by Amy Hatvany
Looking at her gaunt body now, in the cab of my truck as we drive along the highway in the dark, I know whatever progress she had made with her health over the last nine years had been erased by what happened on the Fourth of July. I had made her sick again. There was no one else to blame.
“So . . . we’re going to the cabin,” I say, as I reduce my speed to thirty, per the sign on the side of the road, even though I’m tempted to slam my foot down on the gas pedal and maybe draw the attention of a cop and get pulled over. But I don’t, because I’m afraid of what Amber might do. Her small hands still cradle the gun, its muzzle aimed at me.
“You guessed it,” she says, still staring straight ahead, out the windshield. “Congratulations. Your prize is to keep driving and shut the fuck up.”
“Amber . . .” I say, desperately searching for the right words to get through to her. To make her stop whatever crazy plan she might have concocted.
“Do me a favor,” she says. “Stop saying my name. Every time you do, I want to vomit. I want to shove this gun down your throat and pull the trigger.” Her chest heaves. “Which might just give you some tiny idea of how it felt. What you did to me.”
“I thought you wanted it, too,” I said, quietly, and she laughed.
“I wanted it, huh?” she says, scornfully. “Did you think that when I told you to wait? To fucking stop? When I said I didn’t want to do it?”
I’m quiet for a moment, soaking in her questions, trying to remember everything she said to me that night and when she said it. But what I remember most is the way her lips brushed against my cheek when I came up next to her on the patio. The way we were dancing, the way she kissed me and then took my hand and led me into the house, up into a bedroom, saying she wanted to be alone with me. I remember her pushing me onto the bed. I remember feeling the heat between her legs, the sweet taste of her mouth. I remember the wanting, the way her body moved against mine, everything between us feeling so good and powerful and right. I remember thinking about my father’s words earlier that afternoon in my apartment, thinking that once Amber and I were together, he would finally know how wrong he was about me.
But that was before I woke up early the next morning, head pounding and alone in that same room, remembering how I’d pushed up Amber’s skirt and yanked down her panties—I remembered being inside her—then struggled to recall exactly what had happened next. My stomach roiled and panic fluttered in my chest, as I realized that how much I’d had to drink had caused me to pass out. I had no idea where Amber had gone or when she had left. My jeans were down around my ankles, my boxers were twisted at my knees. My mouth felt as though it had been lined in thick, wet fur.
“I was so drunk,” I say now, knowing it’s the worst kind of excuse, but it’s the only one I can offer.
“We both were,” she says. “But I still told you to stop. And you raped me anyway.”
I recoil at her use of the term, unable to comprehend that what had happened between us could be construed that way. For almost five months, I’d told myself that it happens all the time—these drunk hookups between men and women, both of them remembering different versions of the truth, the woman later regretting the decision and crying rape to make herself feel better. But I couldn’t imagine Amber being vindictive like that. Even if my memories of that night were foggy, I couldn’t imagine she’d make something like that up. I couldn’t believe she’d lie. Still, I can’t help trying to explain away what led us to that moment, to justify it, somehow, to prove that the sex had been something we both wanted. I keep going back to how we danced, how we kissed, and how, no matter what she says now, I never heard her use the word “no.”
We drive along in the pitch black for another half an hour, until we reach the logging road that will lead us where Amber wants to go. Much of the paved road between the town of Index and the Bryants’ property had been washed away by flooding on the Skykomish more than a decade ago, and since it wasn’t exactly a priority for the state to repair, the only way to access the cabin is to go up and over the mountain, adding an extra hour or more to the route. “You sure this is safe to do at night?” I ask, knowing the terrain is uneven and the road often cuts close to the edge of a steep, treacherous drop.
“I don’t care,” she says. “Put on your high beams and drive.”
I do as she asks, keeping my speed low, staying jutted against the left side of the road as best I can.
“Does Daniel know where you are?” I say as we bump along. I’m trying to get her to talk to me, to make her realize that what she’s doing is crazy.
“Daniel and I broke up in July.”
“Oh, wow. Sorry,” I say, shocked to hear this, but then realize that if they were still together, Daniel would have more than likely shown up at my front door to kick my ass.
“No, you’re not,” she snaps. “Just shut up. I don’t want you talking about him.”
I comply, and a silent hour later, we reach the main gate of the property. Amber jumps out of the truck to unlock the gate, and as she pushes it out of our way, I am briefly tempted to throw the truck into reverse and leave her there, alone, in the woods and the dark. But even now, I don’t want to put her in danger. Part of me feels responsible for her pain. At the very least, I am responsible for the annihilation of an important and meaningful friendship.
Amber climbs back into the cab, and I drive us over the narrow bridge that leads to the cabin. The ground is covered in a few inches of early November, slushy snow, but my truck’s four-wheel drive easily gets us through it, and a few minutes later, I pull up into the one parking spot at the top of a small incline, at the bottom of which is the cabin. I turn off the engine, and almost immediately, the chill from outside begins to seep through the windows and eats up the remaining heat in the cab.
“What now?” I ask Amber, who hasn’t said a word since she told me to shut up about Daniel.
