“Yes,” I say, as the four officers pile into my tiny apartment. “I called. I had just gotten home when I heard someone in my bathroom. I barricaded myself in my room. I don’t think I saw whatthey looked like. It all happened so fast. But I know I saw a gloved hand on my bathroom door before I shut myself in.”
“Who’s the guy?” One of the male officers asks, giving Dante a pointed look.
“He’s my boyfriend.” I lie.
“So was he here with you?” Officer Diaz asks.
“No, he had just dropped me off from our date when everything happened. I called him because he could get here faster.” Not a complete lie this time, but they didn’t need to know the truth about Dante and me.
“Why didn’t you call us first? Maybe we would have caught him,” one of the other male officers says in a smug tone, smacking gum. I don’t care to learn their names or who they are.
“He was gone by the time I got here. I wasn’t that far away when she called me. I doubt you would have gotten here faster than I did.” Dante says, moving close to me.
“And the last time you showed up, you told me there was nothing you could do. This time will be no different, and that’s hard to hear when your privacy has been so viciously invaded. Someone could have seen something, and you won’t ask around? Why can’t the police do anything before the women end up dead?” Dante stands behind me, his large arm crossed over his chest, exuding a menacing big-dog energy.
Officer Diaz glances at the three male officers, who leave my apartment without another word. Officer Diaz turns to me and says, “I’m very sorry this happened to you, Ms. I understand this is a gross invasion of privacy. But we can’t knock on every door in this apartment building. We’d be here all night, and the city of Boston never sleeps. I will have my partner question anyone lingering in the halls, and I’ll make a report and have a squad patrol the area—but that’s all I can do without a name, a face, or any evidence to go on other than your word. Woman to woman, invest in some home security. It will at least give you peace of mind.”
I nod, feeling defeated, and Officer Diaz takes down my name and number for the report before leaving my apartment.
I turn to faceDante, and he opens his arms for me as I step into him. His big arms surround me, giving me a gentle squeeze, and I breathe in his scent—bergamot and spicy smoke. I melt into him, his scent envelops me, and he feels good.
If I’m honest, sharing this burden with someone else, even if just for a moment, makes me feel like I’m not alone. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess. I didn’t think it would escalate like this.”
Dante angles my face up, holding my gaze. “No, Luna. Don’t do that. Thank you for calling me. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here fast enough. When I heard you scream, I—,” he swallows hard, “I don’t ever want to hear that sound again, angel. I’m glad you’re okay.”
I nod, biting my lip, feeling nervous about asking him, but I don’t want to be here alone tonight. “Would you mind staying here tonight?”
“I wasn’t going to let you out of my sight tonight, whether you wanted me to or not.” Dante smiles, and I let out a small laugh in relief. “I’ll sleep out here on the couch for the night. I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Dante. I’ll get you some pillows and blankets, and I believe I have a pair of pajama bottoms that would fit you,” I say, backing out of his hold on me.
I enter my bedroom closet, temporarily ignoring the mess in my room, and grab an extra blanket and a pillow. I open my dresser and pull out my dad's plaid sleep pants. I ran my fingers over the tiny holes in the fabric. I remember Christmas morning one year when my dad burnt the turkey, and he got these holes in his pants from the ash that flew off the bird. I laugh to myself at the memory. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about them, and what I wouldn’t give to hear my dad’s voice right about now.
I return to the living room, handing the items to Dante, and he places them behind him on the couch. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I think I need to take a shower. I need to wash the icky feeling off. Are you okay with that?” I ask nervously, my adrenaline finally starting to wear off.
“Of course, Luna. This is your place. Do whatever you need. I’llbe here if you need me. I’ll make sure everything's locked up tight while you’re in there.”
I nod, taking a shaky breath, and go to the bathroom. I expect to see a disheveled mess, but everything is in its place instead. It looks untouched by the situation, which makes me angry.
I close the door and turn on the shower. The steam quickly fills the room as I slip out of my dress and into the shower. It’s not until I’m under the shower that I let the hot, angry tears flow.
I grab my washcloth, muffling my sobs as the gravity of the situation sinks in.
I have afucking stalker.
I survived being trafficked. I survived being abused by my ex-boyfriend. And now—now I have a stalker. Perfect. Every moment I start to feel safe, life creeps back in to remind me that I wasn’t and will never be.
I swallow the anger down. I can’t lose it now. I’ve come too far.
My mind replays the night I left Greg. It was the middle of the night in the dead of winter. I stood over his drugged body from the sleeping pills I slipped into his dinner that night. He passed out in his chair in front of the TV, as he always did. He was snoring, and the sound made my entire body tense. I stood there, the knife gleaming in my hand from the glow of the TV, and the voice kept telling me to do it, to get it over with. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to hurt him as he hurt me. I wanted to watch him take his last breath. The knife shook in my hand, and instead of driving it into his neck, I dropped it, choosing to flee instead.
The shower water turns icy, causing me to hiss and bringing me back to the present. I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. “Maybe we could kill the stalker instead? The stalker is fair game, and brought this on themself. They couldn’t trace it back to you.” I open my medicine cabinet, sloppily grab my sleeping pills, and shove two in my mouth. I close it again, wiping the condensation off the mirror. I stare at myself, black mascararunning down my face. I take a makeup wipe and start smearing it over my tear-stained face.
The voice isn’t real. It’s a manifestation of my mind that emerges during high-stress situations caused by my severe C-PTSD. Sally says that it’s normal for people with severe trauma, and that I just need to remind myself that it’s not real. “God, I’m so fucked up.” I grab my robe from the hook on the back of the door and tie the rope around my waist, cinching it closed. I take a moment, breathing in and out, before I face Dante. I feel so guilty about dragging him into this situation, regardless of what he says. He doesn’t deserve to be thrown into my baggage headfirst.
I open the door after a few moments and find Binx curled up in Dante’s lap on the couch. I smile at the view of this scary-looking guy smitten with a tiny kitty. “He’s a lover,” I say, catching Dante’s attention.
