by Lorin Grace
The logo was poorly designed. But after tonight, she would never see the shirt again. Sebastian opened Nick’s door and handed in three food bags. Her stomach rumbled. Something inside one of them smelled edible.
“I ordered a few of your favorites.”
Tonight, she wasn’t going to chide him about spending too much money on her. “Fries?”
“And a shake—chocolate, with raspberries and marshmallows. I believe that’s what you said your favorite was during one of our late-night phone calls. The restaurant did text me back about that combination to make sure the shake order wasn’t a typo.” Nick handed her the fries and set the drink in the console. “There is also a cheeseburger, extra pickle, no onion, and three kinds of brownies. If you’d rather, there is also soup and their famous rolls.”
“I hope you got yourself something, too.” Zoe searched through the bags for a spoon.
“I got the salad.”
She stopped her search through the bag and turned to look at him.
Nick grinned and saluted her with his burger. “It’s on a bun and came with beef.”
Zoe ate a spoonful of the shake. The flavors matched every happy memory of her teen years hanging out at the Shake Shack with her brothers. This wasn’t two years ago. She wasn’t alone, and the food was going to stay down. “I think I can go back to the apartment now.”
Nick hoped Zoe had a more restful night than he did. Formerly faceless stories told in meetings with lawyers and company heads now had a face. Over the last few months, he and his father had dropped a handful of investments from their portfolios because of hostile corporate climates that refused to change their harassment policies. They also donated anonymously to lawyers willing to fight cases for women who had given up hope. His father had pushed for changes in a couple of the hospitals where he sat on the board. Each story took on the terrified face of Zoe when he opened the closet—stories he’d scarcely believed rang with truth.
Nick wasn’t naïve. He knew of men in his social group who used their money to influence their relationships with women. To be honest, he knew a few women who did the same. These types who saw others as stepping stones or personal entertainment—perhaps they didn’t have mothers like his or a good dose of Reverend Cavanagh growing up. Maybe they believed money could buy happiness and thought happiness was something other than work, or that power and coercion were synonymous. Until last night, everything had been statistics he’d tried to change in policy and in practice, but never in person.
Every moment from the frantic seconds when he’d seen Zoe’s first text replayed in his mind. Only the fact he had been on the phone with his assistant made it possible for building security to be alerted so quickly. Sebastian had dialed the hands-free phone into the 911 call center, allowing Nick to give them information while the driver had used his thirty years of Manhattan driving skills to get them to the building in record time. If they had hit another red light or been farther away, by the time he had gotten to Zoe, she could have been . . . he didn’t want to think about it. His nightmares detailed the statistics and stories for him.
Nick overrode the timer on the coffee pot. By 4:35 a.m. he knew he wouldn’t get any more sleep. He paced the first floor while he waited, going over the day’s schedule and wondering what could be rescheduled. Zoe had been unsure about going to work by the time he’d walked her to her door. If she wanted to talk, or anything else, like take him up on his offer to fly her to Indiana for the rest of the weekend, he wanted to be available. The proposal to fly her home on a private jet was the only thing that had gotten her to give him the you-spend-too-much-money-on-me look last night. Part of the reason he’d offered was to see if she would give him the eye roll. She had. Not a full one, but enough that he could leave her.
If she hadn’t, he would have had Sebastian drive around all night if necessary.
He walked past his coat. The ketchup stain would be gone within hours of having the coat sent to the cleaner, but the red condiment had upset Zoe more than it should have. She insisted on paying the bill, another sign that the zombie version of Zoe that had left the office building was retreating. Nick lied. There was no way he would send the bill to her. He was only too grateful the stain was only ketchup and not her blood. He’d always known money couldn’t buy everything, and last night not a single thing he wanted could be bartered for his billions. Zoe safe and smiling—he would have traded it all just for her to smile, roll her eyes at him, and laugh when he called her on it.
The timer on his coffee maker buzzed. Nick ignored it, opting for a shower instead. As soon as she would allow him, Nick wanted to be back at Zoe’s side.
fifteen
Zoe’s phone played her wake-up song. Zoe struggled to turn the alarm off without getting paint on the screen. Sometime in the night, she’d given up on sleep. The old nightmares had mingled with the new one, and her mind had gone into overdrive. It was too early to call or text anyone. By the time she had gotten home, April had texted a dozen times. Zoe answered: Home safe. Long story. Sorry you worried. She needed to text a more detailed version before April got to the office. She wished she could call April like she had Mom and Candace. Signing the story over video would be worse than texting words. In print was easier to distance oneself from a subject. ASL used too many facial expressions, and the action words would be too close to what happened.
Zoe pulled off her plastic gloves. April deserved to know before she got to the office.
There was an incident last night. When I was leaving, Mr. D was still there. He called me into his office. He forcefully kissed me and wanted more. I hit him. The story is longer. I don’t really want to tell it. The police took him away. Mr. Scott has already fired him.
