Ithrow up twice before we leave for the courthouse, and Jackson holds my hair back the second time, rubbing circles on my spine while I heave into the toilet. Nothing comes up but bile. I haven't been able to eat since yesterday.
"You don't have to do this," he says quietly. "The plea deal's done, Carson's going to prison either way."
"I need to." My voice is raw. "I need to say it out loud, in front of everyone."
He helps me up and wipes my mouth with a cool washcloth. In the mirror, I look like hell. Dark circles, eyes haunted, skin dull. The pendant rests against my collarbone. I haven't taken it off since Emma found out. It's the only thing keeping me tethered.
"I'll be right there," Jackson says. "The whole time."
"I know."
But knowing doesn't stop the shaking in my hands, doesn't stop the nausea climbing my throat, doesn't stop the memories from that day. Carson's hands, his weight, the way he smiled as if nothing had happened.
Dr. Mills prepared me for this. We've spent the last few sessions doing exposure therapy, walking through what I'll say, how I'll handle cross-examination, and grounding techniques for when the panic hits. But all that preparation feels useless now that I'm standing in my bedroom trying to get dressed, and my fingers won't stop trembling enough to button my blouse.
Jackson does it for me. Each button is slow and careful, his hands steady where mine aren't.
"Breathe," he says. "In for four, hold for seven, out for eight."
I follow the pattern.Once. Twice.Three times until the room stops spinning.
Emma's waiting downstairs with Chase. She's still not looking at me the way she used to; there's hurt in her eyes every time we make eye contact, but she came down this morning and said, "I'm riding with you to the courthouse."
Not an offer. A statement.
Chase drives. Emma sits beside him in front, Jackson and I are in the back, his hand wrapped around mine so tight it almost hurts. I need it to hurt, need something physical to focus on besides the terror crawling up my spine.
The courthouse is all concrete and glass, cold and imposing. There are reporters outside. Carson's case made news after the other women came forward. I see cameras, microphones, and people shouting questions.
"Head down," Chase says. "Don't say anything."
We push through the crowd. Someone shouts my name, and I keep my eyes on the ground, on Jackson's shoes moving in front of me, on Emma's hand suddenly gripping my elbow like she's anchoring me to the earth.
Inside, the noise cuts off.
"Maya."
I turn. Tyler's standing near the courtroom entrance, hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable in a button-down and slacks. Donny's beside him.
Jackson tenses, his whole body going rigid. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to support Maya." Tyler steps forward. "If that's okay."
I don't know what to say. The last time I saw Tyler, he triggered a panic attack and got the shit kicked into him, which all ended with me on the bathroom floor holding a blade.
"I'm sorry," Tyler says, and his voice cracks with emotion. "I'm so sorry, Maya. I didn't know, I was trying to... fuck, I don't know what I was trying to do. Be clever? I was an asshole, and I hurt you, and I'm so fucking sorry."
The apology hangs in the air between us, raw and genuine.
“You did hurt me," I say quietly.
"I know."
"But you also pushed us together." I glance at Jackson.
Tyler nods, relief washing over his face. "I know I don't deserve to be here. But I wanted you to know I'm on your side. What Carson did to you..." His jaw clenches. "I hope he rots."
"He will," Emma says coldly. "Five to seven years."
