Against the Wall (10 page)

My knees weaken in relief as Eric leaves.

For a minute I'm worried that Chip will follow him, just to be an asshole. He yells out, “That's right, cocksucker! Keep walking.”

Eric waves a hand over his head in a curt goodbye, but he doesn't look back. He strides across the street and fades into the dark. Chip is all puffed up with bravado, as if Eric's decision not to fight was based on fear.

I know it wasn't.

Chip might be bigger than Eric, with two buddies at his side, but Eric is a formidable opponent. He incapacitated Jack in less than a minute, crushing his nose with brutal blows. He killed a man almost twice his size.

Eric's not afraid of Chip. He's just too smart to get in trouble with the law again. He doesn't want to go back to prison.

I'm
the one who's scared.

Although I'm glad another altercation has been avoided, the night's not over. I swallow hard as Chip high-fives his buddies. Kelsea goes quiet at my side, giving me a worried look. My blood is swimming with alcohol, head fuzzy. I have no idea what to say to Chip.
He caught me kissing Eric.

Well. Sort of.

Eric's mouth touched mine for only a split second before Chip descended on the scene in hulksmash fury. I wasn't quite kissing him, but I wasn't pushing him away, either. I was pressed against him, eyes half-closed, lips parted in invitation.

I don't know what came over me. Okay, that's a lie. I know exactly what came over me. Three shots of tequila, three years of yearning, three minutes of dirty dancing, and three seconds of feeling his cock.

That's what came over me.

“I'm so sorry,” Kelsea says, squeezing my hand.

I pull away from her, distraught. Kelsea's blatant attempt to push me at Eric worked like a charm, but she didn't mean to cause trouble. I can't put all the blame on Eric, either. I got caught up in the moment. I was encouraging him, and he's been in prison. Of course he's going to get hard at the drop of a hat. My response isn't as easy to dismiss.

The owner of The Q Room asks us to leave. Chip's offensive language and behavior cast a pall on the evening. It's sad that the slut walk devolved from a celebration of female sexuality into a testosterone-fueled brawl. I'm embarrassed to have been involved. I'm mad at Kelsea for meddling, disappointed in myself.

I also know the storm is coming.

Chip heads the opposite direction Eric went, dragging me along. Kelsea comes with us. I expect Chip to go off on me, but he doesn't. I'm not sure how long he was in the bar, watching me. Chip might not realize that I welcomed Eric's kiss. Or maybe he's just waiting until we're alone to discuss it.

My stomach fills with dread.

Chip's friends want to party, and I'm all for it. Anything to avoid going home. We duck into a bar called 99 Bottles. It's a raucous joint, packed with merrymakers. There's a loud jukebox and no serious conversation. I nurse one beer and nibble on pretzels to calm my nerves. I'd like to get wasted and forget how easily I fell back into Eric's arms. I've always been such a fool for him.

Kelsea drinks with me in solidarity and flirts with Chip's friends. Normally she turns up her nose at jocks, but tonight she lays on the charm. I think she's trying to protect me by pretending to have a good time. The longer we stay out, the better. Although I try to keep my wits about me, I'm definitely feeling the buzz.

“Let's go to the ladies' room,” Kelsea says in my ear. I accompany her across the sticky-floored bar to the restrooms.

“What are you going to do?” she asks me as soon as we're inside.

“I don't know.”

“You can't act like nothing happened.”

Sure I can.

When I'm finished I wash my hands and study my reflection in the mirror. My hair isn't slicked back anymore. My mascara is smudged. I looked disheveled and guilty. The rooster on the front of my shirt is like a scarlet A.

I return to the table and Chip gives me a sidelong glance, as if he suspects me of conspiring with Kelsea. His friends order another round, but he tosses some bills on the table and says good night. Kelsea leaves with us. It's a tense ride from downtown to SDSU.

Nobody says a word.

We drop off Kelsea outside the dorm. “I'm having breakfast with my dad tomorrow,” she says to me. “He asked me to invite you.”

“He did?”

She stares at me as if this is some secret code that I'm too dumb to decipher. “Call me in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for the ride, Chip.”

