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Chapter Thirty-Eight
Nala
I’ve ignored Malcolm for two days.
It’s not petty, and it’s not playing games. The truth is I don’t know how to look at him, how I’m supposed to feel about what he did, about the fact that he went against something so personal to me, and then kept it a secret. I told him everything—all the details of my life that he was determined to have, and he still kept secrets.
I don’t know why it’sthatI can’t get past.
Brooks and Hunter have been by every day to check on me, as has Isa. Jordan has only stayed at our apartment, and the other night when I woke up from a nightmare, she was there, climbing into bed with me, holding me and brushing back my hair.
“So your nightmares are back?”
As with all situations that have needed clarity in my life, I have come to see Mac. I don’t know how to feel, or what I feel. I nod, looking out at the water. Mac had a session in San Diego Bay, and I came to meet her, paddling out after she finished with her girls. Now, it’s just her and me, and we’re slowing down from our near-racing speed while I explain what’s happened.
“Yea, since the moment the officers said his name, it’s like a switch. Both nights I’ve had nightmares.”
“Want to tell me what they’re about?”
I paddle a little harder when a gust of wind comes up, taking my time to get myself together.
“The first one was a blend of the night Malcolm left me when I was younger, and the night I met…him, and it all happened.” I go through the rest, how I remember the crushing blow of Mal’s rejection, and how it switches over to who I was after that, the party girl who made a scene, the one who got noticed, the one who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything because she thought she’d been hurt and nothing else could feel that way. And then to the night I was at a party, dancing, a cute guy behind me, a cute guy kissing me, a cute guy hurting me no matter how many times I saidno—both in my head and to him.
Mac stops paddling, and I stop with her, looking over at her. Her face is concerned, and I know it’s not because of the story I just told her; it’s not new. Everything there is something she’s heard before.
“When you left group, Nala, do you remember what you were able to do?” I shake my head. “Say it aloud. His name, that night,” she stresses each of these. “You were talking about them, identifying their part in your life, and accepting that you couldn’t change them, but you could take control of how they changed you. Do you still feel like that’s possible?”
Anger sweeps through me, which is a great deal better than fear, but it surprises me, enough that I don’t answer for a minute, breath coming in and out of my nose while I work to calm my heartrate. “Nala?”
Mac’s voice is strong, not quiet, not hesitant. She’s pushing me because she knows she can, because she’s already seen what I’ve been too blind to: I lost control. The one thing that was so important to me, and I somehow gave it all back tohimandthat night.
This thought haunts me all night and into the next day. Malcolm calls me twice, and I clickIGNORE, instead, pulling my computer into my lap and opening Google to research sexual assault law. Then, I walk out into the living room and ask my best friend for a favor.
“Is your dad a lawyer?”
She nods. “Corporate. Why?”
“Can he answer some questions, hypothetically, about statute of limitations and sexual assault? Maybe about public record and police reports?”
Wary, Jordan nods. “Yes. I can also Google a lot of that stuff for you.”
I smile, folding my knees and sitting in the corner of the couch. “I already did. I just want to check on some things. Would you be able to ask him?”
She stares at me for a second, eyes concerned, forehead slightly wrinkled while she analyzes just what I’m doing. “I can’t let him go to jail, or suffer, when he did this for me. I don’t know if I can forgive him,” I say, honestly. “But I know that with or without what he did, there’s something I need to do in order to really put this aside, to stop giving it all so much power over my life. I need your dad’s clarification for that.”
Jordan nods, pulling out her phone. “He’s probably still at work. I’ll send him an email, and then I’ll call later if he doesn’t answer.”
I repeat the questions I need answered, explaining what I found on Google. Jordan only pauses once, her eyes meeting mine as if to ask me what I’m thinking. I nod, becauseyes, this is happening. I hate that it’s Malcolm who forced my hand, that he couldn’t just trust me and be with me, but that’s a different fight.
Today, I’m going to go back to the girl I was when I finished my program and hopped a plane across the world. The girl who said “rape” and “Ezra Shields,” who wasn’t afraid of, ashamed, or imprisoned by an event and a person.
+ + +
It takes more than one phone call to get a meeting with Ezra. In fact, it took several, and then the invocation of Jordan’s dad’s name and title to actually get a meeting. When I open our apartment door to leave, it shocks the hell out of me to see Mr. Richards standing there, three-piece suit perfectly put together, wingtips shining, hair shorn and parted in a gentleman’s cut as old as his money.
“Mr. Richards—” I say, and step back.
He comes in, and though I know she might hate to hear it, Jordan isallher father. The presence, the way she carries herself, the way she looks around and studies everything—Mr. Richards is doing the exact same thing.
