Abduction (33 page)

"It's all right, Devan. I understand." He spoke softly, smiled gently, being a friend to her, hiding his feeling of loss.

She looked at him, uncertain.

"You wrote those things before…things are different now."

She nodded her head, her eyes welling with tears. Why did she look so sad? He thought she'd be relieved.

"I know I've been…unpredictable, Devan. But you're safe here, with me. I promise, I swear I won't hurt you."

"I know."

"You're shivering. Let's go inside."

"You go ahead. I'm going to stay out here a while."

She sounded so sad, He wished he knew what to say to stop her pain. But he didn't. He stood and went inside. He went to his room and pulled the heavy wool 292

blanked from the end of the bed, and took it with him back to the porch. She was standing now, her back to the door, gazing into the darkness at invisible woods. She turned to him when she heard his tread on the planks.

"Here, keep warm."

He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, pulling it close around her. Even that, just feeling her back, her arms under the blanket as he cloaked her made him ache for her, just to hold her, stay near her, feel her. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She was looking up at him with an expression of such…openness. Such a wave of tenderness washed over him that, before thought could intervene, he bent and kissed her softly on the lips.

He went hot and limp with shame and regret the moment their lips parted. What had he just said to her? He'd promised she was safe with him, and already, a moment later he was pushing himself on her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know…"

He was backing away. Staring up into his eyes she reached out and clutched his shirt, halting him. He imagined that she was pleading with her eyes, begging him to tell her.

"I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

He'd barely heard her, she'd said it so softly.

"Why?"

"You said you shouldn't have. Why?"

She looked like maybe she was going to cry. Fuck. When was he going to stop hurting her? But she still had a fistful of his shirt in her hand, and her question, so timid, so soft, somehow sounded like a challenge.

"I…after what I did…"

"Forget what you did."

"Forget? God, Devan, I must seem like a monster to you. To be touched, kissed by me, it must be…"

"Vaughn. If I didn't trust you, if I didn't…" she blushed and her eyes turned away toward the woods, "…care for you…" the words came out as if they were awkward substitutes for something else, and then she met his eyes again, "I wouldn't have agreed to read your journal. And I wouldn't have shown you mine."

He thought he knew what she meant. Conrad's words, recorded by her, echoed in his head. More protective of her diary than her body. She'd opened her secret to him.

His transgression was forgiven, and his touch, his kisses were…not repellent. Maybe welcome. Desired? His imagination couldn't go that far. He said what he thought she'd want to hear.

"Please, don't worry, Devan, I don't want anything from you, except to be your friend."

Her eyes were sad, but she smiled as she nodded.

"All right," she said, after a moment, "let's go inside."

They sat side by side on the sofa, sharing the blanket, sticking their feet out toward the fire now and then.

"I hope you know," she began quietly after a long silence between them, "that I would never, won't ever…tell anyone those things about you."

"I know."

"Even though it's helped me, knowing it, I'd go back, if I could, if my knowing gives you something to be anxious about."

He was silent for a while, and she grew tense. Finally he turned to face her, and gave her a small but genuine smile.

"I was going to say that it's all right, that I don't mind. But that's a lie. I don't want to lie to you. It's hard, having you know that about me. Not because I think you'll tell anyone. I don't think that. It's just hard, you knowing. But at the same time, I'm glad, if it helps you. I feel bad, Devan, that you've got no one to talk to but me, after what's happened to you. I wish I could get you to your friends, home, where you'd feel safe."

"I don't think I have a friend I'd tell about that."

"No. I didn't."

"I don't think anyone could understand. Except maybe you."

"God, Devan. I can't imagine how scared you must have been, how awful it must have been for you."

"Why? Why do you think it was worse for me?"

"Because…you're so…young." It wasn't quite what he meant.

"Yeah. Maybe…maybe it would have been easier if I'd lived just a little before he took me. That's the…"

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Devan." He caught her gaze, took her hand. "Don't tell me anything you don't want to. But say anything you feel like saying. I want to be here for you, be your friend."

