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"We'd gone out a few months. Three, maybe four. Dinner. Movie. Political soirees. "
Grace let her eyes close and her head fall back. "Snore. "
My own laughter surprised me. Usually when I thought about that night, I was paralyzed by both fear and disgust. I certainly wasn't laughing.
"I invited him back to my apartment for a drink. "
We'd walked in; I'd shut the door, opened my mouth to ask what he'd like, and discovered that what he liked was me.
My chest hurt; I wasn't breathing. I took in a deep, full lungful of air, which caught in the middle.
"Take your ti
me," Grace said in a soothing voice she had no doubt perfected for use with trauma victims.
"There isn't all that much to tell," I managed. "He thought I asked him in for more than a drink. "
"But you hadn't. "
"No," I said slowly, trying to recall what I'd been thinking, feeling.
Maybe I had meant to have sex with him. Maybe he'd sensed that and just jumped the gun. I couldn't remember anymore what I'd felt for Josh Logan before that night in my apartment.
"Go on, Claire," Grace murmured. "You can trust me. "
My eyes met hers, and I knew that she was right. Grace might have been annoyed that I'd left, might still be a little annoyed, but she loved me. She'd do anything for me. I'd never had another friend like her and I never would. Old friends truly were the best friends. They knew you when - and they liked you anyway.
"He. . . " I began, and choked as if something had blocked my throat.
Grace shoved my wine into my hand. "Drink. " She pounded on my back a few times for good measure.
When I'd stopped coughing, taken a sip of wine, then several breaths, I tried again. "We had sex and then he left. "
"That's not what happened. "
"Were you there?"
"You wouldn't be shaking, choking, and stuttering if all that had happened was sex. "
"Extremely bad sex," I muttered.
"He raped you. "
I jerked, sloshing wine over the side of the glass. Dark red drops cascaded down my hand and dripped onto the deck. I watched them roll over my skin and thought of Snow White's mother pricking her finger while sewing and letting the droplets fall upon the white linen. The strangest images came to mind when I was trying to deny the truth.
"He was my. . . boyfriend. " Or near enough. "I invited him in. "
"For alcohol, not sex. You told him no?"
"I - I think so. Everything's fuzzy. "
"You struggled?"
"A bit. " I'd had to wear long-sleeved blouses in the midst of a scorching Atlanta summer until the bruises on my arms went away. "Obviously not enough. "
"It wasn't your fault," Grace said.
Deep down, I knew that was true. But higher up, near my head, I couldn't get past the sense that I'd brought what had happened on myself, that I'd led Josh on, given him false signals. I'd liked him, been attracted to him. I would have had sex with him eventually. So what was the big deal?