Chip revs his engine with impatience. She says good night and he drives away in a squeal of tires. It's his usual style, fast and loud, so I can't gauge his mood. We're at our apartment in less than five minutes. I brace myself for an angry interrogation as I walk through the door. Chip's shoulders are tight with tension.

“I found your letter,” he says.

I can see the envelope on the kitchen table, next to a crumpled piece of paper. Chip must have come home to get ready after the game. He looked through my binder, violated my privacy. My breath catches in my throat as he picks up the letter and starts reading.

Here we go.

“ ‘Dear Eric. I still love you.' ”

“I wrote that years ago,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“ ‘I touch myself and say your name when I come.' ”

I flush at the bold words, embarrassed to have exposed so much of myself.

Chip looks up from the letter with an arched brow. “I'll bet he read that part to his cellmates and they all jacked off.”

“He never even saw it,” I say. “He returned it unopened.”

“Liar,” he shouts, startling me.

I'm afraid to dispute him, so I just shake my head. I know it's going to get ugly, but I can't do anything to change that. The events are already in motion. Chip's not interested in excuses or apologies. It's too late to reason with him.

“He gave it back to you when he got out, didn't he?”

“No.”

He advances toward me, eyes flashing with fury. “You've been fucking him right under my nose!”

I retreat until my back hits the door. I think about reaching for the knob but he's already on me, trapping me in place. His big hand frames my mouth and his fingertips dig into my cheek. I wince at the sharp pain.

“You're a whore,” he says through gritted teeth. “Admit it.”

“Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me the truth.”

“I'm not fucking him,” I say, pushing at his chest.

He grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks me forward. I hit the edge of the table and tumble to the floor, shocked by his temper. I realize that I've underestimated him. I'm in real physical danger. He's been waiting for an opportunity to unleash on me.

Chip sweeps everything off the table. The letter, my pencils and schoolbooks, a glass bowl for keys.

“Stop it,” I say, scooting backward. “Chip, you're scaring me!”

He flips the table and comes after me. I try to scramble away but he leaps on top of me and pushes me facedown on the linoleum floor. “I saw you dancing with him,” he rasps in my ear. “Tell me you didn't want him.”

I remember Jack holding me in the same position, helpless on the sand. I'm terrified that Chip will tear off my clothes and force himself on me. The situation is hauntingly familiar, but I'm more prepared this time. Eric taught me some self-defense moves after the assault. Instead of staying frozen, I drive my elbow into Chip's gut. He grunts in surprise and loosens his grip.

I break free and bolt down the hall. He follows me to the bedroom. I try to slam the door in his face but he's too fast. He bursts inside and tackles me on the bed.

I scream, bucking against him. We roll across the mattress together. He's much bigger and stronger than I am, so he gains control easily. He straddles my waist and tries to pin my wrists down. I swing wildly, connecting with his jaw. There's a loud smack as his head rocks to the side. The impact reverberates up my arm.

Oh God.

The blow seems to penetrate his fog. He touches the red mark on his cheek in wonder. Then he gets off me and moves to a standing position. At first I think he's going to let me go. I sit up and meet his gaze, uncertain if I should stay still or run for the door. The seconds tick by. Then he draws back his arm and slaps me across the face.

The openhanded smack is delivered with enough force to send me hurtling off the edge of the bed. I sprawl on the floor, reeling. Spots dance before my eyes and my stomach lurches with nausea. There's a bloody fire in my lip, throbbing with every heartbeat.

“Fuck,” Chip yells, his voice hoarse. “Fuck!”

I curl up in a protective ball and sob.

He looms over me, chest heaving. He has to know he's crossed the line. He's gone way too far to ever come back. “I'm sorry,” he says finally. “I didn't mean to do that.”

I don't move. My brain is rattled, teeth aching.

He starts pacing the room like a madman. Then he yanks a drawer from the dresser and throws it against the wall. The wood splinters with a terrific crash. I cower on the floor, my arms tucked around my head, as he goes on a rampage, tearing up the room.

