The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel) (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I
ndiana had known for months this day would come. That if she wanted a future with this man, she’d have to tell him the story of her sexual assault, not just hint at cryptic bits and pieces. That night in her family’s kitchen with Robby . . . It wasn’t something she liked to think about, much less talk about, but neither was it something she could keep from Oliver any longer. Not with the relationship she wanted. The trust. The openness. The honesty. The truth.

Circling to the front of the swing, she sat, and waited until he sat, too, close enough to touch but neither of them making a move to do so. She wanted to run her fingers through the hair at his nape where it caught on his collar, dip them beneath the fabric and feel the heat of his skin. His shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the tails loose, buttons missing. She loved so much the way he looked wearing jeans. She loved seeing him so undone.

She loved him. The thought nearly brought her to her knees. Her eyes burned, fighting glorious, joyful tears. “Do you remember the morning last year when we ate breakfast at Malina’s? That first time we sat down and actually talked?”

He was sitting forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands flexing as if he wanted to reach for something, or whale on something. Maybe shake them both until they figured this out. “You told me about Dakota going to prison for defending you.”

Okay. Here we go
. “What I didn’t tell you was that he would never have had to defend me if I hadn’t given Robby the idea that I welcomed his advances.”

He looked over, his expression gentling. Almost paternalistic. Close to condescending. “Indiana—”

“No,” she said, as she pushed to stand. She would not have him so handily dismiss the guilt she’d carried all these years. “You have to listen. You can’t interrupt. You can’t tell me what Robby did was not my fault. Because it was. I know it was. You weren’t there.”

“I don’t have to have been there,” he said, and sat straight, stretching his arms across the back of the swing. “You could’ve stripped out of your clothes and invited him into your bed. But the second you said no, that was it. If he did anything but walk away, it was assault.”

“I didn’t strip out of my clothes. I didn’t invite him into bed. But I flirted with him, and I teased him. I let him touch me. This all before things went wrong.” She thought about the night behind the garage, her efforts to be provocative, Robby’s pants down, his penis thick and hard and pressed to her thigh. “I was so young and so stupid. I couldn’t imagine things would go that wrong,” she said, and buried her face in her hands.

“Indy. Oh, baby.” Oliver got to his feet and reached for her, but she made herself back away. “You don’t need to tell me any of this. None of it has any bearing on how I feel about you.” He paused, waited until she looked up at him, then added, “I love you.”

“How can you say that?” How could anyone love her after what she’d done? With the garbage she brought with her? And that had her wanting to laugh. Love was the very thing she’d wanted. But no man had ever given her that gift. She’d made sure of that, pushing them away. Until Oliver, who’d pushed back . . .

Her fingers were stiff like sticks of ice when she rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. “I led him on. I’m the reason he spent all that time in the hospital. I’m the reason Dakota went to prison. They were friends for so long, Robby and Dakota and Tennessee—”

“Stop right there,” he said, and this time when he took hold of her, she let him, reaching out and making fists in the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t have to know this Hunt kid’s history with your family to know he wasn’t a friend. Attempted rapists are not friends.”

She wanted to believe him. She’d told herself the same thing for years, but her voice was weak and small and without conviction. So all she could do was nod and hope he had more faith than she did.

“I want you to listen to me. To hear me. And I want you to think about what I’m going to say.”

She nodded again, desperate for a reason to keep from speaking and further ruining what should’ve been the happiest night of her life. He’d asked her to marry him.
Dear God. Oliver Gatlin proposed!
And all she could think about was the assault that had messed up her life and Dakota’s life and Tennessee’s life . . .

He lifted her chin, holding her so she couldn’t look away. “You and I have both lived our lives based on having failed our brothers—”

“It’s not the s—”

“Don’t tell me it’s not the same, because it’s exactly the same. And we’ve both been wrong not to realize our brothers were the ones to make their choices. So you flirted with Robby. So you tempted him. You did not put that bat into Dakota’s hands any more than I forced Oscar behind the wheel of his car.”

No. No. She shook her head. How could he compare their two situations? Dakota would never have picked up that bat if not for her. But Oscar . . . She thought back to what she knew of the younger Gatlin’s accident. Oliver didn’t have anything to do with his brother’s tragic end . . . did he? “Oliver? What aren’t you saying? What haven’t you told me?”

