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“What’s going on.” I put my head in my hands and start sobbing. “Okay. Darling, the car is here. Do you think you can make it to the car?” I nod and stand up. My hands are shaking. I’m shaking from crying so hard.
He guides me to the car, helps me slide in, and hands me tissue as I silently cry.
“Abbey.” He asks after a while. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” His words make me cry harder. Sobs wracking my small frame.
“Can you just tell me what about Patrick has you so upset?” I shake my head.
“Okay. But know, even if you did fuck him, it’s not a big deal. It wouldn’t change the way I feel about you.” He whispers, touching my knee.
I sniffle and clear my throat as we get closer to the hotel. I wipe at my face with a tissue.
“Are you going to tell Sue?” I ask softly, terrified for a moment he will tell on me.
“No, I don’t think so. You didn’t make yourself get sick on purpose.”
“You think I’m crazy now, huh?”
“No. I’m worried. But I don’t think you’re crazy.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me against him.
I let more tears fall from my eyes.
We get to the room, and I sit on the couch, kicking off my shoes. Wes sets down the guitar case and his backpack by the table before taking a seat next to me on the couch.
“Abbey, can you please tell me what’s going on now?”
“No.”
“Please.” I shake my head and fight back more tears. “Abbey. Please. Trust me.”
“Trust me.” I whisper.
“I do. I trust you, Abbey. What could be so bad that you can’t…” He pauses, words cutting off mid-sentence.
I see the realization hit him. He is connecting the dots now.
“He raped me.” I whisper, even though I think he has already guessed that.
Wes nods his head, looking straight ahead. He doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t believe his friend could’ve done something like that. He thinks I’m a whore now. A whore and a liar.
“Wes?” I say when he doesn’t say anything after a moment. “I’m sorry.” I bite my lip as tears fall from my face. I put my head in my hands and sob. “I’m so sorry.”
“Abbey. Do not apologize.” He admonishes, but his voice is hard. “When?”
“Two years ago. At the Blitz. He opened for me.” I wipe my face. Maybe if I told him the details, he would believe me. “He pushed me into a bathroom stall. I was wearing a short skirt. He said that’s what short skirts were made for. That short skirts were good for…”
“Fuck. The Blitz in Chicago?” I nod. “Two years ago?” I nod again. “Fucking hell. I need… I need to take a walk.”
“Wes.” I turn to look at him as he walks to the door, his back to me.
“I’m sorry Abbey. I just…” He pauses. “I need a fucking minute.” He walks out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
I grab a throw pillow and bury my face in it, letting the tears fall.
As I cry, I try not to think about all the times a guy has forced himself on me or pressured me into sex. It is pathetic how manytimes I just let these men have their way with me without saying a word about it. I never once made a police report.
I remember the first time I was raped. I came home and told my mother, expecting her to want to file a report, but she was more impressed a record label executive would want to have sex with 14-year-old me. His name was Don Johnson. She said it could lead to big things, a record deal, if I started sleeping with him. Of course, it led to nothing. He didn’t want an affair. He wanted to hurt me. And she didn’t care that he hurt me, that I had tried to fight him off, that I didn’t want it. She didn’t care that I bled, that he tore me by forcing me. She just wanted me to get signed. He was in his late twenties, and I was just a kid. But she didn’t care.
