by Stasia Black
How did I let it all happen and not stop earlier to question what was going on? Was I so hungry for family and the need for people to want me that I just so blindly ignored all the red flags? And why did Paul pick me out of all the women in Boston? Well obviously I was young and naïve and Paul saw a good target, but God. Was I that pathetic, like I had a giant sign on my forehead—I’m stupid and easy to manipulate?
And what about Dominick? Was he lying to me the whole time too?
I love you. I love you, Sarah. Christ, I love you so much. You’re my first and my last.
If only I could get his voice out of my head. And the memory of how his hands felt when he caressed me. When he cupped my face and curled his warm body behind me in bed, holding me so close to him like I was his lifeline.
God, was any of it real?
After everything, the months and months, the complete decimation of my heart and the explosion of my whole life, that’s the question that tortures me.
Which is completely fucking pathetic! shouts my new internal feminist. They used and abused you! They had you begging for cock like a dog on your hands and knees!
But not Dominick, another voice argues back. Sometimes he wouldn’t even let me give him head, and the one time I did he wouldn’t let me swallow. And he did everything possible to make sex all about pleasure, not pain—
But he sat right there and did nothing while his father all but raped you when he took your virginity! shouts the new, angry voice.
Not that I realized it or even knew how to vocalize that it was what was going on at the time. I thought because I eventually felt pleasure, that meant I wanted it. And I did get off so much of the time. With Dominick, every single time, often more than once.
God, it’s still all such a confused mush in my head.
And now, here I am, back in the city where it all happened.
For Grandpa’s funeral.
I think it’s the only thing that could have brought me back here.
It’s raining as I step out of the cab and hurry into the church—the same church where Mom married Paul. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as I enter the foyer.
Memories flash thick and heavy, one on top of another. Dominick offering his arm to me before the ceremony, shooting me that gorgeous smile of his. The sunlight through the stained window highlighting his golden hair.
My throat gets thick with threatening tears as I wrap my arms across my chest and then step into the central chapel.
Where the aisle stares me down.
But no, God, I can’t, I just can’t walk down it again. Not remembering how Paul stood at the end last time and my stupid, naïve fantasies of—
Instead, I stride down the back of the last pew and then hurry down the small walkway along the side wall. I think I would have turned and fled rather than walk that aisle again.
The church is packed, of course, and I have to dodge people, make my excuses, and arrange my face to one appropriate to that of a grieving granddaughter. All of it makes me want to scream.
God, why am I even here?
Because you’re the good girl, Sarah.
Daddy’s good little girl.
I squeeze my eyes shut against his voice that still intrudes in my head from time to time.
How long am I going to let him fuck up my life?
At least he won’t be here today. I made sure to inform the estate attorney that if Paul attended, he’d be in violation of the restraining order I have out on him. I have no qualm on calling the cops on him in the middle of my grandfather’s funeral service. Grandpa’s dead, so what do I care about sullying the family name now?
Some legacy we’ve managed to build for ourselves. I’d be happy letting all of Boston society know what a monster stepdaddy dearest is.
I finally get to the front of the church and take my place beside Mom. Well, sort of beside her. I leave enough space for two people between us. She barely looks my way. She’s dressed all in black, with a huge ostentatious hat and black veil covering her face. No doubt to cover the ravages of whatever binge she’s been on lately.
She and Paul are still married.
Doesn’t that just take the cake? But that’s fine. They deserve each other.
I haven’t spoken a word to her since that day.
It was the lawyer who called to tell me about Grandpa. And even then, the sadness I’ve felt has been more of a dull ache than what I imagine normal grief is like when losing a loved one. I always felt like just a business obligation to him. Maybe it would have been different if I was a boy, but as it was, I was just the offspring of his disgrace of a daughter and a lowlife. Tolerated, but never actively loved.
And that’s fine.
It’s all fine.
Being alone in the world isn’t so bad.
It’s better than being duped into living a lie.
***
After the funeral, the whole crowd travels to the cemetery where we all watch on, umbrellas raised against the rain, as the pastor says a few more words and then they take Grandpa away to be buried.
I do my duty. I stand by Mom in the receiving line and accept the wealthy and privileged as they come by and relay their consolations. I bite back my disgust as my mother fawns over each and every one. Well, at least until she’s asked for what seems to be the millionth time, “Where’s your handsome husband at?”
“Oh, Paul is at a conference he couldn’t get away from this weekend. He works so hard. Daddy was so proud of him.” Then she clutched a hand to her chest. “But Paul did so wish he could be here today. He and I just miss Daddy so much.” Cue the fake tears as she lifts a handkerchief underneath her veil.
That was my breaking point.
I pulled away from her and the woman taking her arm, pretending to comfort her with just as much of a bullshit, sugary tone as Mom.
The rain had stopped momentarily, but I pop my umbrella open as it starts again while I walk away from the group. My feet are sodden in the wet grass. I wore closed toe shoes, but they were still no match for the weather.
It’s the beginning of June, so it’s a warm rain. I kick off my shoes and step onto the wet grass, running my toes through the slick green blades. The further away from Grandpa’s gathering I go, the quieter it gets.
