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A large crack of light shines into the bedroom through the splintered doorframe. Somehow, she’s managed to close the door all the way. Fuck. Why do I have such a bad feeling about this? It’s not as if she hasn’t lived all these years without me around to stop her from hurting herself. But something, some primal instinct, is shouting at me that I need to keep a close eye on her. Something is telling me she wants to die.
And it’s not just the cuts on her legs. It’s everything I’ve learned about her since we ran into each other at the airport. The fact that she doesn’t want to go home. That she won’t answer a single phone call or text, though I’ve seen her phone buzzing for hours. That she’s moving to L.A. to go to community college. Who moves clear across the country to go to community college?
But I think the biggest tell has to be the fact that she brought Black Box with her. This shows me that she hasn’t let go of what happened that night – how could she? – and that she’s still searching for answers.
I should tell her everything. I should tell her why I was there and why I wanted to kill myself. I should tell her exactly what I saw, what I did, and how I covered it all up. But I don’t want her to judge me the way I’ve judged myself. I got away with murder; possibly twice. What does that say about me? How can you not judge someone when you find out something like that about them?
Moving slowly toward the bathroom door, I listen for the slightest sound that would indicate she’s okay in there, but I hear nothing. I draw in a deep breath and knock.
She lets out a sharp yelp. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Sorry! I was just checking to make sure you’re okay.’
‘I’m taking a fucking bath!’
‘I’ll get out of here now.’
‘Wait!’ she calls out as I begin to walk away. ‘Wait. I forgot my toiletries. Can you push my suitcase in here?’
‘Why don’t you use the hotel toiletries?’
‘I have sensitive skin!’
I smile as I grab the handle on her suitcase, which sits just outside the bathroom, and wheel it toward the door.
‘Close your eyes!’ she shouts as I use the suitcase to slowly push the door open.
I close my eyes, but the wheels of the suitcase get caught on something and, instinctively, I open my eyes to see what it is. Catching a glimpse of Mikki’s reflection in the mirror instantly gets my heart racing. She’s lying in the bathtub and she doesn’t know I can see her, but I can still see the anxiety on her face as her eyes are glued to the door.
‘What are you waiting for? Just push it in here.’ She looks up at that moment and the reflections of our eyes lock.
I let the suitcase handle go and quickly pull the door shut. ‘The suitcase was stuck,’ I explain to the door, but she doesn’t reply.
I incur my walk of shame out of her bedroom and hope I haven’t made her too uncomfortable or broken her trust. I can’t imagine she gives that away easily. And it must have taken a healthy amount of trust or desperation for her to get a hotel room with me today . . . before she even knew who I was.
She didn’t even know who I was.
Shaking my head as I enter my bedroom, I allow my body to fall backward onto the bed. I have to ignore this crazy voice in my head telling me that this whole thing – the storm, the canceled flight, the chance meeting – was fate’s way of bringing Mikki and me back together. That kind of stuff only happens in cheesy romantic movies. And, let’s face it, if they ever made a movie for Mikki and me, it would probably be categorized under horror flicks. Everything from the moment we met on Twitter to this very moment has been a series of unhappy endings.
I heave a deep sigh before I sit up in bed and begin peeling off all my various layers of clothing. I start with my boots, then I toss my coat, sweater, and T-shirt onto the armchair in the corner before I rise from the bed to remove my pants. Once I’m down to nothing but my boxer briefs, I contemplate taking a shower, but I’m afraid something will happen to Mikki while I’m in there.
Heading for the bathroom, the sound of knocking at the door stops me. ‘Yeah?’
‘Can I come in?’
Fuck. ‘Uh, yeah. Give me a minute.’
Thinking quickly, I scurry into the bathroom and grab the bathrobe off the hook and slip it on, hastily tying it closed. I open the bedroom door and she looks me up and down for a second before she speaks.
‘What are you doing in here? Getting a mani-pedi?’ she asks with a grin.
She looks beautiful with no makeup and damp hair.
‘Very funny. I was just going to take a shower. What’s up?’
Her hands are clasped behind her back as she looks off to the side. ‘I came to apologize. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You just kind of startled me. And . . . thanks for the flight info . . . and for letting me stay here with you until the flight.’
‘How about the muffins?’ She looks up so she can glare at me, but her eyes glance over my chest. I smile at her as I attempt to pull the robe tightly closed, but this thing must be made for women or scrawny, old dudes. ‘Well, since you’re in a grateful mood, do you think you can thank me by giving me your phone number?’
She scrunches up her eyebrows. ‘Why do you need my number? We’re staying in the same room.’