After a few minutes, the storm quiets, and he comes for me again. I flinch when he picks me up and places me on the bed, but he's gentle now. His knuckles are scraped from punching something. Blood smears on the sheets as he wraps his arms around me. He holds me for a long time. At some point he starts crying, either from stress or regret.

I suspect that this is the lowest moment in his life. I'm the only girl he's ever loved, and he hit me. He hit me hard enough to leave a mark. He'll have to carry that in his heart forever. I don't know if he can recover his self-image.

What he did was wrong on every level, but it's a huge wake-up call for me. It opens my eyes to the fact that I'm hurting him, too.

I betrayed him. I
wanted
Eric to kiss me. I've been holding back from Chip, letting the tension build between us, and he snapped. He's been trying to control me because I've slipped out of his grasp. I don't love him. Not the way he wants me to. If I did, I wouldn't have been so tempted by Eric.

Chip sobs raggedly for a few minutes. My shirt is damp from his blood and tears as he falls into a fitful sleep beside me. I'm afraid to leave, afraid to move. I think I know why some women stay with abusive men. It's easier to lie here and not disturb him. It's easier to drift off. Forgiving him will cause less trouble in the short term. I'm still half-drunk, and I'm sleepy. I don't want to make him angry again. My lip hurts.

Finding the courage to leave means that I have to face the problem head-on. It means ending our relationship. It means more confrontation and conflict, more messy emotions. I don't love Chip, but I care about him. I'm confused. A part of me wants to soothe his pain—and my own—by sweeping this under the rug.

I could move on quietly. I could just…sleep.

My chest tightens as I imagine keeping Chip's abuse a secret. I never told my mother about the sexual assault three years ago. I'm pretty good at bottling up my feelings. I don't want my parents to know I've been struggling.

I bite back a cry of despair, tasting blood on my lips.

No. I can't do it. I can't go on pretending everything is okay. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to leave. The longer I keep quiet, the harder it will be to remember who I am and what I stand for. I've already lost my way, and this relationship is broken. It's not healthy for either of us.

I have to be strong now.

I move in slow increments, inch by inch. There's dried blood on Chip's knuckles. I'm careful not to jostle his hand. When I'm free from his embrace, I slide off the bed and leave the room, tiptoeing around the mess. My heart races as I rush down the hall. I don't stop to gather all of my things. I just grab my purse and phone from the floor. The letter is right there, so I pick it up.

Then I'm out the door.

I sense that attempting to run is more dangerous than standing by Chip, at least in these first, fraught moments. The space between the stairs and my car seems endless. Hearing me leave could send him into a worse rage than before. I almost trip on the bottom step. Then I race across the dark parking lot and fumble with my keys.

Don't look back. Don't look back.

I look back.

He's not there.

Even so, I don't feel safe in my car. I can picture him bursting out the door and reaching me before I have the chance to drive away. It's like I'm in a horror movie, and Chip is Cujo. He's going to bark at my window, frothing at the mouth.

I make a sound of panic as I put the keys in the ignition. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop them. Thankfully the car starts without a problem. Chip doesn't lunge at me on the way out. No rabid Saint Bernard gnaws on my tailgate. I blink at the dark street and realize I don't have my lights on. I turn on the windshield wipers by accident.

I'm freaking out, swerving a little. I'm also drunk.

I'm driving drunk.

Shit.

I didn't even think of that when I got behind the wheel. I hit the headlights and continue down the street, glancing in my rearview mirror. Now I'm worried about
cops
and Chip. My brother can't use his connections to get me out of a DUI. I should probably pull over, but I'm too close to the apartment complex to feel safe. I hope I don't get in an accident. The road looks fuzzy. I know I'm well over the legal limit.

I drive carefully until I reach a quiet residential area. It's on my jogging route. SDSU is only about five more miles, but I can't chance it. I park in an empty space by the side of the road and huddle behind the wheel. Eventually my heart stops racing.

Then I burst into tears, and I cry for a long time. I have a headache when it's over. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror and cringe. There's dried blood at the corner of my mouth, my eyes are swollen and I have a fat lip.