"I've just been such a loner all my life, and even more so with guys. With men."

She blushed. "I mean…" she looked at him, as if to gage whether she should really go on, "I'm not a prude. I guess you can tell that, by what I wrote, the fantasies. But I've just never really been close to men. You know, I grew up with my mom, and my friends have always been girls. Women. So, when he took me, when I was with him, it was just…I feel like he was the first man I ever really knew." She gave him a nervous, searching look. "That's strange, isn't it?"

Vaughn nodded his head in understanding.

"I feel like I should hate him. But I don't. I don't know why."

"He never really hurt you. Physically, I mean."

"No."

"And he…gave you a lot of pleasure."

She blushed and nodded.

"He played to your fantasies."

"Yes."

"He didn't want you to hate him. He wanted you to love him."

"Maybe. Yes."

"Do you?" he asked, very softly.

She stared at him, startled. Then frightened. Then she calmed.

"No. I don't." She was looking at him, showing him with her eyes that she was telling the truth. "But he's…touched me…changed me."

"Are you…glad?"

"Sometimes."

He nodded, calm, understanding. She was looking at him strangely, hovering on the edge of something.

"What?" he asked softly with a gentle smile and patient eyes.

"With you..."

He saw that she felt shy, talking about whatever she felt about him. He touched her hand.

"With me?"

"I've never…wanted someone real before. To actually experience something, instead of…imagining. Maybe…I think it's because of what happened, that I'm…I don't know how to put it…being real."

Because he wanted to, and so she would know that she could go on, he took her hand in his. Her words,
being real
, echoed in his mind. Present tense.

"And that makes me glad. But…" with her free hand she tentatively touched his arm, "…I think—I mean, I know—it's because of what happened, too, that I got so scared with you last night. I'm scared I'll never…be okay with being touched."

She wasn't crying, but she looked so sad. Afraid. Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around her. She pressed herself against him, soft and trusting.

"Devan. It's so soon. Only days. You'll need time. But you'll be all right. And the other night, you know, I didn't realize. I went too fast. It was too much." After a pause he went on in an even softer voice. "Someday, when you're ready to be with someone, talk to him, so he'll know to be slow, to be gentle with you."

She pulled away. Looked at him. So nervous.

"You know."

Her eyes probed him. Looking at her now he knew, he was certain, she wanted him to kiss her again. Quivering with his effort to restrain himself, to give her the gentlest possible kiss, he touched his lips to hers. Her mouth, her whole body responded, asking for a deeper kiss. He gave it to her. Her pulse rushed under his palms as they pressed her delicate neck. He wanted to encircle her in his arms, pull her trembling body to his, feel the length of her against him, but he resisted his urge, determined not to frighten her this time. Her urgent seeking kiss, her rapid breath, her tiny moans tested his restraint. Feeling he would be overwhelmed by his desire, succumb to his urge to press himself against her, to take more from this encounter than her kiss, he ended it, leaving her panting.

"Devan." He whispered, bowing his head against hers. "It's so hard. I don't know what you want."

"This," she whispered back.

"I thought…you mentioned your journal, what you'd written about us, like you'd changed your mind. And I was sure, after what I'd done…"

"No," she said emphatically. Then, softly, with less certainty, "I just…I wrote those things…how I felt about you. I didn't want you to feel…obliged. I don't know.

I'm…I'm sorry…I'm not the person you thought I was."

"What do you mean?"

"My…the way I am. The way I was with Conrad. The things I wrote before…"

He pulled back so he could look at her.

"You're not different from who I thought you were. We just barely know each other, we're just learning about each other."

"I'm so…strange."

"Maybe."

He caressed her cheek, smiling at her affectionately.

"Maybe that's what I like about you."

They put their arms around one another, nuzzled in close together. They were like that for a long time. The sun was coming up.

They both dozed, woke, heard the sleepy breathing of the other, dozed again.

