I turn the phone facedown on the desk.
My gaze keeps finding my bag. The folder and pink sheets peeking from behind the half-open zipper taunt me. I check the time again. The minutes tick away with the eagerness of a sloth. A hibernating sloth. A hibernating sloth in slow motion and going backward.
I need this day to end.
Chapter Thirteen
My fingers tremble when I type in the URL for the anonymous sexual assault survivor web page. I double-check the address on the flier again and hit enter. A second later the page loads.
The page lists statistics and some generic information I’ve read online before.
It’s simple. White with pink and purple accents. And a box to create an anonymous login.
Not even an email is needed. The website hosts a mailbox that’s accessible when you log in.
They say it’s one hundred percent anonymous. But I’m still nervous about it. I close the window. Then clean the cached information for good measure and close the browser.
My heart is speeding. Could they really help me? Could they get me off the track of self-destruction I’m in?
I open the browser again and go incognito. Type the URL one more time. Read the entire page, make sure I’m not missing anything.
My lungs expand with a deep breath. My hands shake. I can do this. I can talk to someone. They’ll never know it’s me. I push the heel of my hand into my chest, massage it, try to dislodge the building anxiety. I’ve never talked to anyone about any of this before.
It’s time.
I release a purposeful breath.
Username. Okay. What can I use for a username? Something that won’t identify me and I can easily remember. A nervous laugh escapes when I think of it.
USERNAME: Cougar22
PASSWORD: **********
There. The perfect username for me. I am a 22-year-old cougar, after all.
I hit ENTER. The page loads.
Welcome to our safe space. Everything discussed in this area is private and confidential.
Calls are not recorded and chat conversions are deleted once the chat window is closed. Our program is more flexible than traditional one-on-one therapy.
Think of us as an open-minded friend, who is here to listen and guide when needed. You can talk to one therapist or several.
You may also join a group therapy room and take part or observe.
Our therapists are highly trained, and here to help you. We have male and female therapists available 24/7.
And so there’s complete transparency, male therapists have odd numbers and female therapists have even numbers. Please check below for a list of available therapists now.
“I’m so not ready for a public confession.” I ignore the link to the group chat room and look at a list of available therapists.
Therapist4
Therapist8
Therapist11
Therapist14
Therapist18
Therapist22
Male or female? My first impulse is to pick one of the even numbers and ignore the lone guy on the list. But which one? Can any of them really help me? I have never done any kind of therapy or mental help before. God knows I need it, but it costs money. Self-medicating with alcohol and random sex is free.
I close my eyes and will my heart to slow down, flex my hands and command the trembling to stop.
“It’s just a chat. If I don’t like it, I can close the window and delete my account.”
I stretch my back and turn my neck right and left, up and down.
“Shake it off, Becca!” When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the alarm clock on the table next to my bed—big red numbers stare back at me.
11:11 PM
I look at the list of therapists and back at the clock. Then look at the time on the computer too, to make sure.
11:11 PM
“I hope to God this is some kind of sign.”
I’ve never been one for signs and superstitions, but I’m calling for reinforcements now.
I grab a quarter from my nightstand.
“Heads, and I’ll go ahead with this guy, tails, I’ll forget the whole thing and log off.”
I flip the coin, smack my hand over it before I can see how it landed on my bed.
Heads.
“One more time to be sure.” I flip it again.
Heads.
“Really? Last chance to change your mind, universe!”
I flip the coin, and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. The sound muted by the rug. I peer over the edge of my bed.
Heads.
“Okay, Therapist11 it is. I guess I’m talking to a dude.”
I click on the link for Therapist11, and a chat window pops up.
Welcome to your private chat room. You are being connected to Therapist11.
My first instinct is to close the laptop and shove it under my bed, but I stop myself. My heart is running a marathon inside my chest. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of a sleeve. I shiver even though it’s warm in my room thanks to the illegal space heater I have on the floor.
I’m safe.
I’m safe.
I’m safe.
I breathe in and out, dragging big gulps of air into my lungs until I’m dizzy. The blinking cursor in the window mocks me. Each blink a dare.
“I can do this. It’s anonymous. No one will ever know.”
My hands shake so much it takes three attempts to type two letters.
Cougar22: Hi.
The reply comes seconds later.
Therapist11: Hello, Cougar22. I’m glad you joined Safe Space. How can I help you?
Cougar22: I don’t know.
The reply is off my fingertips, and I hit Enter before I change my mind and shut the entire thing down.
Therapist11: That’s okay. Taking the first step in talking to someone is never easy. It takes courage. You can tell me as much or as little as you want.
Cougar22: I don’t even know where to start.
My throat constricts. I grab a water bottle and drink, swallowing hard.
Therapist11: You can start anywhere you want. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Stop me at any time or direct the conversation to where you need it to go. Maybe that will help?
