress.”

  “I’m barely a high-schooler anymore,” Willow pointed out.

  Raising her eyebrows, Lauren said, “You have a whole year left, honey.”

  Sighing, Willow said, “Look, if you don’t want to buy them for me, just say so. It’s fine, I still have some birthday money, I’ll just have to weed a few tops out.”

  “No, of course I want to buy them for you, I just… You look so grown up in all of this.”

  “Well, Mom, I am grown up.”

  Lauren held up her least favorite item, a black dress that zipped up like a hoodie. “I still think this is…I don’t think you would even be able to wear this to school.”

  “I’ll wear it on the weekend. It’s super comfy.”

  “It’s going to get cold soon, this isn’t appropriate for fall or winter, this is practically a beach cover up.”

  “Mom.”

  Lauren sighed, but put the dress back in the yes pile.

  “Ooh, what do you think of this one?” Willow asked, holding up a black bandage dress with a red gossamer bodice and peek-a-boo sleeves. “I think I should try this on.”

  “I think that looks very sexy,” her mother said, in a way that made it clear that was not a compliment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t exactly going on a lot of dates, and—is that another zip-up dress? What is with all of these dresses that seem to be made primarily for being taken off?”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Willow stated. “It would be nice if I did go on a date.”

  At that, her mother perked up like a dog at the dinner table. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “No,” Willow stated firmly.

  “Have you talked to Scott lately?”

  Sighing heavily, Willow ignored the question. Her mother loved Scott, and was heartbroken when she discovered Willow had ended their relationship.

  “I was talking to his mother the other day…”

  Willow tuned her mother out as she recounted whatever inane conversation she had with Scott’s mother and headed for the fitting room, her mom following along behind her, still talking.

  Once inside, she tried on the dress—which was really tricky, since it did zip all the way up at the back. It required some creative movement to get the thing all fastened, but when she did, she grinned at her reflection in the mirror.

  She looked beautiful.

  And yes, sexy, but she was trying not to be afraid of that thought anymore.

  Stepping outside so her mom could see her in the dress, she smiled hopefully, wanting her mom to see that the dress made her happy, so she might be more inclined to open her wallet for it.

  A bit wistfully, her mom offered a sad smile. “You look like such a little adult in that dress.”

  Willow cracked a less charming smile and snorted. “A little adult? Mom, I’m 18, not 8. I am an adult.”

  “You shouldn’t be in such a hurry to grow up. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, I promise.”

  Rolling her eyes, Willow said, “Mom, stop. I’m 18 years old, and growing up is not optional.”

  “Why don’t we just go back to the preppy stores and get you some ripped jeans and sweatshirts?” Lauren suggested.

  “No, I want to wear these clothes.”

  “Will you at least wear pigtails with it?”

  Cracking a smile, Willow said, “If it will make you feel better, I can totally rock the pigtails.”

  Lauren sighed and waited patiently while Willow stepped back into the dressing room to change. Before she did, on a whim, she snapped a picture of herself in her pretty dress, then she set about getting the dress off and her jeans and tank top back on.

  By the time they left the mall, they had bags full of clothing that Lauren didn’t fully approve of, but Willow was quite happy with the haul.

  When her mom half-joked that her new wardrobe would scare off all the boys at her school, Willow barely stifled a mumbled, “Good.�
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  High school guys were stupid anyway.

  Her thoughts drifted off to the man who had unwittingly taken her virginity.

  Well, not really to him, but more to the dream image of him that she still couldn’t shake.

  When she couldn’t take any more of the bad dreams, constantly waking to a blanket of terror, she had tried to retrain herself, to think differently. Before she would go to bed, she would think of Ethan, since she knew he would be there when she closed her eyes anyway, but she thought of him differently. Instead of fearing the bad dreams, she would think of the odd good dream that he had been in, or the fairly nice phone call—the fact that he was probably a totally decent person in reality.

  Plus, well, he was attractive.

  And even if it made her feel weird at first, having some twisted version of a sex dream about him was a hell of a lot better than reliving being raped.

  It wasn’t even close.

  She still had bad dreams sometimes—sometimes featuring the unpleasant loss of her virginity, other times just dreaming about that room she had slept in, the other girls, occasionally being kidnapped again. Once she dreamed about the dead woman with the gun—she was going to shoot Willow in the face, but she woke up before the bullet hit her.

  Other times, she had dream-memories of watching the woman be shot, hunching down in the corner, convinced she was seconds away from being similarly slaughtered.

  Those were unpleasant thoughts.

  She had promised herself she wouldn’t go there while she was out with her mom. When she was alone at night those thoughts usually reoccurred, but if she kept busy during the day, she found it easier to keep them at bay.

  She could only keep so busy at night though.

  Shoving those thoughts away, she opened up her phone to look at the picture she had taken in the dressing room. It was pretty good, as far as dressing room selfies went.

  Since she couldn’t even remember the last time she had posted an update, she decided to go ahead and post the picture, with the little caption, “School clothes shopping with my momma!”

  It felt frivolous and silly even as she posted it, but within seconds, someone had already liked it.

  Smiling slightly, she closed the app and prepared to put her phone away, but on second thought, she opened up her text messages.