Damaged (9 page)

Peter is staring at me with his eyes so big and blue. If he didn’t see straight through me befor
e, he does now. Peter looks at the paper in his hands. His grip is loose, as if the poem might bite him. “I had no idea...”

“Stop.”
My voice shakes. I curse my body, curse the memories that never fade away. “Don’t, okay? It’s nothing.” I don’t look at his eyes. My gaze is locked on Peter’s chest. If I look into his face, I’ll crumble. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bunch of words on a piece of paper.”

I t
ry to sound as though it’s nothing, as if I write intense poems all the time. I pretend that I didn’t just bleed my heart out onto a sheet of loose leaf. What the fuck is wrong with me? I pretend. I throw on my fake smile and stare at his shoes. I try to lift my gaze, but it feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my head.

“That’s not what this is.” Peter’
s eyes are locked on my face. I’m breathing too fast, but every time I try to slow it down, it just gets worse.

“How would you know what it is or what it isn’t?” I look up at him.
Mistake
. His expression, those haunted blue eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he looks at me—it’s like he knows. My fingers twitch by my sides. “I’m not standing here. I’m not having this conversation with you. I don’t have to listen to you pretend to care about me.” I turn around to grab my books. I gather them into my arms and head toward the door.

Just
as I’m about to pull it open, Peter says, “I’m not pretending.”

His eyes are o
n my back. My spine is so stiff and so brittle. There’s too much pressure on me. I’m cracking, splintering in a million different directions at once. There’s not one weak spot anymore. Weakness consumes me whole. “Don’t say things like that to me.”

Peter
steps closer. I hear his steps traveling toward me. Slowly, he takes another step. His voice catches in his throat when he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you that night. I wasn’t myself—”

“Neither was I. It’s fine.”

“But it’s not.” Peter’s directly behind me. I won’t turn. It doesn’t matter what he says
. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care
. “I didn’t know, then. I didn’t know how smart you are. I didn’t know you hide behind that sharp tongue. I didn’t know why you were down here, and I had no idea why you sat down at my table, but I was glad you did. I’ve thought about that night over and over again. I wonder what would have happened to us if the phone didn’t ring. I wonder what it would feel like to hold you again. I think things that I shouldn’t. I dream things that I shouldn’t. I want things that I shouldn’t and it’s all because of one reason—I
do
care about you.”

I gasp
as if someone punched me in the stomach. I hold onto the door to keep from falling over. I look over my shoulder at him. Peter means what he says. I see it in his eyes. Chills race over my skin. I stand there too long, staring at him in shock.

Peter taps the wrinkled paper in his hand. “Please tell me that this didn’t happen in the last few weeks. Tell me that this isn’t because of
something that I did.”

I stare at his face. I stare and drink him in like I’m dying of
thirst. Shock has rendered me silent. My hand drops from the door. My lungs heave in air as I turn to lean back against the door. I hit it too hard and my weight pushes the door open. I start to fall backward. Peter reaches for me. His hands slip around my waist and he pulls me toward him, pulling me upright. The door clicks shut. He doesn’t let go. His eyes are locked with mine. His body is pressed tightly against mine. Our gazes meet.

“Don’t tell me that you’re all
right. I know you aren’t... There’s something about you.” Peter takes a deep breath and lowers his gaze. When he looks up again, he says, “And I can tell.”

My lips twitch like they want to spill my guts, so I lock my jaw. I shake my head and try to pull out of his arms. Peter doesn’t allow me to step back. “Part of
the poem is about you. Part of it isn’t.” Part of it’s about Peter, and part of it’s about
them
.

I’m hyperaware of my body, of my breaths that seem too long, but not long enough. I can’t breathe. I haven’t spoken about
that night since it happened.

Peter’s eyes remain fixed on my face.
“The part at the beginning of your poem—the starting over, the tender kisses, the girlish giggles—that part is about me?” I nod. I hate myself, but I nod. “The part after that with the starving kisses, clawing hands, the taking without giving…” he’s breathing hard. Peter’s lips mash together before he speaks again. “This is about rape. Sidney, if some guy did something to you—”

I lean into him. I press my face against his chest.
Peter’s heart is beating so fast. “They’re old wounds,” I tell him. “I wrote without thinking. It’s what poured onto the paper.” I take a deep breath and pull away. Peter releases me. “That part had nothing to do with you or your
coffee
from that night.” The corner of my mouth tugs up into a lopsided smile. It’s the saddest smile ever. Peter’s expression says as much.

He searches my eyes for a long time. We’re no longer touching. I wish we were. After a moment,
Peter offers me the paper. “I didn’t read the whole thing. I don’t think I was meant to see it. I didn’t mean to…” he searches for the right word.

I take the paper and cut him off. “It’s fine. I’m fine now.” He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me. “Really, I’m okay. I’m over it.
Almost. Well, most of the time. Today just threw me, that’s all.”

“Why? What happened?”

I shrug and remember the letter in my textbook. “Remember how I told you that my family was pissed when I left?” He nods. “Well, that’s true, but it was more than that.” I glance up at his face, debating whether or not to tell him. The way he looks at me makes the words dislodge from my throat. They’ve been stuck there for years.

Before I realize it, I’m telling him my story.
“I left. As soon as I got my scholarship down here, I packed a bag and drove away. I never went back. I didn’t tell my family anything. I don’t use Facebook or Twitter. I picked the worst place I could imagine to make sure they didn’t find me. I did everything short of change my name. I thought it worked. No one found me. No one has called or said anything to me in four years...”

