She tries, her chest shuddering with the effort and a choked sound escaping her lips.
“Again,” I coax. “In... and out. That’s it. You’re doing so well. Just keep breathing with me.”
We stay like that for several minutes; me counting breaths, her clinging to my hands like they’re the only things keeping her from floating out of her body. Slowly, so slowly, the panic attack she’s having recedes, the energy draining out of her and leavingher exhausted. But the question burns in the air between us:What the hell was that?
“What happened?” I ask her, making sure my voice stays soft and gentle. “Who was that man in the photo, Molly?”
It wouldn’t take a detective that it was what set her off. But I’ve never seen anyone be so scared of anything. Especially not just someone in a picture.
She shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut again, as if she’s trying to fend off a memory and block out the pain. “I can’t.”
“You have to tell me,” I say gently, but the desperation in my voice is clear. I need to understand what’s hurting her, what’s causing this pain. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. I can’t fix it if—”
“You can’t fix it, Niall,” she says, her voice cracking. “And I can’t tell you.”
44
I Can’t Tell You
Molly
December, 2007
AGAIN. IT HAPPENEDagain.
The world tilts on its axis, the walls of my bedroom warping into a suffocating, closing-in box. The air thickens, turns to water, and I’m drowning, I’m sure of it.
Even once my breathing has slowed, evened out into a ragged parody of normality thanks to Niall’s steady voice coaching me through it, my heart doesn’t get the memo. It hammers against my ribs, a terrified bird beating its wings against a cage.
I knew he was gonna ask. I knew from the moment I saw the photo that he was gonna need to know. It’s who Niall is. He sees a problem, a hurt, and his first instinct is to fix it. But I couldn’t do it.
The words are there, a poison on my tongue, but I can’t let the words leave my lips. To say them out loud would be to give them power, to make them real in a way they aren’t when they’re just a secret whisper in the darkest part of my mind.
I was raped.
I can’t tell anybody. He made sure of it.
Ross told me if Idid, he’d ruin my life. He’d said it so calmly, next to my ear as he straightened my shirt, his fingers lingering a second too long. He told me he’d make sure I never played soccer again.
And he’d do it, too. He’d do it in a heartbeat. He was one of the coaches at Camp Clearwater, a god in the world of youth soccer, and a retired pro player for the Chicago Fire. He had connections everywhere—especially in WPSL, the pathway to everything I’ve ever wanted. He could end my career before it even started, blackball me so thoroughly that no college team, no semi-pro club, would ever give me a second look.
All it would take was a few well-placed lies about my attitude, my teamwork, my “character.”
Even if he hadn’t threatened me, I don’t think I wouldwantto tell Niall. He’s the best thing about this new life. He makes me feel normal. I’ve done more with him—by choice—than I’ve ever done with any other boy, and I don’t want to ruin that.
He makes me feel safe, a feeling so foreign and so precious I’m terrified of tainting it with the ugliness of my past. I don’t want him to look at me and see damaged goods. I want him to see me as me.
But now he’s looking at me with those deep blue eyes, his fingers still laced through mine, his thumb brushing softly against my wrist. I can see the worry etched onto his face, the confusion clouding his eyes, the fear he’s trying so hard to hide for my sake.
He doesn’t understand. How could he?
I don’t know how to explain it to him. How do I explain to him why I need it to stay a secret? How do I explain the way a single man’s voice is still stuck in my head years later, telling me that I’m lucky he even looked at me?
“Molly,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”
I shake my head, pulling my hands away and wiping my damp palms on my sweatpants. “I can’t.”
“Why?” His eyes look so pained it physically hurts me to look at them. They’re full of a desperate, pleading need to understand, to help. “Why can’t you tell me? You can tell me anything, you know that.”