Cougar22: Okay.
Therapist11: Have you ever seen a counselor before?
Cougar22: No, never.
Therapist11: That’s all right. I’ll tell you about how this works and we can take it from there. Is that okay?
Cougar22: Yes.
Jesus. I’m hyperventilating. Why is this so difficult? My face burns, the heat spreads down my neck and into my chest. I press the cold water bottle into my cheeks, get up, turn off the heater and open the window a few inches. The cool breeze coming in makes my skin shiver. I sit back, and he has replied.
Therapist11: We work differently from traditional therapy. There’s more of a conversation. Everything you tell me is confidential and anonymous, of course. We do not save this conversation in any servers. But I would like to ask your permission to take some notes. Those notes are for my eyes only, and they’ll never be shared with anyone. I’ll only use them to guide me. Is that okay if I take some notes? If you are uncomfortable, I won’t.
Notes? No. No. I don’t want anyone to read any of it. But—but I need to get this weight, this burden out of my chest. Maybe. Maybe it’s what I need to do. I came this far. I need to keep pushing.
Cougar22: Okay. If no one else will see it, then that’s okay.
Therapist11: Thank you. Thank you for trusting me.
Cougar22: So, what do we do now?
Therapist11: You’re the boss. I’m here to listen, to guide, to help. But we’ll only talk about what you’re comfortable with. You don’t have to share everything right now. We can talk about something else and go back to the root of the problem when you feel safe.
I’m no longer as scared as before. The fear, the sheer panic, I felt earlier has now settled into my stoma
ch like minor discomfort. I’m not ready to talk about the past. But I can talk about now.
Cougar22: I need to change.
Therapist11: Need or want to?
Cougar22: Need. Want. Isn’t it the same?
Therapist11: No. Not exactly. Need implies something you’re forcing yourself to do because of an external force or idea. Want implies that you are doing it for yourself. Because you want to. Not because of external pressures.
Do I need to change, or do I want to change? I close my eyes. My life choices flashing through my mind. I want to change.
Cougar22: I want to change.
A weight lifts off of my shoulders with each word I type into the screen.
Therapist11: What do you want to change?
Cougar22: Everything.
Therapist11: Why do you want to change everything?
Cougar22: I don’t much like the person I am.
Therapist11: And why is that?
God. Tears sting my eyes, and the heat returns to my face and chest. Not even the open window helps me now. My skin is cold, and yet it burns. I wipe the wetness away with my sleeve. Bite the inside of my cheek until the sting of physical pain distracts me from the hurt in my heart.
Cougar22: I’m not a good person. I lie. I lie all the time.
He doesn’t respond right away. I get a sense he’s waiting for me to go on. I watch the screen, count seconds in my mind. Make it to seventeen and give up. Start typing again.
Cougar22: No one knows the real me. I let no one in. The person they think they know doesn’t exist.
Therapist11: Who’s this person you’ve created?
Cougar22: She’s carefree, aloof, happy. She’s a party girl who doesn’t have a worry in the world.
Therapist11: And the real you?
Cougar22: She’s the opposite. I’m tired of pretending. I want to change.
Therapist11: And how do you plan on making that change?
Cougar22: I have no idea.
Therapist11: We can go back to that later. Let’s say you change. What is it you hope to find once those changes take place?
Cougar22: I want to find the person I could have been before.
Therapist11: Before?
Cougar22: Before. Why is this so hard?
Therapist11: Take your time. Tell me what you’re comfortable with. We can talk about something else.
Cougar22: Okay.
“Oh my God. I’m doing this. I’m really doing this. I’m talking to someone about me.” I whisper the words out loud to make sure this is real.
Cougar22: It’s easier to talk about me now.
Therapist11: We can do that. This is your safe place to talk about anything you want.
Anything. I squeeze my eyes shut, suck in one breath and then another. It’s up to me now. No more lying. “Be honest, Becca.”
Cougar22: I use people. I use men.
Therapist11: How do you use these men?
Cougar22: Sex. I use men for sex. I pick men who I know won’t hurt me, hook up with them for a few days or weeks, and then let them go. Move on to the next guy.
Therapist11: Does it make you feel in control when you pick those men?
Yes. That’s exactly how I feel.
Cougar22: Yes.
Therapist11: Why do you phrase it like that? Using men for sex instead of saying you’re dating different men?
Cougar22: Because it’s not dating. I don’t like them. I have no interest in a relationship. We don’t go out. There’s no dinner. No movies. I pick guys I know are safe, and I have sex with them.
Therapist11: What do you get from it? What do you get from these men?
A sense of power. It makes me feel in control.
Cougar22: It makes me feel like I’m taking something back.
Therapist11: What is it you’re taking back?
