"And that makes it okay?"
"No." She sighs. "It doesn't make it okay. But it makes him different. It makes him someone who would die before he let anyone hurt you."
I press my hand against my chest.
My heart aches.
"I don't know what to do with that," I whisper.
"You don't have to know Marina. It's okay."
She remains silent for a moment.
"Marina." Sophia's voice is gentle. "Have you talked to anyone about what happened? Back then?"
I stare at the bathroom tile.
"No."
"Not a therapist? A counselor? Anyone?"
"I tried therapy but I wasn’t ready." I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. "I haven'treallytalked to anyone about it."
"Marina—"
"I know." I cut her off before she can lecture me. "I know I should have. I know there are professionals who specialize in this kind of thing. I know bottling it up isn't healthy."
"Then why haven't you?"
I let out a bitter laugh.
"Because talking about it makes it real." I press my palm against the cold tile floor. "As long as I don't say the words out loud, I can pretend it was just a bad dream. Something that happened to someone else."
"That's not how trauma works."
"I know that too."
Sophia sighs.
"What about Dante? Have you talked to him about any of it?"
"God, no." I shake my head even though she can't see me. "Dante wasn't exactly at the top of my list of people to have heart-to-hearts with."
"Who was at the top?"
"Nobody." I pause. "Maybe you. But every time I tried to call you, I couldn't get the words out."
"I'm here now."
"I know."
We sit in silence for a moment.
"So let me get this straight," Sophia says. "You've been carrying this around for two years. You haven't talked to a single person about what happened. And now the one man who was there—who sat at your hospital bed for days—is sleeping on your couch, and you still haven't said anything?"
"That about sums it up."
"Marina Reeves." Her voice takes on that familiar tone. The one she used when we were teenagers and I was about to do something stupid. "You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."