Finally they both fell into deep sleep, curled up together under the blanket before the dying fire as daylight slowly filled the room.

The following afternoon they woke and had breakfast together. Later they sat before the fire, she on the sofa, he in the armchair, and read, now and then sharing interesting passages with one another, or setting their books aside to chat for a while in soft tones. With a couple hours of daylight left they went walking in the woods.

Still frightened to go out among the phantom shadows of the trees, where her potent fear of Conrad and the other men still lingered, Devan felt braver now that Vaughn was her friend.

“Devan?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you think Conrad’s dead?”

Did ten minutes ever go by without her asking herself that question?

“I don’t know what happened after I ran. But somehow, no, I don’t think he’s dead.”

"Does that scare you?"

“Sometimes. Sometimes, no. I don’t know, from one moment to the next, what to think. Sometimes I dream about him, and he’s this…this beatific being whose presence makes me feel a profound joy beyond anything I’ve known, beyond anything I imagine is possible in reality. Other times I dream about him and he’s so terrifying, so cruel, I want to be obliterated, because it seems like the most violent, painful death would be better than letting him touch me, even in the smallest way. I don’t know which dream is closer to the truth of who he is, of what he wanted from me. Sometimes I think I willed him into being, or called him to me. Sometimes I think…”

“What?”

“I think he loves me.”

“That’s a strange love.”

His voice was neither not sarcastic or angry. Not even jealous.

When they reached the river, romantic vista, flowing with her silent fears and memories, they spread out a blanket and sat there together, watching the water, the sky, the naked twigs and branches of the trees who had yielded all of their leaves in the last few weeks to the river and the forest floor.

He was gazing at her, wondering about her, wanting to know her.

“Tell me something about your life in Seattle.”

That life seemed remote. Part of a past existence. Her mind flew back, past Vaughn’s cabin, through the woods, beyond that other cabin, over the road she had 300

traveled with Conrad, back to Seattle. The little world that had held her when she was innocent.

“Well, I’ve got a little studio on Capitol Hill.”

She caught a strange look passing over Vaughn’s features. She smiled at him inquiringly.

“I confess,” he said, grinning, “that I’m relieved to hear you don’t live with your mom.”

Great. As if she didn't already feel like enough of a kid around Vaughn without him thinking she lived like a child in her mother's house.

“No, I’ve been on my own since I started college, almost three years ago, when I was seventeen.”

“Do you work?”

”I’m employed by my department at the university, transcribing lecture notes, things like that. Not very glamorous, but I can mostly work from home.”

“And what about school? Tell me more about your program.” She smiled, amused at all his questions.

“Don’t you laugh at me. I’ll have you know this is routine dating procedure. I interrogate you about your life, you interrogate me about mine, and we each do our best to answer while carefully hiding any clues to our chronic bad habits.

“I see. Thank you for taking a moment to explain the rules to your novice opponent in the dating game.”

When he had said the word ‘date,’ it had made her feel a little giddy, and it was titillating to repeat it.

“I’m getting my degree in Russian literature.”

She was watching his face, waiting for the usual reaction. He was simply listening, waiting for her to go on.

“A lot of people think it’s frivolous, studying literature.”

“A lot of people are morons. I can’t think of anything more important to study.” She looked at him, grinning incredulously that he could feel that way.

“When I first started studying literature it was because I loved reading it, just for entertainment. I’ve always loved the classics, and I seem to have read a novel a week ever since I can remember, and when I started college I wanted to take classes in literature so I could get all the subtext I knew I was missing as a novice reader. But now I see literature as a fundamental element of society, as something to study as a way of understanding the way people relate to each other, the ways that history happens, the way human beings are fundamentally the same across time and cultures, even when the surface aspects of societies seem radically different. And I see literature as a way that certain ideas get perpetuated, inscribed in our ways of thinking and being.” She giggled nervously, feeling she had gone on too long, a bit too seriously, because she was excited about the subject, excited to have a sympathetic friend with whom to share her interest.