‘Yeah, but I was thinking it might be easier to avoid running into each other naked if we can send a text before barging into each other’s rooms.’
‘You think of everything, don’t you?’
I shrug as I open the bedroom door wider and head for the nightstand where I set down my phone earlier. ‘What’s your number? I’ll text you right now so you can save my mine in your phone.’ She shoots off the ten digits quickly, probably trying to see if my fingers can keep up. I fire away a text message then smile at her as I look up from the screen. ‘You might want to go check your phone. I think you just got a text message from a really hot guy.’
She rolls her eyes as she turns to leave. ‘Goodnight, Crush.’
‘Goodnight, Mikki.’
She closes the door and I take my phone with me into the bath
room. The hot water is running and I’m about to step into the shower when I hear the buzzing noise of my phone vibrating on the counter. I scoop it up and smile at her reply.
Me: Want to stay in tomorrow and watch movies and order room service all day?
Mikki: Only if we watch Pretty in Pink and you change the ending so Andie ends up with Fuckie.
I laugh out loud at the typo and she instantly sends another text through.
Mikki: Duckie! Duckie! Not Fuckie!
Me: Are you sure you’re not talking about Pretty in Kink? I think that’s the one with Fuckie.
Mikki: Stupid phone.
Me: Of course we can watch that and if Duckie doesn’t get the girl this time, I’ll hunt down John Hughes and demand a re-make.
Mikki: John Hughes is dear.
Mikki: Dead! John Hughes is DEAD! Ugh.
Me: Killed by all those Fuckie fans, I’m sure.
Mikki: SMH
Me: Getting in the shower now. Feel free to wake me up later if you need anything.
Mikki: Goodnight.
Me: Sweet dreams.
The moment I close my messaging app, I see the little red icon telling me I have fourteen voicemail messages. I turn the screen off and the darkness swallows me. I want to slide out of bed, slip into the bathroom, and end it all right now: all the voicemails, the obsessive thoughts, the awkward moments, the memories. But I swore I wouldn’t do it in a place where I could be found. And I don’t think I can do that to Crush after what he saw in that parking lot.
I have to let my cell phone battery die. Pretty soon it will be twenty-four hours since I went missing. The police will be able to track my phone if it’s powered on. Letting the battery die means I won’t have to listen to those voicemails, but it also means no more cute text messages from Crush.
Laying the phone on the nightstand, I lie back and gaze into the darkness. Then I force myself to remember everything. I’ve stayed pretty high and drunk for the past three years, but sometimes when I’m sober I force myself to remember. I never want to forget that the world can go black in a split second.
The first time I did this was the night before my appointment with the detective who handled my case: Detective Mills. I didn’t sleep the night before that appointment. I was up the whole night, forcing myself to remember every detail as I scrawled it down on a million pieces of paper. And somewhere around four in the morning, while crouched on my bedroom floor, sobbing over a pile of messy notes, I realized that I needed to change the facts to make sure the investigation never went to trial. I finally understood why so many rapes go unreported. I didn’t want to face my attackers in a courtroom. I didn’t want to know what they thought of me. I didn’t want to see even a trace of satisfaction in their eyes. I didn’t want to deal with questions about what I was wearing or whether I was a virgin or what it felt like to have my soul ripped to shreds.
These are the facts: On the night of April fourteenth, an unknown number of young men brutally raped me over the course of approximately three hours. Then they dumped me in a parking lot, beat me within an inch of my life, and left me for dead. I wasn’t going to let the justice system rape me again.
*****
I step out of the bedroom the next morning, freshly showered with my makeup and hair in place. When I enter the dining area, I can see him in the kitchen, standing next to the sink with his shirt off, guzzling a glass of water. As soon as he sets the glass in the sink, he spots me and the smile he casts in my direction is just too fucking cute.
‘Good morning. You look like you’re ready for a day at the library.’
I look down at my clothes, confused by his remark. I’m wearing a pair of skinny jeans Rina and I drew on with clothing markers, a baby-blue Cubs T-shirt – because the sight of it drives my dad crazy – and a black hoodie.
‘Do I look like a book nerd or something?’
He rounds the breakfast bar and my breath catches in my throat when I see his gray boxer briefs. I quickly reach for one of the dining chairs and pull it out to take a seat, so I can stare at the table instead.
‘I thought of something last night and I—’ His voice cuts off and I look up to see what’s wrong. ‘Never mind. You said you wanted to stay in. I’ll go get dressed. Go ahead and order us some breakfast.’ He takes off toward his bedroom and I seize the opportunity to watch him as he leaves. ‘Order me a steak.’
‘With or without blood?’
