“I don’t know,” I say again, aware that I sound like a broken record. “Scared, I guess?”
“This would be a big step for you,” she says with a nod. “What specifically are you afraid of?”
I deliberate her question for a long moment and conclude that it all boils down to one thing. “I’m worried he won’t believe me. And if he doesn’t believe me…” I trail off, my chest tightening.
If he doesn’t believe me, it will end me.
“From everything you’ve told me about Wes, it sounds like he’s always been supportive and understanding of the things you’ve shared with him. I think that maybe the fear of not being believed drowned out the reality of what might happen if you told him.”
“Maybe…”
“And I’m not saying your fear isn’t valid, Ivy, but I do want you to think hard about Wes’s character and the kind of person he is.”
“He’s an amazing person,” I blurt without hesitation. “Kind. Smart. Accomplished. He has…he has the biggest heart.”
“Then I encourage you to think about that a little more. Think about the way you just described him. Sit with the realityof how a person who is kind and loving and intelligent might react if you told him the truth about your assaulter.”
I shift in my seat, debating her words. “I mean, I can’t reallyknowhow he’d react…”
“Well, let’s dissect this for a moment. I’m sure the information will be shocking for him. He might feel emotional. He might need time to process. He might need time to grieve. All of those are reasonable responses, don’t you think? But based on his character and everything you know about him, and based on your character and everything he knows about you, do you truly think he’d accuse you of lying about something so serious?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. My heart says no, but the shield around it doesn’t falter. If I see doubt in his eyes, even the tiniest bit, I don’t think I will ever recover. Is it worth the risk?
“Our time’s almost up, Ivy,” Deborah says gently, setting her notebook aside. “Why don’t you think about that for next time?”
“Okay,” I murmur, still deep in thought. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
I leave the session with her words weighing heavily on my heart and head in the direction of the library. I glance at my phone as I walk, not surprised to see a text from my mom asking about one of my classes.
She checks in daily now, sometimes through a call but mostly over text, though our conversations are pretty surface level. When she does ask the hard questions—How is therapy going? How have you been feeling lately? Are you eating? Sleeping?—my first instinct is to lie. To deflect. But then I remind myself that she’s trying, and I make a conscious effort to be honest. When she engages with me instead of dismissing me, I start to regain some trust in her, and while I’m aware relationships can’t change overnight, I think we’re making baby steps in the right direction.
Below my mom’s message, is one from my brother.
Noah:If I told Mom and Dad my graduation was canceled, what are the odds they’d believe me?
My mouth twitches, and I type out a response.
Me:Slim to none.
Noah:What if you backed me up?
Me:lol slimmer to none. Maybe try Scott?
He sends back a crying emoji, and I tuck my phone away.
The texts from Noah are new. I reached out to him once I was able, and we’ve been texting ever since. We talk about random stuff or complain about Mom, and it’s a relief not to feel like the outsider in my family for once. We’re slowly chipping away at the barrier between us, put there by my parents’ favoritism and the aftershocks of that night at the hospital. It’s a nice change, and one I hope continues.
When I arrive at the library, I take my usual spot on the second floor. Today is the fifth day in a row that I’ve opted to do my classwork in here instead of my room, and it’s a relief to be free of the confined space that acted as both my place of solace and my own personal prison.
Sticking my headphones in my ears, I focus on my extra credit assignment for the next hour, only looking up when it’s nearly finished. Stretching out my arms and neck, I glance around the room. It’s filled up since I arrived, everyone hard at work now that the end of semester is nearing.
When I spot a familiar ash-blonde head at a table near the window, I freeze. Quinn says something to Remy and reaches into her backpack, pulling out a bag of Cheetos, and I wonder if they noticed me sitting here. I wouldn’t blame them for ignoringme because, despite her kind words at the restaurant, I haven’t taken her up on her offer to hang out.
Before I can overthink my actions, I tug out my headphones and get to my feet. I weave through the tables until I’m standing awkwardly in front of theirs, unsure of how to break the ice after weeks of antisocial behavior.
“Hey, Ivy,” Remy says, noticing my uncomfortable hover. He gives me what Ithinkis a genuine smile as Quinn glances up in surprise. Beyond that, her expression is unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s happy to see me. Annoyed. Indifferent.
I shift on my feet, hesitant, and after a few fumbles, I manage a weak, “H-hi, guys.” I wince as my old habit makes an unwelcome appearance, and my cheeks warm with embarrassment as I wonder if I should have just stayed in my corner, alone.
