I crouch down in front of her. Eye level.
"But Giovanni doesn't change, does he? He just takes. And takes. And takes. Until there's nothin' left of Emmaleen Rourke except a well-trained slave who kneels on command and calls it love."
A tear spills over.
Slides down her cheek.
She doesn't wipe it away.
Just sits there.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly broken.
"So yeah." I stand back up. "I'll listen. I'll hear you. I'll acknowledge your agency, and your choices, and your insistence that you know what you're doin'."
I turn away from her. Walk toward the window.
"But first, you need to answer one question honestly."
Silence.
"When you kneel for Giovanni Bavga..."
I don't look at her. Just stare out at the dark Pennsylvania woods.
"Are you livin' out your fantasy? Or are you just too afraid to admit it turned into a nightmare?"
6
I sit there on his couch, tears dripping off my chin like a malfunctioning faucet, and I'mfuriousat myself.
Not at him.
Atme.
For crying. For breaking. For letting some Irish stranger with good bone structure and a savior complex crack me open like a fortune cookie and judge the message inside.
I'm better than this. I'msmarterthan this.
I have a degree. Well—most of one. I read Foucault for fun before my life imploded. I can recite Maya Angelou and analyze power dynamics in Victorian literature and I absolutely, one hundred percent, donotneed this man's philosophical TED Talk about my life choices.
Except.
Except the tears won't stop, and my throat's closing up, and I can feel myself spiraling into that thing I do when emotions get too big and words are the only life raft.
Fine.
Fine.
If he wants words, I'll give him words.
"You want to know what happened?" My voice comes out low. Barely above a whisper. I don't look at him. Just stare at theugly upholstered fabric of the couch between my legs. "You want the full Lifetime Original Movie breakdown of how Emmaleen Rourke ended up naked and collared in a mob boss's dungeon?"
I can feel him watching me.
Good.
