Page 22 of Resist

The shame is tinged with a confusion that makes me physically ill as I repeatedly try to recall what it is that my memory blindsided me with.

My uncle James. The man who took care of us after our mom died.

That’s all I know.

All I can remember.

It somehow had to do with him, and the grotesque feeling in my stomach tells me more than I need to know.

I stutter to a stop in the hallway. The box of my sister’s things calling to me from the closet. Telling me the answer’s in there when I’ve already looked through everything before.

But this time, maybe I’ll see something different. Maybe this time, I’ll understand what she said, what she did, and why she did it a little bit more.

Bile rises in my throat as I dare to think the truth. That my sister protected me from him by using herself.

Because I would remember if it had been me, right?

I double over and retch at the thought, running to the bathroom, but nothing comes up. Nothing purges to make me feel better.

Unwilling to look at myself in the mirror right now, knowing I’m a mess of ruined makeup and hair tousled by his fingers, I turn on the shower. I crank it as hot as it will go and then hiss when the frigid water hits my skin.

But I don’t move. Not when the cold water turns lukewarm. Not when it bleeds into scalding hot. Not when my skin turns bright red from its punishing cadence.

I let the water sluice over my skin and use its scorching temperature to erase everything from tonight. The colossal error in judgment I made thinking I could pretend to be one of my girls. The mistake in thinking I actually liked Ryker, actually found him attractive. The vile memory that hints at the corners of my mind that as much as I want to know the whole of it, I’m afraid to . . .

If only I didn’t go tonight. If I didn’t let Ryker’s words, his challenge of what a good boss would do take hold. If I didn’t have so much pride . . .

“Shit,” I groan.

Uncertain and lost to the confusion, the mortification, the unknown . . . I scrub my body with the loofah as hard as I can, knowing no amount of soap is going to wash away whatever was in the past.

And fully aware that something was different for me with Ryker.

I’ve had sex before. With men I liked. With men I wasn’t sure I liked. But each time, it was more about going through the motions. For me, orgasms were few, far between, hard to come by, and only when brought about by my own hand . . . but it’s not like the men I slept with ever noticed.

Sex had been monotone for me. A sacrifice of my body. Knowing what actions and reactions were expected. Is that because of the memory? Was that my body and my brain’s way of protecting me from the truth?

Does everything stem from that?

But tonight . . . with Ryker . . . we didn’t even get to the sex part—only the kissing—but this time it wasn’t monotone. This time it was a Metallica song played at the highest decibel, bright and with a throbbing beat that was so loud I needed to cover my ears but couldn’t.

Tonight, when I was supposed to be numb, to tune out, to be how I normally am, I felt things—sensations—and I wanted more.

Then a switch was flipped, the memory. The flash of my uncle’s face right in front of mine. Knowing what he did without being able to remember the details, only the ghosts of them.

Is this the reason—is he the reason—that I’m so guarded? Is he why I’ve always felt so indifferent when it comes to sex compared to every other female I’ve known?

And for the first time, I let the tears come.

Huge, racking sobs that are so violent my whole body shudders from their force.

But I don’t cry for me. How can you cry for the loss of something you never even knew was missing? How can you long for something to be like before when you didn’t know there was a before?

No. I cry for my sister.

Because for the first time since her suicide, I don’t hate her for it. For the first time since I received that call telling me she was gone, so many things make sense.

For the first time, I want to apologize to her and tell her I didn’t know.