Temptation

by Smeltzer, Micalea

  “That’s the words,” I assure him.

  He nods his head in the direction I assume is the exit. I follow him through the maze of the hospital. The smell of antiseptic cleaner makes my sinuses hurt for whatever reason. We climb in the elevator heading for the main level. Once the doors finally open on the right level, after stopping at five others to pick up hitchhikers, Siva makes a sharp right and then we step out onto the streets. I follow him out into the parking lot and to the Porsche. He opens the door and helps me in since my muscles are still weak and getting in the car is more difficult than you’d think.

  “Do you want anything to eat before we arrive at the flat?” he asks.

  I shake my head and put my hand to my stomach.

  “I don’t think so,” I say softly. “I don’t think my stomach can handle much.”

  “Fair enough,” he says tugging on his jeans.

  I grab his hand. “Siva,” I gulp. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up that night.”

  “I know what would’ve happened,” he growls but he doesn’t take his hand off of mine. “We do have to make one stop before we go home.” The muscles of his hand and neck tighten.

  “Where?” I ask hesitantly. His posture and the set of his jaw frighten me.

  “The police station. You have to give a statement.”

  “Fuck,” I sigh heavily.

  Suddenly, Siva grins. “Language, Sloane.”

  Siva holds my hand all through the questioning by the police. His solid presence comforts me but I have a feeling he’s even more uncomfortable than I am. He keeps glancing around like a nervous fugitive ready to run. But he doesn’t. He stays by my side and comforts me. It means more to me than he’ll ever know. The last thing I want to do is go through this alone.

  “That’s all I need,” says the officer. He’s bald with a thick mustache.

  Siva’s grip on my hand tightens. “The bastard will go to jail, right?” asks Siva, his teeth gritted. I’m surprised his jaw doesn’t snap from the pressure.

  The officer shrugs his shoulders. “There’s not much we can do. He’s a first-time offender.” He glances nervously at me. “Most likely he’ll be out within the week.”

  “No,” growls Siva, standing. He all but pulls me up with him. He doesn’t let go of my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” says the officer. “I’ll do what I can but it’s really out of my hands.”

  “That fucker tried to rape her! Rape! If I had gotten there a minute later he would have! He deserves to pay for what he did!” With those words, Siva strides from the police station, dragging me along behind him. “I will ruin him!” he screams angrily as he opens the car door. I climb in and close it. His hands clench and unclench with his violet eyes roaring. “MacAuley Grant deserves to pay!”

  He’s taking this worse than me, and I’m handling it badly enough.

  “Siva, calm down,” I plead. His yelling isn’t helping the way I feel. In fact, it’s making it worse.

  “I will not!”

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not.

  “How can you say that?” He glares at me.

  “Because I have to,” I say and tears begin to pool in my eyes. “I can’t live my life looking over my shoulder for him. I can’t Siva. I can’t.”

  He seems at a loss for words. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. His lips finally settle into a thin line making the scar above them stand out.

  Finally, he says, “That’s why I want him to pay. I want him to stay behind bars so you feel safe. I don’t want you to feel the need to look over your shoulder.”

  “Siva, be realistic.” I sigh in exasperation. “People don’t get a life sentence for attempted rape. It just doesn’t happen.”

  “How can you be so cavalier about this?” he all but growls at me.

  “Cavalier!” I cry. “I’m being realistic!”

  He narrows his black eyebrows at me.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I sigh. “Even if Mac stays behind bars I wouldn’t be safe. No one is ever safe, Siva. There are pedophiles, murderers, robbers and rapists walking down the streets every day. How do you expect to keep me safe from all of those?”

  “You’re right,” he says, rubbing the knees of his jeans. I’m surprised he hasn’t worn a hole through them yet.

  He parks the car and then turns to me.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  Siva puts a guiding hand on my back. His hand is solid and reassuring. I follow him into the kitchen once we reach the flat. He rolls the sleeves of his purple shirt up his forearms. It’s the first time he has ever exposed any of his scarred skin to me willingly. He always wants to keep it covered. I’m sure it could be ninety degrees outside and he’d wear long sleeves, jeans, or a suit. His black hair hangs in his violet eyes, which somehow makes him look younger.

