* * *
I steppedout of the shower the next morning and wrapped myself up in a towel. Blinking at my reflection in the steamed-up mirror, I reached out and wiped my hand over the cool glass, making a window for my face.
My eyes were still puffy from yesterday’s crying and my fresh face had seen better days. My long, wet hair dripped at my shoulders, water droplets rolling into the gray towel I’d secured tightly. But there was a light inside me that hadn’t been there in a long time—maybe ever. I looked stronger today. I looked resilient. I looked… confident.
This was me, I realized. No fake personality to make other people feel comfortable. No dark, twisted secrets to stash away in the recesses of my soul. No pretense. This girl in the mirror had bared it all to someone she loved last night, and she had lived to tell about it.
That was the definition of surviving for me. This was the goal in living. Opening up to Vann and sharing all the dirty details of that night six years ago, had changed me. But this time, in a good way.
There were women out there that could tell their stories boldly. Loudly. Despite their fear and shame, they sought justice above all. I applauded those women.
I truly did.
To me, they were heroes. Not just victims. Not just survivors. But real-life warriors waging war against one of the worst kinds of injustice.
But there were so many more women like me. Women not brave enough to share their stories with the world. Women not able to even speak the words to people that were close to them. Women not even able to utter them aloud and let them live in the open air.
The pain was too personal. The memories too close. The horror and trauma of the constant nightmare we had to live with. It wasn’t just fear that held us back from speaking out. It was grief too. And pain and shame and a million other things. Every victim of sexual assault was doing their best just to live through the days that followed. Just survive the fucking day and the torrent of blame and awful thoughts spinning through our heads at all hours.
Maybe one day I would speak out. Maybe one day, I could stand up and share my story beyond the walls of my therapist’s office and this apartment. But today, telling Vann had been enough. Telling one person that understood me and believed me and supported me was… life.
Maybe that seemed cowardly to the outside world, but I was learning that bravery looked different for everyone. But most of all, healing took time. Years. Sometimes an entire lifetime.
And right now, today, this morning, pieces of me that had been broken for a long time felt… mended.
That was enough for me. At least for now.
I didn’t know what could be done at this point anyway, so much time had passed from the night everything happened. I had a specific date, a specific location and too many fuzzy memories. No DNA testing could be done. No likeness could be drawn. No names could be given.
Vann was insistent that we try. Neither of us liked the idea of that monster prowling around free, looking for other women to victimize. But he also refused to let me take the blame for that. He refused to let me share any of the rapist’s guilt. It was the rapist. Not me.
Never me.
I found that I was starting to believe him. That I believed him more than I didn’t believe him. Which was a strange feeling after being unable to trust nearly the entire male species as a whole for so long.
But I did trust Vann. And I wouldn’t have been able to had I not fallen so hard and so completely for him.
He was waiting in my room when I walked out of the bathroom. He was tucked into a chair against the wall, flipping through Netflix options without settling on anything. His eyes found my still wet body immediately.
They eventually made it to my eyes but not before taking their time moving up from toes to nose.
“Feel better?” he asked in that sweet, careful voice he’d been using with me all day.
I nodded. The hot shower had felt amazing after yesterday, cleansing and soothing and like it had washed away the ickiness that lingered.
Vann had spent the night after we’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms on the couch, talking and talking and talking. We talked through more of my past. And he shared his with me. We talked about what it was like to have a parent die, my dad and his mom, and how that left grief marks so deeply etched in our hearts that it was easy to want to fill those lines with something else. We talked about my years in culinary school and how food had started my healing process. We talked about his years with Cycle Life and how lonely that had been for him. At some point our eyes had closed, even as we continued to talk. And heal. And fall deeper and deeper in love.
It was in those hours that I knew I trusted this man completely. He had my heart. He had my soul. And he could have my body whenever he wanted because he would never be the man from six years ago. He would never disrespect me or hurt me in that way.
The rapist six years ago was a monster.
Vann Delane was the man I loved.
I woke up to him carrying me to my room, cradled in his arms. He’d attempted to settle me in bed and walk away, but I’d caught his fingers before he could go anywhere and pulled him down with me.
We’d woken up, tangled in each other’s arms. He’d ordered breakfast from Uber Eats and we’d enjoyed veggie egg-white omelets and protein shakes from his favorite nearby food truck. It had been a little too healthy for me, but I loved spending time with him and enjoyed the meal despite the lackluster components. And I could admit that Vann was going to be good for my diet.
I was sure he needed to go to work soon, as did I. But I couldn’t bring myself to suggest that he leave.
