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"It's not what you think, John. Nothing happened," my mother's voice quivered.
I didn't understand what was going on, but I knew I had to make them stop fighting. We didn’t do this in our family. They always told me that when I got angry. Slowly, I tiptoed down the hallway, clutching my favorite stuffed bear, Mr. Whiskers. I would tell them that everything would be okay, that they should stop yelling. Just like they always told me.
As I turned the corner, I came to a halt. The room was darker, the shapes on the walls more menacing. I saw my father standing in the kitchen doorway, his face twisted in anger, holding something I couldn't quite make out. It gleamed in the dim light.
"Daddy!" I tried to scream, but no words came out. My voice had disappeared, leaving only a silent cry.
There was a deafening noise—a bang that echoed in my ears.
I jolted awake, hot tears streaming down my face as Waldo leaned on my chest, licking me all over as he tried to comfort me.
It had only been a nightmare. What had happened that night was long in the past.
I was fine.
I chanted it over and over again. Like if I said it enough, it would make it true.
The images were etched in my mind, though.
And I didn’t think they’d ever go away.
The Shepfields hadn’t believed in therapy. But as a ten year old little girl, I sure could have used it.
I could’ve gone now. Ishould’vegone now. But my list of problems was so long, I was too embarrassed to talk about them.
“Thanks, Waldo,” I whispered, softly stroking his fur. He always woke me up from my nightmares, at least since I’d moved out from under Maura’s thumb and he was allowed to sleep in my bed.
I didn’t know what I’d do without him.
Reluctantly, I slipped out of bed, heading to the shower to wash off the salty sweat that coated my body from the dream.
The scalding water pricked at my skin and I soaked in the pain, fingering the line of scars along my left inner thigh.
My fingers itched to grab a razor, to release some of the hurt that was always bubbled up under my skin.
But I had an audition today.
And new cuts wouldn’t do.
Later, I sat at the kitchen bar, nursing my coffee, the warmth of the cup seeping into my palms as I stared down at my phone. It had been four long days since the hockey game and Clark's abrupt arrest…and we hadn’t spoken on the phone. Ed, Clark's lawyer, had been the one to relay the information about Clark's release, and his subsequent flight back to New York. The terse text messages Clark had sent in response to my attempts at conversation since then hadn’t gotten us anywhere.
It felt like he was somehow blaming me for what had happened, even though I didn’t know how he could come to that conclusion. Still, the unease festered beneath my skin, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.
Charlotte stumbled through the front door, her disheveled appearance telling a story of another wild night out. I glanced up from my coffee, taking her in. She looked pale, hungover, and positively miserable.
"Rough night?" I asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. She’d been partying with Soto nonstop since meeting him at the game, coming in at all hours of the night. I think she’d even been an hour late to a job yesterday because she was so hungover.
I didn’t know if I was annoyed because she’d been waking me up constantly…or jealous because she had someone who wanted to be around her all the time.
Charlotte let out a groan, sinking into a chair across from me. "You have no idea," she mumbled, her words slurred from fatigue and alcohol.
I was about to offer her some water when she dropped a casual bombshell. "So, Ari was at the party last night. Looked pretty cozy with that actress from one of the new drama series. He couldn’t keep his hands off her."
I tried to hide my reaction, keeping my expression carefully neutral as I took a sip of coffee.
But my hands were shaking.
That slithery feeling…the nasty one I’d felt in the locker room…it was there again. The mention of Ari at some party, getting cozy with another woman…it shouldn’t have bothered me.