  “I’m sure you want to shower. I’ll make you some toast and tea? Do you think you could eat?”

  He looks like a lost little boy, desperate to do anything to help, so I say, “Sure, that would be great.” I doubt I’ll be able to stomach it, but I can at least try.

  “Good.” He claps his hands together.

  I give him a reassuring smile because I think he needs it.

  I go upstairs and strip out of my clothes. I turn the shower up so hot it’s almost scalding my skin, then scrub myself with some kind of lavender salt scrub that has been placed in the shower. The scent calms and soothes me. I take time scrubbing my scalp. I probably scrape off a layer of skin in the process but it feels good. When my skin is a nice rosy pink I turn the shower off and dry myself. I put on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I don’t care what Siva thinks. I pull my hair back into a wet bun to keep it from dripping down my back.

  Stepping out into the hall, I quietly make my way downstairs.

  “You look better,” he comments, leaned against the dark gray countertops. His legs are crossed and his feet are bare. He raises a cup of coffee to his lips.

  “Should I be offended?” I ask with a smile. I feel better, though. So much better. It’s amazing how much a simple shower can change the way we feel.

  “No,” he says with a soft chuckle. “You shouldn’t.”

  I sit down and he slides a plate of toast in front of me slathered in strawberry jelly.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I say, taking a bite of the toast.

  “No problem.”

  He sits down beside me. He sips at his coffee, cringes, and adds even more sugar and creamer. “What?” he asks, noticing my glance.

  I put my hand to my mouth and swallow my bite of toast. “Would you like some coffee with your sugar?” I ask with a laugh.

  He smiles. “This is the way I like it.”

  “Do you want to rot your teeth?”

  “It makes me sweeter,” he jokes with a wink.

  “It’s not working.”

  “Eat your toast, Sloane,” he growls with humor.

  I take a bite a looked at him. “Eating,” I say around a mouthful. “See?” I point to my full mouth. “Should I open up and show you?”

  He shakes his head and his lips quirk. “You amuse me.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I reply and smile.

  And I mean it. Bringing him joy or amusement makes this dark time feel a little bit brighter.

  Two months has passed since Mac tried to rape me. Two whole months. It feels like two years. Siva is kind to me but he has closed himself off from me. I haven’t felt this alone since I first moved to London. I’m not sure what has caused Siva’s change. I figured he isn’t used to confiding in someone. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I think it’s something to do with me.

  A part of me wishes now I’d made more of an effort to make friends when I was in school, but I met Dev and he was all I needed, and his friends seemed good enough. But now he’s gone and not one of them has reached out to me. I realize how silly I was to think they might c
are about me too.

  Mac’s out of jail, has been for a while, but he lost his job. It’s a relief not having to see him every day but I keep expecting to run into him around every turn. I told Siva once I couldn’t live my life looking over my shoulder, but it’s what I’m doing. When I go into a store I scan the face of every person in the building before I can relax. When I walk down the street I look at every face, searching, always searching. So finally, I stopped going out.

  Most of my time is spent at work, but when I’m not … Well, it leaves a lot of time for me to think and dwell on things best left forgotten. I’m still taking meds and going to see a therapist once a week. I don’t think it’s helping much, but I’m trying so hopefully that counts for something.

  I’m not sleeping much. I find myself exhausted, to the point of falling over, and I climb in bed and end up lying there for hours in the dark. It isn’t healthy. I’ve lost fifteen pounds since the incident, as I like to call it, took place. Bags are etched under my eyes along with bruise-like shadows. I’m beginning to think they’re never going to go away. It isn’t healthy. But it isn’t like I’m not trying. I do try … really hard. But nothing seems to work. I have no appetite and I can’t sleep. I’m withering away. Turning into a zombie. And I feel helpless to stop it.