Oh God, can I really tell him? This stranger? Tell a man? How could he ever know? Understand? I stare at the END button, hover the mouse over it. You came this far. Don’t back away now.
Cougar22: A piece of myself.
Therapist11: So to reiterate. You pick men you think are safe, and you do this to feel in control and to get a piece of yourself back?
Cougar22: Yes.
Therapist11: I have two questions: What makes you decide these men are safe?
Cougar22: I watch them. Watch how they behave. And I never pick a guy who’s much bigger than me. I pick guys I can fight back.
There’s a lengthy pause on his side. And I know I’ve said too much. More than I wanted. But he has to know why I’m doing this. This is a sexual assault survivor support group.
Therapist11: That sense of control and taking back a piece of yourself. How long does it last?
How does he know? It never lasts long. I feel normal for a few days, and then the flashbacks return.
Cougar22: Not long enough.
Never long enough.
I hit the END button then, close my laptop and collapse on my bed. My room is freezing now. Sobs and shivers rack my body. If from the cold or the never-ending pain, I cannot tell.
Later, much later, when I can make myself move again, I close the window, turn the space heater back on, nest under the blankets and allow exhaustion to take me.
Chapter Fourteen
I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat. The jumbled sounds of the cafeteria reflect the confusion of thoughts in my mind, as if I too, have hundreds of voices speaking at the same time inside my head.
I barely paid any attention in my classes today. It’s a miracle I took any notes at all. Thank goodness I had no tests, or else who knows what would have ended up on the paper.
“Earth to Becca.” Fingers snap inches away from my face.
“What?” I blink at River who is looking at me with a smirk on her face.
“There she is. Welcome back. I was beginning to think you had been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by a clone.”
“Nope. No such luck.” I sigh. “I’m tired, I didn’t sleep well.”
She snorts. “Did your boy Tommy keep you up?”
I ignore the innuendo. “No, I was alone. What about you? Seeing anyone?”
“Negative, ghost rider.”
“You and your movie quotes.”
“What?” Her hands go up. “Top Gun is life.”
I pick a french fry from my plate and point at River with it. “What’s up with the dry spell?”
She steals the fry, dunks into the little cup of ketchup between us and takes a bite. “Dry spell?”
“Yes.” I grab another fry and eat it before she can take it. She pouts and goes for my plate. “You haven’t gone on a date since last semester. What’s up?”
River holds my gaze for a few extra seconds, then shrugs. “Nothing. Taking a break from men and concentrating on classes with it being senior year and all.”
Evasion is not in River’s nature. I know she lied just now. Or at the very least omitted the real reason she’s been flying solo for months. I’m too good a liar not to recognize an untruth when I see one. The way she looks at me—unblinking—that’s her tell.
“That’s it? A boy time-out?”
“Oh, look!” She points over my shoulder. “Your favorite professor. We should ask him if he wants to join us for lunch.” Her smile is so devious, I’m afraid to look behind me.
Her arm shoots up, and she waves. “Hi, Professor Beckett. Want to join us?”
Kill.
Me.
Now.
I stare straight at River. She gives me the sweetest of smiles. I don’t look back, but I can feel someone standing to my right.
“Miss Devereux. Thank you, but I have a huge pile of papers to read and grade sitting on my desk.” He says this in his cold and distant voice. He pulls back the chair next to me and sits anyway.
He’s inches away, and his clean scent reaches to me with invisible fingers. His proximity overpowers my senses. The sounds of the cafeteria, the competing smells of food, the consta
nt motion of people moving all around us fades away. Sitting this close to him, I can see a ring of green around the whiskey color of his eyes, and a tiny scar above his right eye, a thin line slightly lighter than his tanned skin.
“Miss Jones, have you seen my brother today?”
With his question, the sounds, motions, and smells of the cafeteria come rushing back in.
Was that disapproval in his voice?
I turn to face him. “I saw him this morning. But not since.”
“I was under the impression you two have lunch together.” An eyebrow rises.
“Not on Tuesdays. Our schedules don’t line up that way.” Tommy meets me for lunch often, but it’s November now. He’s made new friends, and I’m happy he’s venturing on his own. But I don’t say any of it to Professor Dick.
He looks at me for a long moment. And I can’t read him. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. What he’s hiding behind those beautiful eyes. I know he’s trying to read me. Still judging me and trying to figure me out. Good luck with that. I don’t even know what’s going on with me. How could he?
He gets up, pushes the chair back in place, picks up his to-go salad, looks at my plate and back at his salad.
He steals two fries from my plate and pops them in his mouth. “I should have gotten the burger and fries.”
He nods at River and disappears.
“What the hell just happened?” I look at River with both hands up as if I could grab the answer from the air.
She’s laughing at me. “He likes you,” she says in a singsong voice, dancing in her chair.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 8
