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“We met a few months before, but we never slept together. I wanted to take her on a proper date, but she wasn’t having it. I tried for weeks to find her again, then I met you and I had every intention of forgetting about her. I never would have started dating you otherwise. When it was Lori in the restaurant that day, and I discovered she was your best friend, I should’ve been honest with you then. For that, I’m incredibly sorry. But I swear to you, nothing ever happened between Lori and I while the two of us were dating.”
“Do you have feelings for her?”
This is the hard question. The one I knew was inevitable. The one that I dread answering because I’m certain Cat isn’t going to like the answer.
“Yes, I do. I’ve felt drawn to her from the start, but it was through our friendship that I really began to…” My words trail off as I lose my nerve. It isn’t easy to tell the woman you were dating that you’re in love with her best friend.
“To fall in love with her,” Cat finishes for me, her voice quivering. “And does she feel the same way about you?”
“I’m not certain. I think, or at least I hope she could. But she’ll never give it a chance, unless…”
Cat scoffs. “Is that really why you called me? You want me to give you permission?”
“No. I—”
The line goes dead, and I curse, throwing my phone across the room.
ILLUSIONS OF ASH
I was completely convinced the whole incident at my house had been blown out of proportion in my head—that my friends were right, Jim was simply being nice. I wanted to believe he truly cared for me, that he was the person he’d been portraying.
Allowing myself to believe that lie only added fuel to the fire and blinded me to the dangers ahead.
I was nervous about seeing him for the first time after his lips had touched mine. Though I told myself it meant nothing. I actually felt guilty for feeling weird around him, like it was a betrayal to our friendship, and wanted to make up for it.
Nicole was throwing a party for Jim that night, and I went out of my way to make it extra special for him. Like spelling out his name with fresh cut strawberries on his cake. I wanted him to be happy—to be pleased with me. It’s why I agreed to shoot tequila with him, why I kept taking shots even after I started having trouble sitting upright and staying awake.
I’m not entirely sure what his intentions were, what he was hoping to gain from getting me blackout drunk, but they backfired on him. He shoveled so much tequila in my direction that I ended up getting sick. Since I was too drunk to move, he had to hold a trashcan for me to get sick into.
Everything got fuzzy from there, but I remember Nicole yelling at Jim, telling him that he caused the mess and was responsible for cleaning it up. He was already at my side by then, cleaning and cooling my face with a cold cloth.
“I’ve got her,” he said. “I’ll take care of her. You go to bed.”
Even in my extremely inebriated state, I felt a twist of panic in my gut. The prospect of being left alone with him while I was completely helpless scared me.
Once my sister was gone, he pulled me into his arms. He swept the hair from my face, wiped my mouth with the cloth, and kissed my temple. My body trembled, my inability to move causing fearful tears to stream from my eyes.
After throwing up again, I apologized for being so gross, my words slurred through my sobs. He smiled and assured me it was okay, kissing me on the cheek. I blurted out I love you, though I’m not sure why. Even in my hazy state, I was embarrassed and confused.
“I love you too, sweet girl,” he whispered in my ear.
I did my best to shake my head as my heavy eyelids fell, telling him I was unlovable and disgusting.
“No,” he said, “don’t you know how I feel about you by now?”
I was on the cusp of unconsciousness, my attempt to respond fruitless. There’s an echo of a memory of a feeling, as if I were being moved, wet lips on my jaw just below my ear.
The last thing I remember before everything went black is him saying, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
26
Lori
When I was a little girl, I had a bad habit of picking at my scabs. There was something so satisfying about peeling back that dry patch of skin from my flesh, watching as the open wound filled with pus and the healing process began again. My mother would fuss at me, saying that my picking was going to cause scarring. She was right, of course. I have several scars on my knees where I’d scraped them from falling off my bike and refused to leave them alone. But I was convinced it was necessary for the healing process.
I’ve carried that belief with me into adulthood, only now those scabs are more of the emotional variety. I’m always scratching at old wounds, one in particular. It’s my way of checking to see if the wound still bleeds. Only when it stops bleeding will I know it’s healed.
I stare at a picture of Paul looking lovingly at his daughter, tears streaming down my face, wondering if it’ll ever stop hurting. It’s been seventeen years. You would think I’d be over it by now.
