“What’s going on, Willow?” Allie asks, and when I turn to face her, she’s studying me with a hard expression.
I cock my head. “What do you mean?”
“Nope.” She shakes hers. “We’re not doing that. You knew I’d ask. You were supposed to stay in Berkeley this summer. You broke off your relationship of two years, and prior to you doing so, I’d never heard a lick of concern about Parker from you. It was nauseating, in fact. How perfect you made him out to be. Now, he’s messaging me about your whereabouts, and you’re back home, pretending like you’re fine, when I know there is no way you can be. Spill.”
She’s right. I knew she’d immediately see right through me, and maybe I need her to.
I was nauseating about Parker. I did think he was perfect. At first. He swept me off my feet from the moment I met him—kind, attentive, driven. He made me laugh, he surprised me with flowers, and planned dates. He looked at me like I was the reason the world spun, and I thought all of those things meant we were something special.
I’ve grown up around a pretty perfect example of what love is supposed to look like, so when Parker offered me a paintedpicture of that, I thought I got lucky. I thought I found my person at eighteen, just like my parents had.
Maybe that’s why I still can’t process the way I feel. Maybe that’s why, after our first few months together, when he became paranoid about who I was speaking to or spending my time with, when he started policing how I looked and what I wore, I let it slide. It was infrequent and vague, most of the time. Tiny digs that shouldn’t have made an impact. I told myself it was just who he was, that he had no filter, and his words were always laced with care, even when they were harsh. Comments that hurt in the moment, but he chalked up to being concern over my well-being. He was outgoing and funny and boisterous—brutally honest, sometimes, but people loved that about him. He was supposed to be perfect. We were perfect together.
Still, I try to convince myself that what he did—what he said that night—was merely a misunderstanding or a mistake. I tell myself I should call him, go back, hear him out. I ponder how awful I must be for leaving the way I did, for not offering an explanation. I wonder if I broke his heart, if I tore him open, if he’s bleeding out without me. But, when I imagine seeing him again, touching him... his laugh and smile—I feel sick. He feels like a mirage that’s been wiped away, and all I can see now is the truth. It feels like I’m broken. I’m torn open. I’m bleeding out, but I’m the only one who can see the color red.
“Willow.” Allie gasps, and I realize I’m crying. She tosses the pillow in her lap to the floor and crawls across the couch, wrapping me in her arms. “What the hell happened?”
My tears drip off my cheeks and into her neck, but she pretends not to notice, only squeezing me tighter. I want to tell her so badly, but I can’t escape this feeling of oversensitivity.
I must not remember it correctly.
I must be overreacting.
It must be my fault, just like he said.
It could’ve been so much worse. I should feel lucky.
Either I tell Allie this, and she agrees I’m being ridiculous—or she validates my feelings and... what then? How do I move past it? How do I make these feelings go away and what if they never do?
I pull back from her quickly, wiping my eyes. “I’m being silly.” I attempt to laugh through a sob. “It’s nothing. Really. We just broke up, and it’s been tough.”
She studies me, her eyes deep and assessing. Her full lips twitch with a frown, jaw tight and tense. She’s waiting for me to say more, but I don’t.I can’t. I cast my gaze downward.
“I don’t believe you, Willow, but if you’re not comfortable sharing with me, I understand.”
The broken tone in her voice, the clear indication of a lack of trust. She thinks I don’t trust her, when in reality, it’s myself I hold no faith in. The defeated sigh that leaves her lips may be the only thing to pull me out of the selfish stupor I’ve found myself trapped inside.
“I feel like I was raped,” I whisper, so low it’s hardly audible. Only her choked gasp tells me she heard. “But I wasn’t.” I raise my eyes to hers. “I wasn’t. And I don’t know why I feel this way.”
She pulls my hands from my lap, wrapping her fingers in mine and squeezing. “Tell me everything.”
And I do. Every detail. All of the confusing and chaotic thoughts raging in my head.
By the time I’m done, Allie’s crying too. Silent tears drip off her chin and into her lap. She’s still holding my hands when she says, “Willow, have you seen a doctor?”
“Like a therapist?” I ask.
She lets out a rough laugh. “Well... yeah. But I meant a gynecologist. You should get checked. An STI panel and probably a Pap smear too. Just to be sure.”
“I honestly hadn’t thought about any of that.” I swallow. “Parker would never have cheated on me, I couldn’t imagine...”
“You probably couldn’t have imagined this either. That’s why you’re so unsure of your feelings around it.” She lets go of my hands, wrapping me in another hug. “But your body doesn’t lie to you. This is real, and I’m so sorry it happened. I’m sorry if the confirmation hurts to hear, but you need to know that the way you feel is valid, and I’m happy you ran away.”
I’m crying again. Locking my arms around her lower back, hugging her tighter. Like she’s anchoring me to a reality I really fucking wish I wasn’t living in, but one I need to confront.
“Will you come with me?” I whisper. “To the doctor.”
“Always. I’ve got you.”
