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During the day, I find myself clutching the new cell phone that Sarah bought for me, fingers playing across the blank screen. I’m typing out the number for Smith Acquisitions. I’d never actually call, but my fingers don’t seem to know that.
I want to call him up at work. I actually want to call up the man who made me dance on an electrified plate with clamps hanging from my burning, tortured nipples.
There’s a treacherous little voice in the back of my head, arguing for him like a lawyer. Pointing out how different he was once I managed to claw my way back from the edge of madness, once I started fighting for myself. Reminding me of those days when we’d sit there at the dining room table and he’d treat me like an equal, like a lover, talking to me about his work and his childhood and the music he liked.
I’m fighting the little voice. I’m fighting my need, my hunger, my loneliness.
I can only pray that the intensity of my longing will fade over time, because it’s miring me in the muck of my past, and I can’t find the motivation to do anything other than exist right now.
Sarah’s kind and calm and supportive. She doesn’t push me. She doesn’t ask me what my plans are. She just lets me be me.
Weeks drag by, and my bruises are gone, but I still feel as if I’m moving through a fog.
I start forcing myself to go out to coffee shops during the day, so I can get past the fear that curdles in my belly at random moments. I always sit at a table in a corner by myself, though, with headphones in my ears so that nobody will try to talk to me. I’m not playing any music, because I need to be alert and aware at all times in case anybody tries to sneak up on me.
I should start thinking about college again, should try for another scholarship or at least financial aid, but when I think about it, my heart starts pounding in my chest. I’m nowhere near ready. Will I ever be? I’ve got to find a job, I’ve got to do something, but every time I start thinking about it, my throat closes and I get dizzy.
Sarah goes out with a group of friends to a downtown restaurant called Mark & Molly’s once a week, and she’s given me an open invitation to join her.
At first I say no. Socializing is hard for me these days, and I haven’t gone out after dark since the day I left the hospital. But one day, after the grinding loneliness has brought me to tears, after the dozenth time I’ve tapped out the phone number for Smith Acquisitions on the back of my cell phone, I say yes.
I put on a high-collared shirt to hide my scars, and slacks, and clunky combat boots. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and I don’t wear makeup or jewelry. I want to be around people, but I want to be invisible. It’s the first time I’ve actually been out anywhere since I escaped from captivity.
I force myself to stay calm as we take a big table for the six of us and look over our menus. I order in a clear voice that doesn’t shake at all.
A half hour drifts by, and we’re working our way through dinner and deciding on dessert, and I’m starting to relax. But suddenly I feel a strange prickle of danger.
I scan the room, looking for Joshua or Micah. I don’t see either of them.
My gaze settles on a man with his back to me. He’s part of a group of people who just came in, half a dozen men and women. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, has close-cropped dark blond hair in a military cut. He’s wearing a gray suit that doesn’t seem to fit him quite right. He rolls his shoulders and shifts where he stands, as if he’s not used to wearing a suit. But he walked through that door with his arm around the waist of a pretty blonde, and he’s chatting with her.
That’s normal, right? As far as I can tell, he’s not scanning the room looking for me. He seems entirely focused on his date.
Am I just being paranoid?
I push my plate away and take a sip of my margarita. Sarah glances over at a guy who’s sitting by the bar and nudges me with her elbow. “He’s checking you out,” she says. “I actually know him. His name is Cassius Fuller. Just graduated. He’s a dentist. Late twenties, older than you, but a nice guy.”
Yes, that would be the problem. Joshua has ruined me for nice guys. He’s ruined me in general.
I flick a glance at Cassius. He’s blandly handsome, with wavy brown hair parted on the side, wearing a blue sweater over a blue Oxford shirt, jeans, and brown boots.
“I’m not up for it right now,” I say, and I struggle to push down a swell of panic. “I appreciate the thought.”
Sarah nods cheerfully, not pushing me at all. She and her friends are laughing, checking out guys at the bar, making comments about them.
I’ll never be normal again. I’ll never be able to date, never be able to just go out to a fucking restaurant and enjoy myself. Damn Joshua, damn Micah, damn everyone!
I need to be alone. There isn’t enough air in the room. Everything is too loud.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. When I come out, Cassius, Mr. Nice Guy, is standing at the end of the hallway that leads back to the restaurant.
“Hey,” he says. “I saw you checking me out.”
“Uhhh…”
He flashes me a charming grin. “Of course, I only saw that because I was checkingyouout.”
“That’s flattering. Unfortunately, I’m not really up for anything right now. I just had a really bad break-up.”You have no idea.
