Let them look.
Let them whisper.
I’d survive this.
Even if it killed me.
The walk home was hell.
Two miles of avoiding eye contact, ducking behind brick pillars and hydrangea bushes. Slipping between school buildings just to avoid being seen, caught, followed.
Twice, I heard footsteps behind me. Laughter. Tires screeching as a Mercedes SUV rolled past, slow enough to be a warning. Or a threat.
By the time I reached the edge of the football field near the lower school, I was done.
My feet throbbed. My palms still stung where the crescent shapes from my nails had broken the skin. And the tears? They were there, clinging to my lashes, daring to fall.
I spotted a bike leaning against a tree outside the church down the street. No lock. Just sitting there, tempting me. An old ten-speed with worn-out tires and a crooked seat.
I looked around.
No one.
Just five more minutes. Five more blocks. No one would even notice.
I took one step toward it.
Then another.
My hand gripped the handlebar before I could talk myself out of it.
But I stopped.
Because that wasn’t me. Not yet. I hadn’t losteverything.
So I let go, even though my knees were shaking.
The final stretch home was blur. I barely registered the fall leaves or the flicker of porch lights. By the time I reached the old beach bungalow, I didn’t even bother using the front door.I slipped around the back, past the tomato plants and wildflowers, and let myself in through the laundry room.
I peeled off my muddy sneakers. Stripped down to my sports bra and shorts.
Then I got into the shower.
Turned it on. Sat down.
Let it all fall apart.
Hot water poured over me while I sat, semi-clothed, on the floor of the tub, my knees to my chest and my forehead resting on them. I didn’t sob. Not at first.
But then the sobbing came.
It ripped through me, silent at first, then louder. Broken. Raw.
I don’t know how long I was there. Could’ve been ten minutes. Could’ve been an hour.
When the curtain shifted, I didn’t even flinch.
A towel, warm from the dryer, was wrapped gently around my shoulders after the shower was turned off. A hand on my back. My aunt’s voice was soft, steady, not pushing. She helped me to my feet, and wrapped another towel around my hair.