He closed his eyes then, and set her away, scraping both hands back through his hair before walking to the cottage to sit on the steps. “I knew something was going on with Oscar and Sierra. But then something was always going on with those two, so I didn’t pay any more attention than I usually did, and I should have.”

When he paused, she joined him, anxiety gnawing at her stomach as if eating her in two.

“The weekend of Oscar’s accident, I’d come home to go to the Longhorns game. I went to school at Rice, but one of my best friends from high school played for UT. I’d actually been home since late Wednesday night. And I’d heard Oscar complaining more than once about the steering in his car feeling off.”

Indiana closed her eyes and swallowed the dread rising like bile up her throat. She knew Oscar had lost control of his BMW while driving along the Devil’s Backbone. Knew, too, having heard the story from Luna, that Luna had been following in her car, and had witnessed him going off the edge of the ravine before she herself had crashed.

“Friday morning he asked if he could use my car,” he said, back to flexing his hands. “He was supposed to attend a music workshop that weekend, but hadn’t had time to get his looked at. If he asked either of our parents, he’d get lectured about car ownership and responsibility and have to stay home. I guess I thought I was teaching him a lesson by giving him the same answer—not to drive without the go-ahead from our mechanic.

“Plus, I had a lot going on that weekend, and I didn’t want to risk breaking down using his. I mean, he could’ve rented a car. I don’t know why he didn’t rent a car. Or why I thought it was my place to act like a parent instead of a brother.” He shook his head. Back and forth. Back and forth. But Indiana didn’t dare move. Whatever he’d walled up inside had to come out, and she couldn’t do anything but wait.

Oliver finally went on. “He came to me. My brother. I could’ve helped him out. I
should’ve
helped him out. He was anxious and all kinds of hyper and worried, obviously about Sierra and getting married and the baby, though I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. But I did know that he wasn’t himself. And I should’ve helped him out. Instead, I did my thing, he did his, and only one of us came home again.”

He bit off the last words, but she was sure he’d rushed to keep his voice from breaking. His breathing had grown choppy, and even now where he sat beside her, she sensed his tension, as if he were trying not to shake.

But rather than reach for him, she gave him time, gave him space, and then hoping she wasn’t making things worse, she asked, “Do you know for sure it was his steering that caused the accident? Did accident investigators or mechanics or whoever examine his car?”

Calmer now, he shrugged. “They may have. Once it was clear Oscar wouldn’t have an easy recovery, I went back to school. I didn’t want to know what my parents found out. I didn’t want to hear from them at all, or talk to them. I put my head down. I did my work. It was the only way I was able to get through. Because if I stopped to think about Oscar asking to use my car . . .” This time when he shuddered, she placed her palm between his shoulder blades and rubbed him there. “Not knowing became easier because knowing wouldn’t bring him back, and the thought that his accident was my fault—”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was his car. His decision.” She knew so little about the events of that day, or even about the tragedy at all. But this she knew: Oscar Gatlin had deliberately chosen to get behind the wheel of his car.

Just like Robby Hunt had deliberately chosen to assault her.

She’d said no, but it hadn’t stopped him. Like Oscar, yet so unlike Oscar, he’d made his decision. Oscar hadn’t heeded his brother’s admonition that he not take his car. And Robby hadn’t listened to her.

Oliver had done his part. She had done her part. And yet here they were, both weighed down with guilt over decisions others had made. Robby had known better, and as cruel as it seemed, Oscar had known better, too.

Why was that so hard to accept?

“It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated, then added, “Any more than what Robby did, even what Dakota did, was mine.”

It took him a minute, but Oliver turned and smiled, if a bit weakly. Then he brought up his hands to cup her face and rested his forehead against hers. “Do you know how good it is to hear you say that?”

“I wish it felt a little better than it does,” she said, because saying it was the easy part. Believing it completely . . . That was going to take time.

“You’ll get there,” he said, and she arched a brow.

“I know you’re not speaking from experience.”

He laughed at that, moved to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. She let him, she even helped him; close to Oliver Gatlin was the only place she wanted to be.

“So how did we get here, to this point, living less than authentic lives?” she asked, because even with all of her career success, she’d always known her past would have to be dealt with.

“I don’t know about you, but mine feels pretty damn authentic.”

“Now maybe, but has it always?”