She shifts her head and looks at me, her hazel eyes dark, the bruised spots beneath them making it appear as though she has been beaten. “You’re going to admit what really happened,” she says. Her voice sounds detached, far away from her body, and I worry that she might be having some kind of serious mental break. Even though I could overpower her if I wanted to, I can’t help imagining the kind of white-hot agony she must be in to have taken things this far. However much has broken between us, I still love her. I probably always will.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say, feeling helpless.
She finally looks at me, the dim light from the moon catching the shine of tears in her eyes, turning them into impossibly deep, swirling pools of green and gold. “What you meant doesn’t matter,” she says. “You still need to pay for what you did.”
Amber
The moment Tyler was finished, he rolled off me and passed out with one of his long arms thrown across my body. I couldn’t look at him. All I could feel was the burning between my legs, the knots in my stomach, and the tears running down my cheeks. I felt paralyzed, as though the entire weight of him was still pinning me to the bed, pressing all the air from my lungs.
Loud music blasted out on the patio, punctuated by the occasional firework. I heard laughter and happy, shouting conversation—the world had gone on, continuing to spin on its axis, even as mine had slammed to a jarring, neck-snapping halt.
I didn’t know what to do. I was still drunk. Tyler had driven me to the party. How could I get home without him? That was all I could think to do. Get home. Climb in the shower. Scrub away the stain and smell of him from my skin. Never see him again.
I could feel his hot breath on my bare arm as he slept. Light snores escaped him as I forced myself to get out from under his touch, shifting oh so slowly, terrified of waking him. My head ached, my insides felt as though they’d been stirred with a hot poker. My body moved like it was full of heavy, wet sand.
When I finally managed to sit upright on the side of the bed, more tears filled my eyes and a sob seized my throat. I slapped a hand over
my mouth to keep from making a sound. Get away . . . don’t wake him were the only thoughts in my head. My chest heaved a few times as I swallowed back my revulsion and grief, and as soon as I could, I leaned over and grabbed my underwear, pulling it up as I stood. A warm, sticky liquid oozed between my thighs, and in response, I gagged.
I need to get to a bathroom. I grabbed my sandals from the floor and tiptoed as quietly as I could out of the room, closing the door behind me. I stumbled down the stairs, grasping the railing so I wouldn’t fall. The small powder room I’d been in with Gia was empty, so I locked myself inside it, turned on the light, and forced myself to clean up as best I could. I let loose a few hiccuping sobs as I finished, pulling up my panties again, flushing the toilet, and then stood in front of the mirror, not recognizing who I saw. My hair was a tangled mess and my eyes were smudged with mascara; black streaks ran down my cheeks. My bottom lip was swollen and had a cut, either from Tyler’s forceful kisses or from my teeth biting into it. The girl I’d been just an hour ago was gone; she’d been obliterated. I had no idea who I was now.
Oh my god, what am I going to tell Daniel? I thought. What will he think of me? What will he do? Will he believe that Tyler forced me to have sex, or will he think that I’m lying to assuage my guilt?
Shaking, I snatched several tissues from the box on the counter and cleaned my face up as best I could, then dampened and smoothed my hair, trying to put my fiancé out of my mind and focus on what to do next. I hadn’t brought my phone or a purse, since I didn’t want to worry about having to keep track of them at the party. I was trapped. I couldn’t call my parents and ask them to come get me. They’d ask too many questions. They’d want to talk to Tyler. There was no way I could tell them what he had done. I just needed to get home and climb into bed. I needed to sleep, to figure out a way to move forward as if this night never happened.
Find Mason and Gia, I thought. They can give you a ride. But then, just as I was about to open the door, a wave of nausea hit me with such intensity that I barely made it to the toilet, where I heaved until my throat burned and there was nothing left to come up. I slumped on the floor, resting my head against the wall, disgusted by the rancid stench of stomach acid and tequila. I tried to catch my breath, feeling just the tiniest bit less drunk.
A couple of minutes later, I managed to get up, rinse out my mouth with water, and head back out to the patio, where I saw Mason and Gia slow-dancing. The look of adoration on his face as he gazed at his wife stopped me in my tracks. That’s how Daniel looks at me, I thought, and a wave of sorrow rushed over me as I wondered if he would ever see me like that again. I hesitated, debating whether I could bear talking to them. But I had to. I didn’t have a choice. I walked over and touched Mason’s arm.
“Hey!” he said, smiling. “Where’d you two disappear to?”
“Tyler’s passed out upstairs,” I said, my chin trembling as I spoke. I ground my teeth together in order to get it to stop. “And I’m sick.”
“Oh no, mija,” Gia said. “You poor thing.” She sounded as drunk as I felt.
“I hate to ask, but is there any way you guys could take me home? I could call an Uber, but with the holiday and being out in the county, it might take forever . . .” Please, please, please. Don’t make me stay here any longer than I already have. Don’t make me call my parents.
“No worries. I’ll drive you,” Mason said. He looked down at his wife. “Do you want to stay, and I can come back?”