  I’m sure Siva notices, but he doesn’t say anything, and somehow that only makes me feel worse.

  I open the door to my therapist’s office. Commercial grade blue carpet covers the floors and the walls are painted a soft blue a few shades lighter than the floors. Matchy-matchy. It’s gross. Standard paintings of flowers and landscapes decorate the walls. I suppose it’s meant to be calming, but to me they look like they belong hanging in a seedy motel. It smells kind of funky in here too. I wrinkle my nose.

  The mousy-haired receptionist smiles at me in greeting.

  “Good evening, Ms. Campbell,” she says. It’s Friday evening after work. Most people my age are out getting drinks or cuddled up with someone they love. Then there’s me, getting therapy that seems to be going nowhere.

  I take a seat on one of the uncomfortable dark blue chairs. I set my purse in my lap and wiggle my butt trying to find a more comfortable position. It doesn’t work. It never does. I glance at my watch. I’m five minutes early and then I have to spend an hour talking to the stupid doctor. I’m sure Dr. Bernard is smart and knows what she’s doing but so far she hasn’t been able to help me. Maybe I’m a lost cause. I know Siva is paying her good money and it makes me ill he has to do it. If she can’t help me he shouldn’t waste his money but he won’t let me stop coming either. Believe me, I’ve tried.

  I huff a sigh and wiggle again.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” asks the receptionist.

  “No, I’m good.”

  She goes back to typing.

  “Sloane, come on back,” calls Dr. Bernard, opening her door.

  I stand and put my purse on my shoulder.

  Dr. Bernard’s office has dark wood wainscoting halfway up the wall. The rest of the walls are beige. When I pictured going to the therapist I figured I’d lie on some kind weird couch looking thing and have my head poked and prodded. But that isn’t the case. Instead, I sit on a brown couch that’s actually quite comfortable and Dr. Bernard sits in a chair across from me. She has a desk and bookshelves and some pictures of her family scattered among random trinkets.

  Dr. Bernard is in her fifties. She has few wrinkles but her hair is already gray. She has some crinkles around her mouth too like she’s smiled or laughed a lot over the years. She never smiles at me though. Today she wears a black pantsuit. She sits down in the chair, crosses her legs, and rests her notebook and pen on her lap. I never see her take any notes so the purpose of the notebook is beyond me. Maybe she writes in it after I leave, or maybe it’s only for show.

  “How has this week been for you?” she asks, peering at me through silver framed glasses.

  “Okay, I guess,” I say, with a shrug.

  “You guess?”

  “I’m still not sleeping or eating much,” I admit, settling into the couch for the next … fifty-eight minutes and counting.

  “Why do you think that is?”

  Dr. Bernard always answers everything with a question. I want to roll my eyes at her.

  “Uh … because I was nearly raped,” and I live with a crazy, moody, arrogant, jerk named Siva Kapur, I add sarcastically in my mind.

  She pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose and studies me like a scientist studies something particularly fascinating.

  “How do you think you’re handling your ordeal?” Dr. Bernard asks.

  And that’s how the next fifty-four minutes and thirty-one seconds goes.

  ***

  Jacob is waiting with the Porsche when I leave Dr. Bernard’s office. This isn’t unusual. Whenever Siva has to go somewhere he always manages to finagle Jacob into “babysitting” me. I think it’s stupid. I can fend for myself.

  “Hey,” I say to Jacob in greeting. “Where’s Siva?” I hate Jacob is picking me up at Dr. Bernard’s office. It makes me look mentally unstable.

  “He had to leave unexpectedly,” Jacob explains before pulling into traffic.

  Hmm, I think, could he not have told me he was leaving himself?

  I’m so irritated by his avoidance. I’m not saying we need to be best friends or anything, but I’d at least like to be able to have more than a ten-second conversation.

  I thump my hand against the leather seat and frown. Jacob eyes me but I don’t care. I’m sick of being ignored. I might be acting childish at the moment, but Siva is always childish.