Fifteen minutes later, April answered.
—Mr. D??? I don’t want to believe it. I saw him come in as I left. I thought good, you won’t be alone. You lie.
Zoe squashed the tears. She knew Deaf culture tended to be blunt, but it was hard to tell in text. At least she didn’t have to be upset that the vague warnings April had given regarding staying late meant April suspected Mr. Dodd.
No. I would not have broken his nose if he had only said good night.
—Oh, it is so hard to believe. He was so nice to me.
I know it is hard to believe. Mr. Scott is having a meeting with everyone this morning.
—Are you coming to work?
Zoe had vacillated all night about what she was going to do today. Now, with her closest workplace friend not believing her, she didn’t know if she could listen to the innuendo and comments of her coworkers. Thanks to the detectives, there was enough evidence for some type of assault charge, but that didn’t mean Mr. Dodd would plead guilty, or the judge would listen, or her coworkers would side with her. In some ways, not being believed was worse than being assaulted.
Mr. Scott told me I could take the day off. I’ll see you Monday.
By Monday she would know if she was strong enough to go back. Strong enough to not let her dream job become another nightmare.
By 7:00 a.m., Nick had finished all the work not requiring his presence in an office. Hopefully, his father would agree to cover the two meetings scheduled for the day without Nick’s presence. His PA could move everything else to next week. Before he contacted either of them, he texted Zoe. How are you this morning?
She answered with a photo of her half-painted kitchen.
Did you sleep at all?
—Not much. I am not going in today. April didn’t believe me, so I am a coward.
Nick punched the wall and regretted the action immediately as he must have hit a stud. Typing when his knuckles stung was difficult. You are not a coward. Do you want help painting?
The pendulum on the grandmother clock counted out the seconds as he waited for her answer. After last night, she was unlikely to let him come over.
—Have you ever painted before?
Once. Reverend Cavanagh had some unique ideas for making restitution for ones’ crimes or accidents. The clock ticked louder.
—K
Do I need to bring anything? Paintbrush?
—Just wear old clothes if you have them.
I’ll be over soon. Hopefully he could get there before she changed her mind.
Zoe picked up her phone to text Nick just as the bell buzzed. Too late to tell him not to come. Having him over to paint would be one of those things Candace would applaud her for. So would her therapist. Statistically, she knew not every man was like Mr. Dodd. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
“I brought bagels.” He held up a bag and cup carrier. Even in a T-shirt and jeans, he managed to look slightly overdressed. Zoe opened the door wider and let him come in. “I also brought Lucinda’s caramel cider.”
Zoe took off her plastic gloves. “We should eat in the living room. The kitchen is out of commission.”
“So, when did you start painting?” Nick set the food on the coffee table.
“Around four. I had to tape off the kitchen first. I didn’t move the fridge out or the oven away from the wall. I figured I would get help with those.”
“Nightmares?”
She skipped answering. “I was on the phone with Mom, then Candace, until after midnight.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
Zoe took a sip of the caramel cider. “Not much. You don’t look well rested either.”
“I didn’t get much sleep. I don’t like things I can’t solve.”
How could she explain that this wasn’t something anyone could solve? It took time, friends, therapy, and prayer to reach a new level of normal. “You did a lot last night. Poor Sebastian. How long did he drive around?”
“Not as long as he would have if he thought you needed it, even if I weren’t paying him.” Nick took a bite of his bagel.
“Did you offer to fly me to Indiana to get me to react or because you meant it?”
“Both. If that’s what you need, the offer stands. I couldn’t let you out before I thought you would be all right. For me, that means an eye roll. If we are together for longer than an hour without one, I know I am not doing my job as a friend.”
Zoe rolled her eyes just to make him smile. “You know I roll them on purpose now, don’t you?”
He nodded. “It reminds me of something Sean’s grandmother used to say about making faces and having it freeze like that.”
“My grandma tells me if I am not careful, they will roll into the back of my head.” So far today’s normal was not too different than yesterday’s. Nick still cared. Last time, her boyfriend had dumped her like a leftover fast-food meal that had been reheated too many times. He’d joined the others in spreading lies. Somehow her pain had become his embarrassment. And his false character witness was enough to get the district attorney to drop charges against her attacker, citing lack of evidence.
Finished with her cider, Zoe put a new pair of gloves on and handed a set to Nick. “Roller or brush?”
“What’s the difference?”
“I thought you said you’d painted before.”
“Once.”
She tried not to roll her eyes. His smile told her she was unsuccessful. “I’ll work on the edges with the brush, and you can work on the larger wall with the roller. The main thing is to make sure you don’t have too much paint and to roll in W shapes.” Zoe demonstrated.
“I can do that.”
Zoe took the brush and worked on the area between the cupboard and the backsplash. After a few strokes, she checked Nick’s progress. Paint dripped down the wall. “I think you need a bit less paint.”