I slip the envelope out of my book and hold it between my fingers.
“Until today. My brother sent me a letter. I got it right before class.” I’m saying too much. I shouldn’t tell him this, but I can’t stop.

Peter watches me as I speak. I haven’t told anyone any of this. No one
here knows I was raped. No one knows anything. Shame flushes my face red and I look away from him. I hand Peter the envelope and sit down on top of my desk. My legs dangle down in front of me.

Peter takes the envelope and flips it over in his hands, before looking up at me. “What are you going to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Throw it out. Change my name.” I stare at my shoes.

“Will he hurt you?” Peter is looking at the envelope when I glance at him.

I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. Oh God, I don’t…” I stutter and rub my face with the heel of my hand. When I look up at Peter, I want to tell him. He makes me feel irrationally safe, as if nothing will hurt me.

“I never told anyone, besides my family.” I’m quiet for a moment, remembering too many things that I want to forget. “I knew him, the guy that…”
raped me
. I still can’t say it.

I suck in air
as though there isn’t enough and look away from Peter. “We were dating. I wasn’t ready to have sex. He was. He took what he wanted. He said he’d do it again—that no one would believe me.

“
I found my mom after the first time it happened. I told her. She told my dad. They did nothing. They said it was a date, that maybe I misunderstood or mislead him. My brother found out—I was dating his best friend—and said his friend would never do anything like that. They blamed me. All of them. They said it was my fault.” My gaze lifts and connects with Peter’s. “That was my senior year of high school.” I smile, but it’s angry. “You don’t even know the sickest part. My parents liked the guy that did this to me. After that, they tried to keep us together.”

“So
, it didn’t stop?” Peter’s arms fold over his chest. His muscles bulge under his shirtsleeves.

I shake my head. “No,” my voice is a whisper. Memories slam into me.
I see a flash of silver as though it’s really there. The story is so much darker. My fingers touch my throat, feeling the necklace that hides the scar. I can’t tell him that part. I refuse to relive it. I push the thoughts back. My voice is soft. I twist my hands in my lap. “I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t get away from him. And I didn’t tell anyone else. My parents didn’t believe me, why would my friends?

“
So I switched my college without telling anyone. I found this place and they gave me everything I needed. I ran away and haven’t looked back.”

Peter says nothing for a long time. “You’ve had a hard life and I made it harder.” His blue gaze
pierces mine. “I’m sorry.”

I swat away his apology. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

Peter shakes his head as he wraps his arms around his middle. “I led you on the night I first met you. I was going through some things, but I shouldn’t have. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have asked you to leave.”

“You didn’t.”

“It was the equivalent of kicking your ass out.” Peter sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Listen, it’s not an excuse, but you should know that it wasn’t you. About a year ago, something happened. I lost someone. I’m not over her.” His voice catches.  Peter doesn’t look at me. “I tried to move on and I wasn’t—I couldn’t. That’s what happened the night we met. I couldn’t tell you, then. I’m not sure I can tell the whole story now—”

I
slip off my desk and walk over to Peter. Placing my hand on his, I say, “Then don’t.” I hear the pain in his voice. “You have a friend here, you know. University guidelines be damned.”

Peter smirks and
looks down into my face. “You care about me?”

“Maybe.
A little bit.” I hold my fingers really close together and grin. He smiles. I love that smile. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I might like you—”

P
eter cuts me off. “You
like
me?” Now Peter’s grinning so wide that his dimples show.

“Not like that.”

“No, you said it. University be damned. You like me. You
like me
, like me.” Peter waggles his eyebrows, smiling at full wattage.

“I did not!”

“I believe you did.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Call me whatever you want, beautiful, but I know you like me.” Peter walks behind his desk, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands behind his back.

“You’re so arrogant. What makes you think that I like you? Maybe I’m just being friendly.”

“Mmm hmmm,” he says shuffling through some papers after he sits down. When Peter looks up at me, he adds, “You were very friendly, although I would have called being topless and in my lap something else.” My jaw drops open.  Peter grins. “Oh good. I was afraid that kind of friendliness was your typical MO. By the look on your face, I’m thinking that’s not the case.” Peter glances up at me. I sense the hesitancy in his voice. He wonders if he should tease me about it, but I’m glad he is. It finally throws the whole damn situation out in the open.

“I was trying something new that night. You seemed to
enjoy it.” Heat flushes my face and I can’t hide my wicked grin.

He winks at me. “I did.”

“Jerk.”

“Sexy.”

“Ass.”

“Beautiful.”

“Agh!” I say, and stomp my foot.

P
eter laughs. “Temper tantrum? Really, Miss Colleli?” Peter cocks his head to the side and looks at me. He’s jotting something on a piece of paper and stashing his lesson plans back in his satchel.

“You
infuriate me.”

“Flatter
y will get you nowhere.” Peter picks up his things and adds, “Come on.”

“Where?”
I feel light and happy, like I might break my face if I keep smiling this much. Peter brings out the best in me. The teasing has been going on for a while, but there hasn’t been any mention of our sort of naked night before today. I don’t know how he did it, but Peter chased away my demons. I feel as though I can handle things again, and I’m genuinely curious about where he wants to go.

“You owe me dinner and
a glass of wine. I’m driving.” Peter walks toward the door and looks back at me. I want to go, but we shouldn’t. I hesitate. Peter gives a wry smile. “What happened to damning the university? Are you really all bark and no bite?”

“I’ll bite you,”
I mutter under my breath and grab my stuff.

Peter grins. “You should. I’m very sweet, or so I hear—like candy.”

“You probably painted yourself in chocolate.”