  Once back at the apartment I make myself a dinner of spaghetti and settle into Siva’s family room to watch TV. I don’t get to watch much TV when he’s around. I spend most of my time in my room.

  I pull out my laptop and check my email. My mom has sent:

  Hey sweetie,

  Haven’t heard from you in a while. Should I be worried? The weather here is hot, hot, hot! I wish you would come visit or at least call more. I miss you, Sloane.

  Love, Mom

  I instantly feel bad. I love my mom. She’s the greatest person in the world. But sometimes she doesn’t understand me. She has never understood my passion for journalism or my desire to move to London. But she’s my mom and she accepts it because she loves me. I know it’s hard on her with Dad being gone and I feel like such a horrible person for ignoring her. Some daughter I am. But after Dev died I felt closed off and then Mac attempted to rape me and after it felt like it was easier to keep my mom ignorant. I haven’t told her about the rape. If I had, she would’ve been on the first plane out here dragging my butt back to Georgia. I don’t want her to have to worry about that kind of thing anyway. She frets about me enough as it is.

  I hit the reply button and sit there for a moment thinking of what to say.

  Hi mom,

  I’m so sorry for not contacting you more. I’ve been really busy at work. You know, trying to climb my way up the journalism ladder. It’s been hard on me since Dev died. I’m living with his brother right now. I miss you too, Mom, more than you know. Maybe if I can get some time off I’ll come visit. I think my lungs are suffering from humidity withdrawals. How’s work and the dogs? Are you doing okay? I worry about you. I’ll try to keep in touch better.

  I love you.

  Sloane

  I press send.

  There’s nothing on TV so I read a book instead. My eyes become heavy so I make my way upstairs and collapse on the bed.

  I wake up in the morning with a pounding headache and three hours worth of sleep. Not nearly enough. I scurry down the stairs and to the coffeemaker. I need some caffeine like yesterday.

  I smack into a wall.

  “Ow,” I mumble, rubbing my forehead.

  “What are you doing?” growls a voice. “And what’s with your hair?”

  I look up into Siva’s livid face.

  “I thought you were gone for bu
siness?”

  “I was. Now I’m back,” he responds.

  “Okay then. And there’s nothing wrong with my hair,” I pout, stomping into the kitchen.

  “Tell that to the bird’s nest living in your hair.” He follows behind me. Is he looking to pick a fight? With so little sleep it won’t take much to set me off.

  I head to the coffeemaker and press the button. The machine whirls as it comes to life.

  I pat my hair. Sure enough my hair is a mess.

  “Coffee?” I ask him, trying to be polite, and pick up a mug.

  “Sure,” he says, sliding onto a stool.

  I’m shocked I don’t get a smartass response.

  The coffee finishes brewing and I pour us each a mug and add sugar and creamer. In order for me to drink the bitter stuff I have to drink it the way Siva does.

  He smiles slightly when I put the mug in front of him.

  I sit down beside him not caring I’m wearing holey boxers that once belonged to Dev and a baggy t-shirt while he’s dressed impeccably. He wears an expensive pair of jeans that probably cost more than I used to pay in rent, and a light green sweater made of a thin material that looks soft like pillowy clouds.

  “Just the way I like it,” he says, taking a sip.

  I take a sip as well and familiar silence falls between us.

  He clears his throat.

  “I know I haven’t been exactly … the best companion lately.” He runs his hands through his hair.

  “You haven’t been,” I agree. There’s no point in sugar coating it.

  He flinches. “I’m sorry. It’s … I’m really confused right now. About a lot of things. You in particular.”

  “Me?” I ask and coffee dribbles down my chin. I wipe it away with my hand since I can’t find a napkin.

  “There’s something about you,” he continues softly. “I … I want you to come away with me this weekend. Take off work Monday.”

  “You want me to take a day off and go to some unknown destination with … you?” I ask, my voice choked.

  “Uh … yeah,” he says, and cringes again like he was expecting pain.