Holly had forced an unneeded lecture on me about the importance of lubrication with age, and I’d learned over the last month that was absolutely true.
Sex hadn’t been great with Dennis before the change. But now it just hurt.
“Still tight.” Dennis glanced away from the screen long enough to grin down at me. “At least you didn’t let too many other guys hit this while I was gone.”
My chest filled with shame. I hated that the number of guys was even smaller than Dennis assumed. Zero. I hadn’t had sex withanything but a small clit stimulator because I’d been too scared to date after Dennis. And I’d had absolutely zero interest in sex.
Sex had never been particularly good in my experience, but at least Holly’s bartender father, Naheem, had occasionally switched positions and made sure I had enough drinks to get in the mood.
Dennis had made me feel like just a body for his deposit from the start, and he’d been so disgusted by the changes in my body after Noelle was born via C-section that he’d told me he just had to bring porn to bed for extra stimulation.
He made it sound like I ought to be grateful he was willing to have sex with me at all. Looking back, I could see that he was poking at my boundaries. Tenderizing my self-esteem so I’d eventually start taking his abuse—which, of course, was also all my fault, according to him.
By the time Noelle was in high school, I’d learned to dissociate. When Dennis was hitting me, when he was moving on top of me, I’d figure out how to mentally leave.
Vacant Little Thing.
As the porn actress’s moans filled the air, I stared at the ceiling. Numbing my mind. Putting my real emotions into a box that I kept locked inside the part of my brain responsible for survival.
Then I went to my happy place. The studio room at UMG’s College of the Arts, back when I was twenty-one and free. Chiseling that slab of purple-veined soapstone, hearing it tell me where Prince was hidden inside.
In real life, I’d sold the half-finished slab to another art senior for pennies to be broken down and reimagined as stones for her fantasy garden installation.
But in my mind, during those long winter nights with Dennis, I chiseled and chiseled my way through the coldest season…
march
…until one day it was early spring, and I walked into the bedroom to tell Dennis that we were out of mushrooms for his omelet.
I found the room empty and realized two things: 1) Dennis was in the shower, and 2) He’d left something on top of the dresser I was now forced to share with him. Something I hadn’t seen since December when he made me talk to Noelle.
My phone.
I looked over my shoulder, my chest stuttering with real emotion for the first time in months.
Was this a test? I froze, just in case.
But no, the sound of the shower continued. I had maybe five minutes. Maybe less.
With a deep breath, I took my chance and picked up the phone.
***
HOLLY: Mom, I don’t know what’s going on or why you didn’t answer any of my texts about Noelle. I know you’re back together with that abusive POS I went out of my way to help you and Noelle escape ten years ago, but you really have to call me back. I’m worried about my sister. YOUR DAUGHTER. Seriously, it’s important.
My stomach twisted with guilt as I read the last of the angry messages Holly had sent me—apparently, all the way up until February, when her messages had abruptly stopped.
Had she completely given up on me then? The possibility filled me with equal parts relief and hopelessness.
It was raining again. A crash of lightning announced that spring was in full boom outside the apartment.
Dennis would be out of the shower any minute, expecting breakfast. What I needed to do was get into the kitchen and start cooking so he wouldn’t have an excuse to get angry again. Or know that I’d dared to check my own phone.
I started to set the forbidden device down, but then it buzzed with a new message.
This time from my youngest—Noelle.
I hadn’t heard from her since before Christmas, when Dennis had hovered like a shadow, forcing me to lie to the daughter who’d just been dismissed from her job.“She keeps calling. Tell her you don’t want to see her,”he’d commanded before handing me my own phone.“Tell her you’re fine.”