This is much nicer. Just the fresh smell of the rain and the feel of the grass underfoot. And the white noise of the water droplets as they land on the umbrella overhead.
I wander the gravestones, traveling deeper into the cemetery where the headstones get older and more ornate. Betsy and Norm Milner, 1879-1957 and 1872-1957. Besides her name, all her gravestone says is, Beloved Wife, and his, Beloved Husband. For being born in the 1800’s, they lived long lives. And then both died the same year. I wonder if it was like those couples you sometimes hear about, where they became so attuned to each other that they died within weeks of each other?
And it’s stupid, so stupid, but standing there staring at Betsy and Norm’s graves, I finally start to cry. I didn’t cry when the lawyer called to tell me Grandpa died or once during the funeral or burial services.
But now, looking at this loving couple, so long gone…
I hunch over as the tears pour out of me. So hard that I’m soon sobbing. Doubled over like I am, I’m barely able to keep the umbrella over my head.
I cry for Grandpa and for what my mother is and what she never was. I cry for the whole last year and I cry about what Paul did to me and I cry over Dominick.
I cry and cry and cry.
And then, when I’m all cried out, I take a huge gulp of breath and stand back up.
The rain is pouring harder than ever.
But I still see him.
I gasp, the hand not holding the umbrella flying to my chest.
Dominick.
Not twenty feet away, only semi-hidden behind one of the huge cemetery oaks, is Dominick. He’s staring straight at me and he takes a step when he sees me notice him. He doesn’t have an umbrella and he’s completely drenche
d.
I freeze and so does he.
Rain continues to fall, slicking his hair down against his forehead. It’s longer than when I last saw him, almost in his eyes. Even through the thick sheets of rain, I can still see that he looks as heart-stoppingly gorgeous as ever.
But that was never their problem, was it? They used their looks to lure me in.
Without really thinking about it, I retreat a step.
Even from so far away, I see Dominick’s shoulder’s droop at my reaction. He looks down, his rain-soaked hair falling even further in his face. And then he turns around and starts to walk swiftly away.
For a second I watch him go.
His broad back retreats into the rain.
Further away.
Now I can barely see him now through the rain.
And then panic sets me into action.
I start running after him. After a few steps, it’s clear my umbrella is too unwieldly, so I toss it aside. The heavy rain quickly soaks me, but I don’t care. The only thing running in a loop through my brain is: No. Don’t go. Stop him.
“Dominick!” I call out.
The rain is falling too hard for him to hear me, though, because he doesn’t stop. His broad back stays slumped as he steps onto one of the paths that leads out of the cemetery. He’s just walking, though, and I’m running.
I have such momentum built that when I finally catch up to him, I almost knock him over when I throw my arms around him from behind.
He stumbles forward and then swings around. His mouth drops open in shock and then he grabs me up into his arms, squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe for a moment.
I close my eyes and sink against him. I ignore the rain and I ignore all the realities that stand between us.
It’s just Dominick.
Holding me.
Clutching my head to his chest and kissing my forehead, my hair, my face.
It’s when he tries to go for my lips that I yank away, the old pain rearing up.
Because in spite of the spontaneous joy racing through my body at seeing him and feeling his touch, oh God, his touch—
But no, this is still the man that lied to me. Tricked me. Seduced me when I was just an innocent, naïve—
I rear back from him and then swing my palm at his face. It lands with a satisfying smack. And then again, with my other hand, I slap him. I raise my hand a third time and Dominick stands steadfast, like he’s prepared to take it and anything else I might dish out.
It’s too similar to the way he looked when his father took off his belt that time to beat his backside. Like he would just bear it because he felt he deserved it.
I drop my arm and just stare at him. I don’t even know what to do now. I don’t want to be someone who hurts the people I care about. And damn it. Dominick’s not his father. And I do still have feelings for him, even after a year.
Dominick’s eyebrows fall, looking as miserable as I feel.
“Please.” Then he drops to his knees and bows, pressing his forehead to my stomach with his hands on the back of my thighs. “Please,” he begs, sounding like I’m ripping his heart out.
The rain is finally slowing again and when Dominick’s back starts to shake, I can’t tell if he’s crying or if all the emotions he’s feeling are so intense, it’s the only way his body is able to let them out. But it’s obvious he’s a man broken.
I’ve just been so hurt this past year and sure they were both playing me, I never stopped to think—
“Dom,” I call out in an anguished cry, falling to my knees and grabbing him by his shoulders. His eyes are red and he’s still shaking so hard he can barely speak. “Couldn’t stand— You thinking that I was like him. And what he did— That last night with your mom and the other times he hurt you and I didn’t stop it—” He breaks off, his eyes squeezing shut as he turns away from me. He stumbles to his feet, away from me. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
“Dominick.” I go to him and grab his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. “Stop it.”
He keeps his eyes stubbornly shut but I give him a little shake and he finally meets my gaze.
And oh God, there’s my Dominick. His hazel eyes, stormy and tortured, but so familiar. “Where’s your car?” I ask him.
