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The weight of him suffocating.
The feel of his rough fingers inside, prying her open demoralized her to absolute nothingness.
This is going to happen. Hold still. Go somewhere else, she told herself, bracing for the moment—the one that made it all worse even though it was impossible to imagine it could, as if this already wasn’t the worst moment of her entire life.
Ali sobbed. The beach. I want to go to the beach. She wanted the heat from the hood of the car to simmer down to the warmth of the fading sun on her face. Go to the beach, Ali, she willed herself, trying to hold onto the feel of Cornell’s chest pressed against her back, rocking back and forth, and not Graham’s heavy body slammed on top of her.
Dizzy, Ali straightened, tugging at the collar of Cornell’s sweatshirt. “None of this is real,” she said aloud, trying to rein in her breathing as her head throbbed. “None of that happened.” She pushed her sleeves up, the right first and then the left, and that was when she saw it, a fading shadow on her skin but a feeling forever embedded into her.
Lifting a tremoring arm, twisting it, Ali now knew. The bruise painting her forearm was from Graham.
“I didn’t get out of the car,” she whispered. Her body fought against convulsions when she touched the purple mark, and she could feel it—the pain of the strong grip that yanked her, how every ligament from her fingers up to her shoulder stretched painfully as every bone objected to the movement.
No, I didn’t,Ali realized, stunned. Graham pulled me out.
Ali heard the breath get stuck in the back of her throat. She looked back and forth between the bruise and her mother’s car, still able to see the phone to Bobbi’s ear. She turned and opened the door and went back to the front desk, no longer caring about the bruise, the stitches, or the tears that clouded her vision.
“What do you need to report an assault?”
The female officer looked up, confused. “I thought you were here about a motor vehicle accident.”
Ali looked down at the papers that crinkled under her tight hold. “I was. I am. But what do you need to report an assault?”
The officer straightened in her seat. “What kind of assault? Domestic?”
Ali shook her head but remained silent, keeping her eyes focused on the papers in her hand. Please don’t make me say it.
“Miss, do you need to report a rape or a sexual assault?”
Rape?
Ali clenched her thighs tightly together, just as she did that night when the moment came—the one that gave her just enough time to get away.
No. Not rape.
“Miss?”
“Um, no. No, I don’t. Thank you.” Ali turned again and made her way back to the door, ignoring the officer calling after her. She shuffled quickly to her mother’s car and got into the passenger seat.
“Took long enough,” Bobbi said. “Must be an exciting week around here.”
Ali clicked her seatbelt and nodded as her mother pulled out of the parking space, the car facing directly into the sun. She immediately closed her eyes.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Ali tried and tried to go somewhere else. The beach. Yoga. Home. A whimper escaped her throat at the thought, but no matter how much Ali tried, she couldn’t. Graham’s hold was from inside, keeping her hostage.
When she heard the clack of his belt buckle, Ali nodded to herself. It’s going to happen.And when it’s over, you run. Run home. Run to Cornell. His face came to her mind, his wide smile and warm eyes. It was torture that her brain kept her from where her heart needed to be. She wanted to launch herself at him, smell his skin and feel his arms wrap around her, keep her safe. The image of him out of reach was torturous, and Ali had to open her eyes to escape it, only to narrow them when the brights of a car driving along unlit Broad Meadow Lane blinded her. The lights stole enough of Graham’s attention, his grasp, his weight on top of her.
The light had saved her from all of it becoming worse.
“Let’s stop at Central Market on the way home. What do you feel like for dinner?” her mother asked.
I want a do over,Ali said to herself frantically, trying to steady her breathing.
From the pocket of Cornell’s sweatshirt, Ali’s phone vibrated. She reached for it quickly, seeing his name across the screen, and with a silent cry, Ali declined the call.
“You’re fine, you’re fine,” she screamed to herself in the car, the words nearly lost in the song of mewls pouring from her chest. The wheels squeaked against the street as she spun out of the driveway. “Just go home.”
Home. Ali was desperate for home—the warmth, the comfort, the safety. But that had nothing to do with the house.