Gia shook her head. “Nah.” She swayed a bit, and her husband reached out to steady her. “I may have overestimated my ability to party like I used to.” She grinned. “I’ve had my fun. Let’s go home.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and rubbing my triceps to combat the chill in the air.
“Of course,” Mason said, but then he hesitated and looked upward, to the second story of the house. “Maybe we should take Ty home, too.”
“No!” I said, sharply. Both Mason and Gia gave me a strange look, so I quickly backtracked. “I mean, he’s really out of it. I tried to wake him up, but couldn’t. It’s probably better to just let him sleep it off and he can drive himself home in the morning.” How am I doing this? I wondered. How am I standing here, talking with them like my life wasn’t just destroyed?
“She’s right,” Gia said. “Tyler’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
Mason nodded, and the three of us made our way to the front of the house, where we climbed into their car. I sat next to the empty infant car seat in the back, curling my shoulders forward, trying to make myself as small as I possibly could. I couldn’t stop shivering.
“You okay back there?” Mason asked as he pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road.
“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice cracked, so I cleared my throat. “Don’t worry. I already threw up back at the house.”
Gia laughed, turning around to look at me. “Guess neither of us are party animals.”
“I guess not,” I said, trying to ignore the pain between my legs. Just get me home. Please. I just want to go home.
Mason glanced in the rearview mirror, making eye contact with me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure,” I said, fighting back a swell of tears. “Just not feeling well.” I couldn’t imagine telling them the truth. And what would I say, anyway? I was certain that they had seen the way Tyler and I were dancing, the way I’d kissed him and let him grind his hips on mine. They wouldn’t believe that what happened up in that bedroom was against my will. They’d chalk it up to a drunk girl regretting her decision to have sex. They’d call me a liar. A cheater. A slut. Maybe they’d be right.
“What’s your address?” Gia asked, and I recited it, watching as she punched it into the car’s GPS. I sat back, closing my eyes, trying not to think, focusing as much as I could on the vibration of the tires as they hit the road, a low buzz humming through me.
For the rest of the ride, Mason and Gia talked with each other up front, but I couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying. All I could think about was getting home. When the car stopped in front of my parents’ house, I practically leaped out of the backseat.
“G’night, mija!” Gia said, turning around again. “The four of us should do dinner together, soon!” She giggled, then burped. “Oh, wow. Sorry. That was gross.”
“That’s okay,” I said, forcing a smile as I opened my door to climb out. “Good night.”
Mason exited the car, too, and stood next to me, offering his arm for support, but I didn’t want him to touch me. I couldn’t imagine wanting anyone to touch me ever again.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a quick, jerky step back from his reach. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine,” he said, with a calm, assessing gaze. I could suddenly see him in work mode, treating injured victims in their houses or on the side of the road. “Let me walk you to the door, at least.” His low tone soothed me, and so I nodded, allowing him accompany me to the side of the house, to the door that led into the kitchen, where Tyler had surprised me back in December. Mason stood at least a couple of feet to my side, giving me the space I so desperately needed. Feeling his eyes still on me, I leaned down and lifted the realistic-looking but fake rock next to the stairs that held a spare key, taking it out and slipping it into the lock on the door. “Thanks,” I repeated. “I appreciate the ride.”
“Amber, wait,” Mason said.
I stopped what I was doing, freezing at the top of the steps, my heart thumping like a jackrabbit’s leg inside my chest. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t speak. I was too afraid of what might come out of my mouth. I was afraid I might start screaming and never stop.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” Mason said. “Take a few ibuprofen and drink lots of water before you go to sleep. It’ll help.”
I almost laughed, thinking how neither of those things would come close to fixing what was wrong with me now. Still, I bobbed my
head and then rushed inside, shutting and locking the door behind me, relieved to finally be alone. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and saw it was only ten thirty—my parents wouldn’t be home for at least a couple of hours. I wove my way down the hall and up the stairs, stripping off my dress and panties in the bathroom, turning the water in the shower on to run as hot as it could get. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the vanity drawer and took them to my clothes, cutting and snipping until there was only a handful of red and white fabric-confetti left. I wrapped all of it in toilet paper and shoved it to the bottom of the garbage can, then yanked back the shower curtain and climbed inside the tub, letting the scalding water hit my body for as long as I could stand it, watching my skin turn bright red. I turned the handle so the water would cool to a slightly more tolerable temperature, then grabbed the neon green mesh scrub from the hook on the tile wall and soaked it in foaming body wash, running it back and forth across my body as roughly as I could, trying to scour away every skin cell that Tyler had touched. Trying to erase what he had done.
It was only when I finished scrubbing that more tears finally came, body-racking cries that made me shake so violently I couldn’t continue to stand. I leaned my shoulder against the wall and slid downward, howling as I pulled my legs to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, setting my forehead on my bent knees. I rocked in place, sobbing, letting the hot water wash over me, trying to make it not be true, to find a way to make myself believe it didn’t happen. I tried not to feel the weight of him still on me, tried to expunge the memory of the violent, insistent jabbing of his hips. He’d used enough force to make me bleed. I hadn’t noticed it back in the bathroom at the house, but now, a narrow, red stream flowed from my body down the drain.
