I study my best friend, who still has her hands lightly holding my wrists. Her eyes are hot with fury, bringing color to her cheeks. She’s not at all put together, which tells me just how worried she was and the speed with which she got here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her lessthan magazine-cover-ready in all the time I’ve known her. Her hair is in a messy bun that looks like it is one good headshake away from coming entirely undone. Hey – me too! She isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. Instead, she’s wearing baggy sweats, a pair of Uggs that I know have seen better days, and a stained, too-large sweatshirt proclaiming “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun-damental Rights.” I think it’s spaghetti sauce. Down by the hem.
She’s never been more beautiful than she is to me in this moment. My own personal Valkyrie.
I let out a small chuckle, then pull her back in for another hug.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
An hour later, we’re sitting on the couch, sipping wine that it is entirely too early for and eating the baked goods Anne had grabbed on the fly before coming here. I’ve walked her through what happened from her leaving the shop, skipping only the weird hallucinations I had during my apparent out-of-body experience. She held me through my crying jag and made me shrug out of myt-shirt so she could view the bruises herself.
She did quirk a brow at the rose bush I had pushed up against the wall, but I avoided it with a “Please don’t ask”. I wasn’t ready to open that particular can of worms.
Despite her growing anger, which was apparent not only from the expression on her face but the vibe she was giving off, she managed to maintain it fairly well after her initial threat of violence against Brett’s person. She seemed particularly interested in Flint’s break-up of my attempted assault, and the care he had shown to me afterward.
“You mean, he didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what, exactly?”
“Flint didn’t tell you he took care of me? I thought he had given some assurances after dumping the news on you that Brett had tr… had tried…” I don’t want to finish the sentence.
Thus far, no one has said the word ‘rape’. I didn’t want to be the first, even if we all knew that was what it would have been if Flint hadn’t been there.
Thank God for Flint.
“No. I didn’t exactly ask for details in the moment, ya know?” She pauses and seems to brace herself. “Are you going to file charges?”
I freeze, my wine glass halfway to my lips. I know I should know that these cases are grossly under-represented because womendon’tfile charges, whether it's from fear of retaliation, embarrassment, worries of not being believed.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I manage. I take a sip of wine, trying to ease the dryness in my throat.
She reaches over, and squeezes my fingers. “Hon, he assaulted you. Whether he actually intended to follow through on the shit he was talking – and I’m betting he did, I fucking hear things – he still laid his hands on you.Left you with bruises. You have a good size knot on the back of your head. You have Flint, who can tell the cops that he broke it up. And you have me, Betsy, and plenty of other old biddies who can tell them that he has been harassing you for months.”
I know I should say yes. I should ask her to drive me to the police station and file a report. I know that I should be willing, eager even, to make a report and later testify that he’s a raging piece of shit who thinks he can get away with anything because he’s marginally good-looking and his father has more money than God.
But I don’t want to be a bother. I don’t want to recount this for strangers, especially those in uniform. Why would they believe me, anyway? I’m no one. Just a punk-looking girl whose hair is too bright with too much ink. A girl who just appeared one day with no one and nothing, until Bits took me in.
An unknown, unreliable girl. With no memories.
His dad will just buy him out again, anyway, so what’s to be gained by putting myself through all of that? More than anything, I want to put this behind me.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
Anne starts to speak, then seems to think better of it.
“Okay, then. What do you need from me? What can I do?”
“Just you being here is enough.” I reach over, squeeze her hand. I’m thankful beyond words that she dropped the idea of charges.
I never do make it out for my fresh air. We compromise by opening all the windows, and Anne lights incense. She insists I’ll find it calming. Mostly, Anne spends the afternoon making dark jokes, plying me with wine and the goodies she baked… essentially, doing her best to make me laugh. Betsy calls at some point to check in. I guess Flint must have told her, too. She assures me that Brett is banned from being anywhere near the store and that she has no problem hiring security to help ensure he stays away. Honestly, she sounds pretty fucking excited at the prospect of having some hot security guards hanging around. I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Despite my attempts to convince her that everything is fine, Betsy insists I take some time off to take care of myself. I know she means well, but the idea of being at home, alone, for the next few days is more daunting than I want to think about. Especially with Flint gone. Maybe I can bribe Calida to hang out, if I offer pizza and unlimited pop music videos on the TV. I won’t be able to get any work done on my writing, but at least I’d have someone here to distract me.
It’s still not quite evening when I hear Flint’s key in the door. Not that I can see him, even once the door has opened. He fumbles, dropping his keys, in his attempt to right the giant box in his arms. I go to help, but Anne is quicker off the mark.
“Jesus, Flint, what the hell did you buy?” Anne asks, stooping to grab the keys, then skipping back out of the way to allow him access to the apartment. Once he’s actually made it inside, Anne darts behind him to close the door while Flint makes his way to the kitchen with his box.
“I’m not entirely sure what all is in here. Before I left the shop, Betsy came in like a tornado to drop off a couple of bags, with instructions I bring it home to you. I had some stuff of my own that I had picked up, so I justloaded it up. Figured it would be easier than trying to juggle all the bags.”
He begins pulling things from the box. Pasta. A jar of sauce. Heating pads, eye masks. A pair of pajamas that looked soft as a cloud and warm as a hug. Some sort of oil. A dozen roses. The new release I had meant to snag a copy of but oddly, forgot. A new blanket.
