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“Shopping? For what?” I never had enough money to really shop in New York, but if he’s looking for souvenirs, I remember a few places where we can stop.
“For you. I scored us great seats to see the New York Philharmonic tomorrow night, and I want you to have a new dress. Something red or dark blue maybe. I think you’d look good in dark blue.”
I feel all of the blood drain from my face as Connor talks. He wants to take me to see the Philharmonic? “No!” I squawk without preamble. “I mean, shopping is fine. But no dress. No concert. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Lainey, what is it? I thought you’d be glad to see people you know,” Connor sounds nervous. I feel sick.
I shake my head, feeling the hurt and shame and fear churning up inside my stomach. I’m going to throw up. I dash off to the bathroom, letting the door lock behind me, and I waste every morsel of my delicious dinner and flush it away.
Connor is practically pounding on the door as I dry heave into the toilet. “Lainey, damn it. Let me in. Right now.”
I stand up while he keeps knocking, and run some cold water over my face and hands. In the mirror, I’m a ghost staring at my own pallid skin with haunted eyes. My hands shake. I click the handle and slide down the wall to the floor as he steps inside.
Connor’s arms catch me and I let myself fall into them. There is nothing else I can do. The tears come. One for every tiny broken piece of my soul destroyed and shattered over the years. Shoulders shaking, I weep until my body is wrung dry of every drop it can spare. I’m nauseous, dizzy and humiliated. I cover my face with my hands.
Connor lifts me and carries me in his arms to the bed. Producing a cool washcloth from the bathroom, he wipes my forehead, but says nothing. I can’t speak. I can only look into his eyes, begging for the pain to stop. But I know that even my lion can’t make it stop. Nothing can. I bury my face into his shoulder and feel him hold me tight against him while sobs shake my body against his.
“I’ve got you. It’s going to be OK, Lainey Bird. I promise.”
“I can’t go, Connor. I can’t. Please, don’t ask me to do that.”
“Lainey, why not? What happened?” Connor slides wet strands of hair off my damp cheeks. His eyes look troubled.
“What if he’s there? What if …” the thought of seeing Jemmy again brings up a new wave of nausea, and I debate whether I should head to the toilet again. But Connor continues to bathe my face and neck with the cloth. And the queasiness subsides, for now.
“Who, baby? Who is scaring you like this?” Connor’s expression is desperate for answers, but I can’t bring myself to push the words out. It hurts all over again. It hurts too much. I’m so ashamed.
“I just can’t go, Connor. That’s all. Please, please don’t make me go.” I continue to cry, gripping the front of his shirt into my fists, clinging to him, to my lion.
“I don’t care about the concert, Lainey. Jesus, look at you, sweetheart. You’re shaking all over. You physically got sick at the idea of accidentally bumping into someone. Is it Jemmy? Is that who’s hurt you so badly you can’t even confront the notion of seeing him again?”
I nod. But I say nothing because there’s too much to say, and not enough words.
Connor holds me closer and pats my back. “Lainey, just say the name, that’s all I want. Tell me the name of the person who has you so upset.” Connor strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head.
For less than a minute, he leaves me on the bed. He turns off the light and closes the blinds, making the softening light outside disappear. We are bathed in a light glow from the night-lights that glimmer from the outlets around the room.
“Jeremy Forester, Junior. Jemmy.” Vocalizing the name aloud leaves me further drained and exhausted.
“Who was he to you?” Connor asks.
“Once upon a time, he was everything. But I was nothing, and so that’s what he became to me, too. Eventually.” I struggle to find a way to explain.
“Is he involved with the orchestra in some way?” Connor asks.
“He’s the concertmaster,” I say in a numb monotone. “Maybe he is. He was when I was here five years ago.”
“How did you two meet?” He takes me back to the beginning. Like a time machine of torment, back to a place I never want to go again.
“He was at my audition. — a fellow Juilliard alumnus. He said I played well and he hoped I got picked up. Then, he asked me to dinner. He invited me to his place and tried to have sex with me, but I wasn’t really interested. I was eighteen and still a virgin. I didn’t want my first time to be a one-night stand.”
“Good for you,” Connor agrees.
“He said it was a pity, because he could put in a good word for me with the selection committee.”
Connor says nothing when I relay this, but I hear the sharp intake of his breath and feel his muscles clench.
“I didn’t sleep with him. Not that night. But he asked me out again anyway and said he’d still put in a good word for me. I got picked up, and, then he said I owed him for getting me there. The next time we went out, he asked me to have sex with him again.” I feel the pain welling inside me. My core clenches as if he were hurting me again. “He was so damn persistent, Connor.”