“Yeah. It has,” he said, his free hand holding both of hers in his lap. “I made the only choices I could at the time. Probably not the best choices, but my choices. That’s as authentic as it gets.”

He was right. She was who she was because of all that she’d gone through. If she’d made different decisions, there was no telling who she’d be now. “And thank you so much for Dakota.”

“Yeah,” he said, and cleared his throat. “About that . . .”

“What about it?”

He came close to answering, she was certain of it, then said instead, “I’ll tell you next week.”

“Okay.” And then she remembered the question he’d asked her, not that she’d ever really forgotten, happiness filling her, a buoyant balloon of joy, as she added, “Yes.”

“Yes?” he asked, his brows creased, a deep vee marring his forehead.

“Yes, Oliver Gatlin. I will marry you.”

He started to smile, held back, and asked, “That’s it?”

Wasn’t it everything? Oh, wait! The best part!

She jumped to her feet, spun in a circle until dizzy from the stars, then stopped and climbed into his lap. With her knees straddling his thighs, she cupped his face in both hands and lowered her mouth to his, whispering against his lips, “I love you, Oliver Gatlin. I love you with all of my heart.”

INDIANA

The night Robby Hunt decided I hadn’t been serious the times I told him no, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. The incident on the side of the garage had been only one of my several aborted seductions. The most intimate. The most confusing because of how I wanted to pretend it had never happened, and how I wanted more.

I can’t imagine I was the only girl to ever face that conundrum. Because here was the thing. Boys would be boys. But girls? We had to deny becoming sexual beings.

We couldn’t explore or discover our own changing bodies without labels or censure. God forbid we be allowed to misbehave, or be studs instead of sluts, or earn extra heartthrob points as word of our conquests hit the streets. No one wanted a girl with experience, one adept at what she was doing, yet everyone wanted a boy who knew his way around.

Robby didn’t know his way around any more than I did. We’d both received our sexual instruction from movies and books, from exaggerated locker room tales, and learned our moves from the same. Those lessons had been dosed, of course, with hormones and imagination, and liberally so. That’s why my heart skipped several beats when it was Robby who came into the kitchen that night, who pulled the pizza from the oven with a dish towel.

Who then moved to stand behind my chair, his fingers brushing my shoulders as he gripped the frame. “Homework?”

“Algebra.” I closed my eyes and tried to slow my dead-giveaway breathing, but it was hard to do with how crazy-fast my heart was beating. We’d been here before, in this place where he wanted to touch me, and I wanted him to touch me, but never with my brothers so close.

He trailed his fingers along the chair back to my neck, through my hair, then leaned down and rubbed his mouth to my ear. It was wet, his breath hot. I wanted to like it, and in a way I did, but all I could think about was Dakota or Tennessee coming down and catching us.

It was when Robby slid his hands down my arms, his thumbs skating along the edges of my breasts, that I decided to move. And he decided not to let me. To wrap an arm around me and hold me to the chair. To dip his free hand into my shirt, then beneath my bra. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there before. It just hadn’t happened in a brightly lit kitchen.

And it wasn’t going to happen in this one. I was not going to risk being discovered. Before I could make that clear, however, he used the barrier of his one arm to scoot me and my chair from beneath the table. I didn’t even get a chance to stand. He flung his leg across my lap and straddled me, his weight, though slight, enough to keep me in my place.

I think he liked that, me being trapped, helpless—though I wasn’t really; I was the only thing stopping me from calling out—my chest rising and falling, my eyes, I’m sure, quite wide. I figured he was testing some sort of limits, and any second would let me go. I doubted he’d want to be busted holding me down should either of my brothers come to check on the food.

I was wrong on all counts. And he was stronger than I’d realized.

He reached behind me and pulled open the kitchen door. Then he grabbed hold of both of my wrists and stood, kicking the chair away and dragging me outside. The only thing I could think to say was, “The pizza’s getting cold.”

“The pizza will keep. This won’t.” Then he stuffed the dish towel into my mouth, and brought my hands shackled by his to the front of his jeans.

I didn’t know what he was thinking. That I was going to willingly have sex with him outside? With both of my brothers upstairs? But it became clear pretty quickly that my being willing didn’t play into his plans.

No matter how hard I fought, he held tight, and my wrists felt as if he were crushing them. The bones grinding. The skin burning as he twisted this way and that. I stumbled backward, hoping to fall, to bring him with me.

