Inside the hidden doorway, a stone staircase winds downward into blackness. The air that spills up is cool and stale, smelling like old candlewax and secrets. Sam grabs a flashlight from a nearby drawer, then leads the way.
Together, we descend.
At first, we walk in silence, lulled by the hush of the stone walls and the soft thud of our feet against the worn steps. The passage is narrow, just wide enough for us to walk side by side. Every so often, our shoulders or arms brush.
In the dark, my imagination runs wild.
I picture the girls who came before me. Their white nightgowns bunched in tight fists to keep the hems from dragging on the dirty floor. Loose hair tucked into nightcaps. Candles held high. Eyes wide, but mouths shut.
I wonder what they felt as they walked these same steps. Excitement as they hurried to their beloved? Fear as they trudged to an abuser? Resignation, knowing this was the only path allowed to them?
Thinking about that reminds me of something else, something I’ve been wanting to talk to Sam about. My voice is overloud, echoing against the hard walls that surround me. “I’ve been thinking about that girl, Staci.” What I say is true, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. I keep seeing those bruises, wondering whatexactlythey mean. Wondering if what happened to me with Preston, if that’s what’s happening to her too, but every night? The thought drives me insane.
Samantha’s footsteps falter for just a second. “I know. Me too.”
“We have to do something,” I say, my voice insistent. “It’s not right, what’s going on with her.”
“That’s nice that you care,” Sam offers.
“I do. I…” I hesitate, wondering how much I should reveal to Sam. We’re closer now, but I’m still not sure I can trust her. I also want to impress on her how important this is. How much it means to me. In the end, I decide to let the words go, to give her a fragile, vulnerable piece of myself. It’s a risk, but worth it if I can help someone else.
“I know how that feels. To be forced to do something you don’t want to do.”
Sam’s head jerks my way. “Wait…are you saying that you?”
She doesn’t have to finish that question. We both know.
I nod, swallow against the lump in my throat. “Just once,” I whisper, my voice scratchy, as if the fact that I had to endure that one time somehow makes it better, easier.
It doesn’t.
“Jesus,” Sam breathes. The wavering flashlight exaggerates the fury in her expression, deepening the shadows under her eyes, highlighting how her lips draw back like she’s ready to bite. “What the fuck is wrong with men? What makes them think that’s okay? That they can just take like that?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, feeling bleak. It’s something I’ve asked myself as well. Why are women always the victims? The ones who suffer, who bear the worst of the world’s cruelties? “Because men are bigger, stronger? Or something left over from caveman days? Or maybe,” I continue, “maybe it’s something we teach them, without meaning to, from the time they’re little.”
“Whatever it is, it’s wrong,” she spits out. “It’s messed up, and it’s got tostop.” I glance over, surprised by her ferocity, how she doesn’t sound like the usual obedient sister.
A beat, then she asks in a softer, pleading voice, “How do we stop it?”
I shake my head, helpless. “I don’t know if we can.”
We fall quiet. Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy as fog. I know we’re each spiraling down our own dark rabbit holes, trying to find something solid in the murk.
Sam’s the one to speak first. “Sorry to change the subject, but…” She becomes uncharacteristically hesitant as she says, “I have a question…about you and Carrson…”
I slow my steps, my pulse skipping. Of course. We’ve been getting along, but Carrson is still a sore subject between us. Maybe he always will be.
“What about him?” I ask, my tone guarded.
“Do you actually care for him?” Even in the dim light, I can feel her eyes on me, sharp and assessing. “Or is it because of who he is?”
That catches me off guard. I expected jealousy, maybe suspicion. Not this concern. Sam sounds like a protective older sister or a nosy aunt trying to figure out whether I’m good enough for someone she cares about. Like she’s worried I’m just another opportunist, clinging to Carrson for his power and his name. They grew up together, I remind myself, thinking how it makes sense she’d ask about it. Me and Carrson.
“I do care,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth I know they’re not the whole truth.Caredoesn’t begin to cover it.
What I feel for Carrson is much more complicated than that. Messier. Addictive.
Since the night we first slept together, three weeks ago, we haven’t stopped. Every night, sometimes more than once. In his bed, against the wall, on that stupid velvet chaise in his office. We fall together with lips and tongues and moans like we’re starving, every time. Sometimes it's sweet. Sometimes it’s punishing. Sometimes it’s like we’re trying to crawl inside each other just to find relief.
