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“I bet your rich sugar daddy never dressed you like this.”
I shake my head. With everything happening here, I completely forgot about Stan. He probably still doesn’t know I’m gone. He’s capable of leaving me for a long length of time before contacting me. Especially if he’s working. I’ve only been back for about two weeks.
“This is more”—I look for the right word, unsure if I should admit it—“methan what Stan would make me wear.”
He nods, clearly not wanting to hear more about the man who paid hefty amounts to keep me at his house.
“I washed this for you. Wear it tonight.”
He hands me the vibrating underwear, and I roll my eyes. “Nothing can stop you from being an asshole, huh? Not even when you’re meant to be making it up to me.”
He chuckles. Grabbing something from his pocket, he shows me a bright green heart-shaped lollipop. It has a little post-it note roughly stuck to it that readsI’m sorry.
When I look at him, unimpressed, he waves it in front of my eyes. “Apple. It’s your favorite.”
I take a deep breath, observing him.
“You talk about Ethan being a psycho for murdering people, but I think you’re the most broken one, Elliot.”
His hand drops, and he tilts his head to the side. “I don’t get it.”
“No, you don’t. Because you think you can apologize for not believing me by giving me my favorite kind of lollipop. You think you can keep lying to me when I ask you what happened with Ethan in high school.” I shake my head in disbelief. “That is not how it works. I’m hurt. Really hurt. You’re so…so focused on always getting what you want, on controlling everyone’s behaviors and emotions that you never realized you don’t know what the emotions you impose on peoplefeel like.”
For a second, I think I see something unknown crossing his gaze. Empathy, maybe? But it’s gone as soon as it came. There’s only confusion now, because people like him don’t understand basic feelings.
“What did Sawyer have on you?”
I throw my head back. “For fuck’s sake, that is not what matters!” I fist my hands, trying my best to control the rage inside me and knowing perfectly well it’s impossible. “Sawyer’s dead. The things he forced me to do and the secrets we shared are gone with him.” I angrily put on the panties. “There. I’m ready. Have the best time torturing me tonight.”
Ignoring my last comment, he keeps going on the topic he wants to talk about. “We all thought you were being horrible to Billie because you were jealous of her. Because Caden wanted her and not you.”
“Please,” I snort. “Was I ever the kind of girl whocompeteswith other women? I’m the ugly one. If any other woman wants the same man I do, I’d give up right away knowing I don’t stand a chance. I was so insecure about my looks when Ethan broke up with me that I slept with any man who showed the slightest interest. It wasn’t because I wanted it, it was because they offered it. I would have never gone for someone who so clearly wanted someone else. So no, I wasn’t after Billie because I wanted Caden. He can go fuck himself, for all I care.”
The hurt in his eyes makes me retreat slightly. There is so much pain there, and I don’t understand it until he talks again. “I hate when you talk about yourself that way. When you call yourself ugly.”
It’s a simple statement that portrays a truth I’ve been refusing to accept.
Elliot Pearson thinks I’m beautiful.
Not because he wants to fuck me, and not because I put effort into making myself look pretty.
He thinks I’m beautiful in a way only he can because it’s through his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I was so blinded by my own infatuation for you, so jealous that your actions were because you wanted another man, that I ignored all of those actions weren’t…you.”
I don’t grant him any mercy. “You all saw what you wanted to see.”
His eyes drop, the wheels turning in his head.
“What happened that night? At Sawyer’s?”
“Sawyer wanted to teach Caden a lesson, and he wanted me to help get Billie to his house so he could rape her.” I massage the back of my neck, discomfort crawling under my skin like a million insects digging into me. “You know…nothing kills a person the way sexual assault does. Your body is alive, but your soul is dead. It’s like…it’s like wearing a head-to-toe costume that doesn’t fit. It’s too tight, painfully uncomfortable. Everything is unclear, your vision blurry. Moments pass, but you’re not sure they actually do. You hear things, but they become muted. People see you a certain way and have no idea what’s underneath. You helplessly watch yourself become another person. Someone who isn’t you. Something someone else made you. And all you can think about on repeat is one thing and one thing only: I never asked for it. This. Isn’t. Fair.”
I attempt a breath. It’s so painful that I choke on it. My chest is frozen, a block of ice sitting on my lungs.
I spoke about it.
It’s been two years and ten months since I spoke about this.