Surely he’d have to let me go to catch himself if I tripped him. But I was wrong about that, too. He landed on top of me, and he pinned my wrists over my head with one hand. With his other, he worked open his jeans. And when I finally wanted to scream for real, I couldn’t.

But I struggled. Oh, I struggled. Sliding around beneath him, kicking with my feet, pummeling him with my knees, bucking with my hips, though since I was still wearing the track pants I’d put on after volleyball practice, fighting back wasn’t such a good idea.

The fabric stuck to the grass as I squirmed, and I nearly wiggled myself out of them. My heart pounded so hard I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t grab for my waistband because he’d made certain I couldn’t use my hands.

He liked that, too. His grin was twisted. His eyes wicked with glee. And he laughed when he rubbed against me, his penis thick and full and sweaty. This was not the Robby I’d crushed on. The Robby who’d been my girlfriend.

I didn’t know who this was, or why he was hurting me, and I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs:
Stop! Get off me! What’s wrong with you? If my brothers don’t kill you, I will!
But wasn’t this all my fault for leading him on?

And that’s when I heard Dakota call Robby’s name. And I heard the word
pizza
. Thank goodness Robby had left the back door open when he’d dragged me outside. I couldn’t decide whether to warn him or wait. It didn’t matter. He heard, releasing me and jumping up, then backing away as he jerked up his pants and ran.

I couldn’t even move. I listened until I heard his car start, his tires screech on the pavement; then I finally managed to get rid of the dish towel, to fix my pants and sit up.

I swiped at my hair; it was a tangled mess of grass and dead leaves. My nose was running, and I could feel the smear of snot I left when I wiped it with my sleeve. I didn’t think I was crying—it didn’t feel like I was crying—but my eyes were watering, and my face was wet. It was too much to hide, so I didn’t.

Dakota was standing in the doorway when I came back in. Tennessee was cutting the pizza. “Indy, what the hell?” Dakota asked, stepping back as I pushed inside. But then he grabbed me by the arm and looked me over, as if making sure I wasn’t broken or bleeding, before looking at Tennessee and saying, “Robby.”

“I’m fine. I’m okay.” I wasn’t either, but I would be. I just wanted to get back to my algebra, but Dakota was pacing the kitchen, his hands fisted, his face taut with rage. “I knew it.
I knew it
. That piece of—” He cut himself off, but under his breath cursed Robby, words I couldn’t make out. Words I didn’t need to. I understood.

Then he stopped and walked to the door where a baseball bat leaned in the corner. He picked it up. He popped it against his palm. He looked from me to Tennessee. My heart was racing when Tennessee nodded, and when Dakota nodded, too, my stomach tightened. I thought I was going to throw up. But I didn’t say anything. I stood there while he made the decision. And then, along with Tennessee, I watched him go, too shocked to consider the consequences of what he had planned, too numb to stop him, and somewhere deep inside, rooting him on.

I wanted Robby to pay, to hurt. He’d betrayed our friendship. He’d broken our trust. Yet a part of me was convinced that I’d brought this on myself. Encouraging him, teasing him, tempting him. Yes meaning yes, and sometimes no meaning yes, too? How could he be blamed when I was sending mixed signals?

Tennessee and I were still sitting at the kitchen table when an hour later Dakota came home. I hadn’t touched my algebra. Tennessee hadn’t touched his pizza, or asked me what had happened. He hadn’t needed to; wasn’t it obvious? But he’d stayed with me the entire time, and I’d never been so happy not to be alone.

Dakota didn’t say a word when he walked through the door. He set the bloodied bat back in its place and headed upstairs, cranking the volume on his stereo to full blast. The cops arrived at our house close to midnight. Our parents had returned earlier from the function they’d been tied up with. And that was the end of life as we’d lived it in the Keller household. The end of everything normal I’d known.

How many girls, how many sisters, could say without a doubt that their brother would go to prison for them? I’m not even sure I knew Dakota would until he did. Look out for me, sure. Tell me what to do, most definitely. Give me a hard time about my taste in movies, and music, and clothes, oh yeah. Brotherly things. He was good at brotherly things. But to literally put his life on the line in my defense? Without hesitation? No second thoughts? Because he loved me and as wrong as it was, it was the right thing to do?

I hope I would’ve made the same sacrifice for him.