“I had just turned eleven.” I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my polo, fighting the surge of unpleasant memories.
“Is your stepfather the reason your mother turned to prostitution?”
My mom’s sordid lifestyle had featured heavily during the court hearing, so she’s aware Mom sold her body for money. Gulping over the painful lump in my throat, I nod.
“When did you realize she was sleeping with other men for money?”
“When kids at school started teasing me about it. I’d often come home from school to find strange men leaving the house, and when I asked her, she’d say they were friends of my asshole stepdad. But as I got older, I realized they were men who were paying her for sex.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Ashamed and confused. I tried talking to her about it, and she was horrible to me. Told me I was a naïve little girl who didn’t understand. After that, she didn’t try to hide what she was doing, and more and more men were hanging around the house. I saw stuff I didn’t ever want to see. And it wasn’t just sex. They were all abusing drugs and alcohol, and our house became known for wild parties and raging orgies.”
“How did that impact you at school?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the memories swamping my mind. I’m tightening my fists into balls when I find the courage to reopen my eyes and continue unloading. “I was propositioned constantly by boys. They seemed to think it was acceptable to grab and grope me, and I was always fighting them off. But the girls were the worst. They disliked the attention I got, and they bullied me and picked fights all the time. I was constantly in the principal’s office for fighting even though I never started a single fight. It was always self-defense.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone what was going on?”
“I did. I told the principal, and you know what she did?” I bark out a laugh. “She called my mom and stepdad in for a meeting and made me tell them everything I’d told her. They refuted it all, of course, and told her a bunch of lies regardingmyunruly behavior and how they were struggling to tamemywild ways.”
Anger churns in my gut. “The principal swallowed it all and told me to never darken her door with such heinous lies again. It didn’t seem to matter that I was top of all my classes, didn’t screw any of the boys, and that I neverstartedany fights.” My breath oozes out in painful spurts as renewed anger fuels the blood flowing in my veins. The system has constantly failed me, so is it any wonder I lied under oath? They would never have believed me even if I’d told the truth.
Anger underscores my words as I tell her how it went down. “The principal had her mind made up that I was the troublemaker, and nothing I said swayed her mind. Mom was furious with me, and she locked me out of the house for a few days, forcing me to sleep in the garden shed. After that, I gave up on adults. What was the point telling the truth when no one ever believed me?”
7
Ryder
Zeta is uncharacteristically quiet when she joins me after her therapy session. I’m guessing it was a grueling one, and I empathize. I’ve spent hundreds of hours in therapy, and opening up old wounds that continue to fester is never easy.
Dr. Blaufeld is aware of my real history, and he has tried diligently to help me move past my self-loathing and anger, but it’s an impossible task. I don’t see how I can ever forgive myself for what I orchestrated. And I don’t believe I deserve to be forgiven. That’s the crux of the matter and the main argument between me and the good doctor. He tells me I need to forgive myself in order to love myself and if I can’t love myself, then I will never be able to love someone else.
But he just doesn’t get it.
I don’t deserve any of that.
I’m not worthy of love, and I shouldn’t be entertaining this so-called friendship with Zeta, because we’re skating on thin ice, and we both know it’s way more than that, and she deserves so much better than me.
I look over at her, and it’s clear she’s a million miles away. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes distant, and it’s obvious she’s not really present. My desire to erase her sadness and eliminate her pain is the main reason I stick to my plan despite the competing desire that says I should let her go and end this before we both get hurt.
“Hey.” I gently cup one side of her face, forcing her gaze to mine. Her skin is so soft and smooth under my touch that I struggle to draw my hand away, but I do, because she doesn’t like to be touched, and I’m crossing too many boundaries with how often I’m touching her lately. “You want to talk about it, or you want me to help you forget about it?”
She has the saddest expression on her face, and I’ve never wanted to pull her into my arms and comfort her as much as I do right now. “Help me forget?” she whispers, scooting a little closer to my side.
Despite my better judgment, I lean down and press a soft kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smells like the standard issue shampoo, but on her, the sickly strawberry scent smells pleasant, not nauseating. She doesn’t push me away, and I continue to rest my chin on her head, with her pressed up beside me, enjoying the close human contact, until I notice Lopez and Torres staring at us. Reluctantly, I pull away, sliding my guitar over my shoulder, and I start plucking the strings, limbering up.
“I wrote this for you,” I tell her quietly. “Happy birthday, Zeta.”
I keep my eyes pinned on hers as I play her the song. I don’t sing to her, except in my head, because the words are too personal, and they’ll give my feelings away. Plus, if I start singing, I’ll garner the attention of the room, and I don’t want anyone listening to this but her. By now, everyone is used to me sitting in the far corner, strumming away, and most of them have learned to tune me out. Young regularly joins us, and a couple of the other guys sometimes hang out with us, but mostly, we’re left to our own devices which suits me perfectly.
I pour my heart and soul into the music, humming along softly, never taking my eyes from hers. So many emotions flit across her face as she dutifully listens. Her eyes seem sunnier, and my heart soars as her mood elevates. I have her full attention and it’s a hugely private moment despite our surroundings. She peers deep into my eyes, and I drown in the exquisite depths of her beautiful brown eyes, that reddish-amber hue flaring brightly as we cocoon ourselves in a solitary bubble where nothing or no one else exists.
I imagine we’re sitting cross-legged on an empty beach as I play. Waves are lapping the shore behind us, and the sound is the perfect accompaniment to my guitar. She’s wearing a casual white sundress that billows in the gentle breeze. She’s wearing no makeup and her hair is long and loose, like it is now, blowing softly across her exuberant face. Sun glints off her face highlighting her natural beauty and I sing my heart out, not worried in that imaginary setting about anyone else hearing. When I’m done, she throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck as she brings her lips down onto mine. Her mouth is soft and warm against mine and I wind my fingers through her hair, pulling her face even closer, desperate to get as close to her as possible.
“It’s beautiful.” Zeta’s awe-struck voice drags me kicking and screaming out of my daydream. Disappointment slams into me and I could cry at the loss of that imaginary kiss.
Fuck. I’ve got it bad.
