“Don’t like your flavors?” Rory asks, eyeing me with concern. “Told you that pistachio one looked suspicious. We can swap if you want.”
“It’s not that,” I say as my stomach ties itself in new knots. “I’m just … not feeling great.”
“Dang it, that’s my fault for having us out in the rain. My nana is always warning me against that.” He looks disappointed in himself.
“It’s not a cold,” I say. My voice catches, nearly breaking, and it makes me feel very weak.
We sit there for a minute as Rory waits to see if I’ll elaborate. When I don’t, he leans in closer and talks in a very low voice, though there’s no one else around. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says, “but I’m here if you want to. We’re each other’s people, Kat. I’ve got your back.”
We’re each other’s people.
It’s such a simple, soothing thing to say that it makes me want to burst into tears. I can’t cry though—I’m too drained of emotions and too blocked by feelings.
I know I couldn’t be persuaded to tell anyone else about what happened. Not Jules, not Blake, not anyone at work. Certainly not my family. But for some reason, maybe because I have nothing to lose or nothing to gain, I find myself telling Rory now.
“I had a bad night last night.”
I keep my eyes on my gelato while I speak, so I won’t have to see the way Rory’s warm eyes widen in horror when he realizes the kind of person I am.
I don’t tell him everything. But I tell him enough. About the feedback from Oliver in my annual review. About how I went along to Annabel’s and intentionally had too many drinks. How Harold touched my leg and how I didn’t push him away.
Rory doesn’t say anything while I’m talking, doesn’t make a sound. When I’ve finished, I steal a quick glance at him. He looks visibly upset, jaw and palms clenched. It feels deservingly awful to have his opinion of me ruined so swiftly. Why did I have to divulge all this to him? Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth, and my legs, shut?
“I was stupid,” I say, meaning many things at once. “So damn stupid.”
“Stop that,” Rory says, and his voice sounds gritty and harsh, different than I’ve heard it before. It’s no surprise he’s upset with me. I’d be equally appalled if the roles were reversed. “Stop being mean to yourself,” he continues.
This makes me whip my head back up to look at him again. Though his stance is rigid, there’s a tenderness, a compassion on his face that I hadn’t noticed before. “You have to press charges,” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say, mentally listing all the reasons it’s probably better not to report Harold. The most pressing one is that I don’t want to be associated with a sexual assault scandal. That kind of notoriety would taint any future success, or rule me out from it altogether.
“Kat,” he says, and I have new appreciation for the way he says my name, elongating the middle vowel with that Michigan warmth. “We can’t let someone treat you like that. Okay?”
Thewelifts a massive weight off my shoulders. I didn’t even realize how alone I’d felt until this moment of not feeling it anymore.
He’s right, even if I don’t want him to be. “I know,” I agree, feeling meek and small, so far from the strong and independent woman I want to be. But I’m also feeling like maybe it’s okay if I lean on someone. Maybe it’s safe.
I try another spoonful of gelato, and it goes down easier this time. Ravenous, I keep eating.
“How can I help?” Rory asks, like he can see that I’m at war with myself.
“You can’t,” I say, but what I mean isYou already are. You’re already helping.
He seems to sense that I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now. That I’ve pushed myself to my limit, and I’ll shut down with anything more. But I can also tell that he’s not going to let this drop.
“Here,” Rory says, pushing his gelato toward me. “Finish mine up. I’m full.”
I know he’s not actually full, that he’s just trying to make me feel better. But I accept it anyway. “Alright,” I mumble, gratefully scooping his vanilla with my spoon. The simplicity hits the spot, and there’s more nuance than I would’ve guessed between the Madagascar and French flavors. My taste buds feel more acute without the distraction of chocolate and caramel, though I don’t admit that to Rory.
“Look,” Rory says, peering outside. “The sun’s coming out!”
Sure enough, rays are poking through the clouds, and Camden Passage is streaked with golden light. The market is back toits bustling affair as shoppers and vendors lower their hoods and umbrellas. Mellow rays make their way through the gelato shop window, landing on Rory’s clean-shaven cheek.
“Good,” I say. “Now we can toss out that mangled umbrella.”
Rory’s kept it on his lap the whole time we’ve been eating. “I can fix it,” he insists, and I can tell that he’s the kind of guy who can’t admit when something’s irrevocably broken.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
