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“I didn’t know. I had no idea it was this bad for you, Aly,” he said, shaking his head. “Everything was just a joke to me then. I didn’t know what pain felt like. I couldn’t empathize. I was a fucking idiot, and I’m so sorry.”
I cried harder at the sound of him saying sorry. The sincerity of his words felt so good, but they only neutralized the pain of the memories flickering vividly through my brain.
“I hated that you gave him the excuse to finally get rid of me,” I muttered, flashing back to that dramatic day at the end of junior year. I stared at my hands on Emmett’s chest, avoiding his stare because I’d felt it harden as we moved toward the topic of our big fight. “What you did that day… when you ratted me out. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew you were right, but I convinced myself you only did it to torture me like you always did. You took away half my friends by hooking up with them – I figured you were just trying to take away another thing that I loved.”
“You didn’t love Scott,” Emmett corrected me, his voice steely.
My heart thumped at the mention of the guy’s name. It had been so long since anyone around me had said it out loud. Just hearing it again made my face burn from my cheeks to my ears.
“Of course I didn’t love him, Emmett. I was just lonely. Constantly,” I whispered, my throat wobbling as I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I didn’t have real friends. I didn’t have a dad who wanted to even look in my direction. My mom was constantly defending him. Mr. Scott was just… my first time experiencing someone who was interested in me. Someone who was actually interested in listening to me.”
His attention had been so flattering back then. I didn’t consider that our relationship was wrong. I thought people just “didn’t understand our bond.” What started between us was friendship, and it was the only thing I had to look forward to at the time. Mr. Scott taught English and World Film, and sometime during sophomore year, I’d developed the habit of sitting in his room after the last bell and watching old movies as he graded papers in the dark.
Other days, when he didn’t have so much work to do, he’d just listen to me vent. And thanks to Emmett, I had plenty to vent about.
It wasn’t till junior year that Scott started acting differently. I’d caught him eyeing my body before, but now he was letting me catch him. He mentioned how much I’d changed over the summer. And one day after school – it was a winter day, and I’d been crying over something Emmett did – Mr. Scott kissed me.
It was my first kiss.
And it felt so nice.
It felt magical. All of it did, really. Somehow, I only found it romantic that Scott forced me to keep us a secret, and I thought nothing of the fact that he’d spent a year not so subtly trying to ask me to have sex.
The day Emmett walked in on us was the second day of what Mr. Scott had called us “easing into things.”
“He was thirty-five years old and he had his fucking hand between your legs,” Emmett growled, setting my cheeks on fire. “He was a fucking predator and I still fantasize about beating the fucking shit out of him. Maybe I should have done it differently, but I’ll never regret what I did that day.”
I could see that moment clearly again.
I remembered the way the color drained from Emmett’s face when he saw us. I remembered how he stood still for the longest second in history before charging forward, using all six feet and two inches of his lean muscle to completely body Mr. Scott. I didn’t even know what exactly he did. It was just a blur that ended in Scott on the ground and Emmett in my face, demanding what the fuck I was thinking while trying to drag me out of the room.
When I resisted, he ran out and told the first person he saw about what he’d just witnessed.
That person happened to be a teacher, but the girls down the hall weren’t. They were gossipy sophomores who told everyone what they heard, and from that day forward, I became the freak. The leper.
A couple friends stuck by me. They swooned over what Emmett did, but they comforted me over what happened for a week, or however long it was till that morning that Dad told me not to go to school.
He didn’t even sit me down before dropping the bombshell.
I was staying home for the final two weeks of junior year, and I’d be attending senior year at a boarding school in Canada.
“You’re going to stay with Aunt Carla for the summer. I’ve got too much to worry about to handle you when you’re this out of control,” he said before going to work.
I still remembered that because the truth was, despite what I’d done with Mr. Scott, I wasn’t out of control.
I came home at the same time every day, did my homework, helped Mom with dinner, and went to bed before midnight. My friends only came over for a few hours at a time, and I never ever went to parties.
I wasn’t out of control.
I was just lost and lonely. And maybe a little neglected. But rather than look for what led to this, Dad used the situation as his excuse to give up on me. He’d never wanted me, never cared for me and now, thanks to Emmett ratting me out, he finally had his reason to stop having to deal with me.
And since it hurt more than I could bear, I placed all blame on Emmett. It was easier that way.
Over the years, I twisted the details of what happened to me. I made up false memories of Dad being worried. Crying over what had happened to me. I pretended that he sent me away because he didn’t want me near the pain of what happened to me at school.
It was easy to live by those lies when I cut off all contact with Emmett. He sent me messages on Facebook, but I deactivated my account. He tried passing messages through my mom, but I told her to never speak of him again.
By the time I graduated college, I’d made a new life and a new social circle for myself. I went back to seeing my parents every once in awhile, even talking about the game with Dad on the phone. Hearing him laugh with me felt nice. Talking sports felt normal. It made it easier to pretend we’d always been like this.
