I didn’t get a good glimpse of the video, thank God. Otherwise, I’m not sure even Presley’s pleading would have held me back from taking a swing at that guy, especially if I’d known he filmed her without consent.
But I saw enough to know it was her bedroom.
And now, nothing in here must feel safe to her.
“I’ll take care of it, Pres.” I move quickly, ripping the comforter off the bed. I dump it into the hall closet, then head to the living room, where I grab the sheets I use to cover the couch each night. They’re in a storage ottoman, along with a pillow and some blankets. I grab those too.
I come back to find her standing in the exact same spot. I don’t even bother checking if she wants the sheets changed. At this point, I’d replace everything in the damn apartment if it gave her a sliver of peace.
With the borrowed sheets and blanket in place, I walk back over to her. “I’ll look for another blanket in a minute. Can I take off your shoes?”
She nods, and I slowly drop to my knees, leaning back on my heels. I look up to see her watching me with those round blue eyes.
She’s so fucking quiet.
It’s killing me.
I reach out and wrap my hand around the back of her ankle, guiding it onto my thigh. If this were a normal day, she would probably comment about not wanting to get her dirty work shoes on my pants, but she doesn’t say a word. She just watches as I undo the laces and carefully slide them off. I pull off her sock too before moving to the other shoe.
When I finish, I stuff her socks into her boots and set them aside. All shit we can deal with later.
I rise to my feet, and right away, I can tell she’s holding back tears. Her face is blotchy, and her lip is trembling. I hesitate fora split second, worried that my touch might be unwanted in this space, but then she closes the gap between us and presses her face into my chest.
I wrap my arms around her. “What do you need, Pres? What can I do?”
“I feel…” She struggles to find the words. Her body shudders. Finally, she says, “I need a shower, I think.”
Dread washes over me as I piece together her words. I pull back. “Did he touch you?” I ask. “Before I came out?”
“No.” She shakes her head, but then says, “A little. He got in my face. Pinned me to the dumpster and grabbed my waist.” I grit my teeth. The fucker is going to regret that. “I swear I can still smell the trash. His cologne. I need it all gone.”
Keep it together, Beck.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand and lead her to the bathroom, focusing all my energy on this single task, because if I don’t, I’m going to lose it.
I cannot think about his hands on her.
Or the irrational jealousy I felt when I realized what was playing on his phone. Or the immense guilt I’m carrying because even after learning that the video wasn’t consensual, even after seeing my wife fall apart in my arms at the very sight of her own bedroom, I can’t shake it.
I want that video gone.
I turn on the light, and we both walk in. It’s small, with just a single sink and a shower-tub combo. Pres once told me that everything in her apartment looks smaller when I’m in it. I took it as a compliment.
I turn on the faucet and adjust the water temperature. Based on how steamy it is in here after she showers, I make sure it’s plenty warm. When I turn around, Pres is standing there in her bra and underwear. She’s got her jeans and T-shirt balled up in her hand, with a lost look on her face. If this were any othersituation, my eyes would be everywhere, getting my fill of her nearly naked body.
But this is definitely not normal circumstances. “Can you?” she asks, holding out her hand.
“Yeah,” I answer, keeping my eyes locked on her face. “Absolutely.” I grab the clothes and head out into the hallway. I stop momentarily, unsure whether to just chuck the clothes or wash them. I decide to leave them on top of the washer for now.
She might feel differently in the morning, and I’d hate to toss her favorite pair of jeans or something.
By the time I return to the bathroom, her undergarments are on the floor, and I see her shadow behind the shower curtain. I make a little noise to let her know I’m here and take a seat on the edge of the counter.
I try not to watch her too closely, not wanting to seem like a creep. But when a sob echoes through the small space, my eyes snap back in her direction.
“Pres?” I call out, but she doesn’t answer. I can see the faint outline of her body under the showerhead. Water pours down, but she barely moves.
Another sob pierces the silence.