Nick put the roller back in the tray and started again.
“Roll it one more time over the ridge part. That’s better.” Zoe set her brush down and went to stand beside him. “Make the W bigger and wider.”
Nicks next attempt wasn’t much better.
Zoe moved closer and placed her hand over his. Electricity shot up her arm, and her heart raced the way it had last weekend when he’d held her hand during a movie. For a second, she forgot what she was doing. Nick didn’t move until she guided his arm. “More like this.” When they completed the reverse W, she let go and stepped back. For a second, he paused, then started painting. “That’s better. Now, catch the drip near the door with your roller. If you smooth the drips out now, it will not show as much as if the paint starts to dry.”
She returned to the space below the cupboards, her arm still feeling the contact, most of her body tingled. How was that possible? Last time she couldn’t even look at her boyfriend or even hold hands. Almost every man she knew had become a villain waiting to strike. How could she have stood so close to Nick after last night? Her brain searched for answers. At least he didn’t seem upset by it. Don’t overthink this, Zoe. It was a teaching moment. Nothing inappropriate. She tried to concentrate on the wall in front of her. Nick hadn’t seemed affected, so it shouldn’t be a big deal. But it was.
Zoe moved to the area over the sink. Here, the old green resembled rotten pickle more than olive. Watching the walls change to a buttery yellow made her smile. If she had half the painting talent her roommates did, she might take on the cabinets with some fun designs. But this wasn’t her kitchen.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. She didn’t think. She reacted.
“Ki-ah!”
The horror in Zoe’s face matched the pain in Nick’s. Zoe dropped her paintbrush and covered her mouth with her hand, and she started shaking. Nick lowered his hand from his eye. “Zoe. It’s okay. See?”
She shook her head violently back and forth.
His eye stung.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her knees buckled, and she sunk to the floor.
Nick wished for wisdom. What would Sean’s grandfather do? Pray. Did a simple “Help!” count? “Do you have any ice or frozen peas?”
Zoe crawled over to the icebox and used it to pull herself up. She pulled out a bag of blueberries. She winced as she handed them to him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have startled you. You didn’t answer when I asked you a question.” Nick walked to the couch and sat down. He would worry about the paint later. The sofa was Sean’s old one. A few drops of yellow would improve it.
She followed him with a box of baby wipes. “I got paint all over your face.” She handed him a wipe.
“Would you, please?”
She bit her lip. He shouldn’t have pushed her to touch him. He opened his mouth to say so when she raised her hand to the cheek under his uninjured eye. Her touch was gentle, uncertain.
“Wipe as hard as you need. I am tougher than that.” He kept his face as still as possible.
“I am so sorry.” She wiped along his jawline.
Nick covered her hand with his. “I’m not angry. Where did you learn to fight? My bodyguards could take a lesson or two.”
“I took self-defense and Tae-kwon-do classes last year.”
Nick dropped his hand. “Why?”
“I wanted to be prepared.” Zoe pulled out another wipe and cleaned the side of his nose.
“For what?”
“Last night.”
Nick wondered if she would elaborate. She lifted the blueberry bag away from his eye. “They told me I needed to learn more control. I had too much anger. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Her lip quivered, but her eyes remained dry.
“What were you thinking about when I was trying to get your attention?” He hoped he was asking the right questions.
Zoe took a deep breath. “I was trying not to think about last time and the trial.”
“Last t
ime?” The question came out before Nick could stop it.
She sat back and played with the wipe for a moment. She didn’t look up. “I was raped.”
He barely dared breathe. What should he say? Do? None of the awareness courses he’d reviewed for their businesses came to mind. More help?
Zoe didn’t look up from the wipe she now folded into a neat square. “He was one of the teaching assistants. I didn’t go to the hospital right away, so there wasn’t much DNA evidence left. When I decided to press charges, he claimed the event was consensual. Told lies about me, even got someone to write in the campus paper about girls who cried wolf. The lies got to the point I could hardly walk across campus. After, my boyfriend falsely claimed I wasn’t as innocent as I said I was. The DA dropped the case, citing lack of evidence. I got anonymous calls propositioning me. My grades plummeted, and I left school. Only my counselor, a few friends, and my family believed me. I am afraid if Mr. Dodd has a good attorney, they will find the records and news reports. And my life will be on repeat, everyone mocking and questioning. I don’t know if I can face it a second time. And now I hit you, hurt you.” She spoke the entire sentence in one breath, never looking up from the wipe she was playing with. A tear fell into her lap.
Instinctively, Nick understood that what he said next would determine everything in their relationship from that point on. He had learned from the classes that when someone experienced such a horrific ordeal, being able to talk about it freely was critical to their recovery. Everything he had read and every expert they’d consulted as they’d set up harassment policies advised they include counseling services for that reason. His next words could either make her feel as if she had been raped all over again or like she had someone she could add to her circle of trusted friends. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”