Still shaking, he swallows and nods his head behind him. I drop my hands from his face, but only so I can take his hand. As soon as I do, his fingers interlock with mine and some of his quaking calms.
After we walk down the path a bit in silence, I see his black BMW parked at the curb. When we get there, I walk to the passenger side and wait. Dominick looks down at me, seeming a little dazed, like he can’t believe I’m really here with him. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door, then opens it for me.
Still without a word, I slip inside, grimacing a little as my sodden dress makes a wet squelching noise against his leather interior. Dominick just stands there for a moment, staring down at me. “Get in,” I say, then pull my door shut.
My words seem to galvanize him into action because he runs around the front of the car and jerks open the driver’s side. I look straight ahead as he settles himself in his seat, but I can feel his heavy stare.
“Well don’t just sit there,” I say, trying to fight off my own nerves as I put my seatbelt on. I’m making this up as I go. “Take me to your apartment.” But then my whole body freezes and I jerk my head towards him. “Unless you still live with him.”
“No.” He shakes his head vehemently back and forth. “I cut off all contact with the bastard.”
I breathe out and look back out the front windshield, my heart calming back down again. “Good. Then take me to your house.”
I can see him nodding out of my peripheral vision. Then he’s got the key in the ignition and soon we’re headed down the familiar streets where I grew up. I turn on the radio and smile when I find that he has it tuned to a local pop station. I got him listening to this top forty stuff. He always had classical music on before he met me. Boring, I used to tease him.
I lean back in the comfortable seat—well, as comfortable as I can be in a wet dress and the gillion unanswered questions running through my head—and close my eyes. I don’t want to have it out while he’s driving, though, and I am curious to see where he lives.
Turns out I don’t have to wait long. The drive is short.
“I’m just five minutes from Boston General,” he says, breaking the silence as we pull into a parking garage. “Thirty minutes if I walk.”
I smile, looking over at him. He looks tense again and for the first time, maybe since there’s not rain pelting us now, I see just how dark the circles under his eyes are. “You got one of the spots in the advanced residency program.”
I reach out and put a hand on his forearm as he pulls into a spot and parks. He expels a long breath and looks down at his lap, closing his eyes at my touch. I feel his muscles flex and tighten underneath my fingers. His left hand reaches over and he hesitates, but then lays his hand on mine before looking back up at me. “I thought throwing myself into my work might help distract me from life without you.”
I swallow, lost in the intensity of his hazel eyes. “Did it?”
He shakes his head. “Not for a single goddamned second.”
My throat feels thick and I swallow again. I see goosebumps rise on his arm where his suitcoat has ridden up. He’s got to be freezing. God knows how long he was standing in that rain with no umbrella.
“Come on.” I undo my seatbelt. “Let’s get you upstairs and into something dry.”
I get out of the car and he joins me. I follow beside him as he walks toward the elevator. He grabs my hand this time. In spite of how chilled he must be, his hand is warm. I’m cold too and like always, he’s the one warming me up.
“Your shoes.” He looks down in dismay at my bare feet when he pushes the button for the elevator.
“Oh right. I kind of forgot them.”
“Christ, you must be freezing
.” He drops my hand in favor of rubbing my arms up and down for friction. It feels so familiar, him wanting to take care of me. It hurts too though, because all those memories are so wrapped up with the lies he told.
“Dominick,” I bat his hands away, “I’m fine. You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Oh.” He pulls back, eyes cast down, like he thinks maybe I pushed him away because I didn’t want his hands on me.
The elevator pings and I step on. “Which floor?”
He follows me on, running a hand through his hair that has just started to dry. “Tenth.”
We’re silent again during the elevator ride. I don’t know about him, but I’m furiously trying not to think about another certain elevator trip—and then, thank God, we’re at his floor. His apartment is just a few doors down. He unlocks it and leads the way inside.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. Something like the furniture he had when we all lived together? Instead, the apartment is an odd mishmash of styles. A bright Jackson Pollock-like painting full of all kinds of mad color splashes takes up almost one entire wall. On another wall is a framed Rosie the Riveter print. The furniture runs the gamut from a comfortable-looking overstuffed espresso colored couch with electric blue throw pillows to a black cubist loveseat to a beanbag in the corner.
I look over to Dominick, one eyebrow raised.
He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m trying to figure out my own style. It’s the first time I’ve ever lived on my own before.” Then he hurries into the living room and starts straightening some magazines on the coffee table, piling up dirty plates, and grabbing up some discarded clothing and socks that are strewn around the room. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s fine.” I put out a hand to stop him, but he just continues rushing around.
“One second,” he says, dropping all the dirty dishes into the sink and disappearing into a back room with the laundry.
I bounce up and down on my toes, then rub at my elbow, feeling awkward now that I’m actually here.
God, what did I think we could actually accomplish by this? Yes, I still have feelings for him, but it doesn’t change the past. With how badly I was hurt. The scars he and his father inflicted… I mean, he’s the spitting image of Paul. Even if Dominick didn’t— I mean there’s just no way…is there? Every time I look at him, I’d be reminded of all that happened and—
