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“Which one?” he asks sharply.
“The cunt,” I answer.
“The boyfriend was?”
“Yeah,” I say tersely, still trying to keep my answers vague. “In another room.”
“A bedroom?” he asks sharply.
“Yes.”
I hear him draw in a jagged breath and let it out. It takes him a minute before he can ask. “Was she raped?”
“I don’t think so. Came close. I’m sure you’ll have more luck than I would getting an answer.” I clear my throat. “We’ll be there in a few minutes, all right?”
“All right. I’ll see you soon.”
I end the call and drop my phone into the cup holder. My gaze doesn’t shift away from the road, but out of the corner of my eye, I can feel her looking at me.
“What did he say?” she asks quietly.
“Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She nods, still fidgeting. “What did he ask?”
I don’t want to tell her that, so I repeat, “He was just making sure you were okay.”
“Did he ask if Larry touched me?”
It takes a lot to make me uncomfortable. Far more than the average person. But I’ll admit, I’m a little fucking uncomfortable right now.
I don’t answer right away, and that seems to grow her anxiety. It must fester because after a minute she snaps, “I told you he didn’t. Why didn’t you just tell him that?”
“Because I don’t know if you’re telling the fucking truth,” I state. “I saw his open fly, I know you were mostly undressed. I don’t know what happened.”
“I told you what happened,” she mutters resentfully.
I don’t know why she’s so mad at me about it. Only thing I can figure is she thinks somehow my dad will take issue with it if shewastouched against her will. And he would, of course, but his issue would be 1000% with the asshole who did the touching, not her for not being able to stop him.
My words the other night skate across my mind.
Guilt is another thing I don’t feel often, but I recall saying something to her like that, like if I touched her, I’d let my dad know what a filthy little slut she was.
“If more happened than you want to admit to me, don’t think my dad would judge you for it. He’s not a dick. He would know it’s not your fault. He wouldn’t look at you any differently.”
“That’s not what you said the other night.”
Bingo.
“I was being an asshole the other night,” I state. “Iaman asshole at times, and you probably think I’m no fucking better than the pig that had his hands on you tonight, but regardless of what I said, you know my dad. He’s not a piece of shit. He’d never punish you for something that wasn’t your fault.”
She looks down at her hands. Shifts her legs and pulls at the tattered dress again. Finally, she shakes her head. “I should have just stayed at the hotel.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her.
I have no idea what she and my dad did tonight, or why she left. I don’t know how she even ended up in the situation she was in because my dad hadn’t been home yet. I figured they were together.
I do know there’s no point in her blaming herself when she’s not the one who did something wrong.
