I avoided their eyes and walked off to place my dishes, glass, and silverware in the return bins. While I was doing that, I glanced at Troy. He was looking up now, looking at me. I saw more than apology in his face. I saw deep regret and sadness. For a moment, it was as if there was no one else in the cafeteria. The clamor and chatter were gone. I started toward him, running solely on instincts and avoiding any warnings or logic. He sat back, anticipating more rage.
“I’m not apologizing. I was hurt,” I said. “But I was wrong to get involved with you, with anyone, so soon. That was unfair. I share some of the blame. I shouldn’t have used you like that, like some sort of test.”
Before he could respond, I turned and walked away. I heard him call to me, but I didn’t stop walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my girlfriends all watching, frozen with fascination. It made me walk faster.
When I stepped outside, I felt like running to the safety of our dorm room, sheltering myself with science information to study, and avoiding thoughts about anything else. I was well on my way before he caught up with me. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I stopped and turned to him.
“Why do you think I kept your secret and wanted to be with you anyway, knowing how hard it could be? I really believed the pain we shared would be a bridge bringing us back to the so-called normal world. Together.”
“Maybe it would be too much like therapy for both of us,” I said. “I’ve had enough of that.”
“I haven’t had any, formally, but I doubt any therapist you could have would feel what I feel for you. It’s worth the risk,” he said. “At least, I think so.”
I looked toward the dorm. Walk away, a voice inside me was saying. Don’t listen to him.
I was going to do just that, but another voice said, That’s the Haylee in you talking. Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t want you coming up for air.
“Take me for a ride,” I said.
Troy smiled and reached for my hand. “Sure. Where?”
“I want to see those lights and stars again.”
14
We drove most of the way in silence. I thought we were both afraid of saying the wrong thing and causing us to turn around and return to the campus. Despite my father’s assurances when he first enrolled me in Littlefield, I never truly believed that no one would discover my recent horror and Haylee’s involvement. Whenever anyone looked at me too long or whenever I saw people whispering behind my back, I braced myself for the inevitable questions and shock.
As soon as Troy and I drove off, I decided that if he asked me any questions, I would stick to the truth, despite where that truth might lead. Running from it did not make any of it disappear. It was always there, an undercurrent woven and streaming along under the thin crust of deceptions and half-truths. I was tired of being afraid, tired of anticipating someone approaching me and smiling like someone who had discovered something no one else knew, someone who enjoyed the sense of power over me, and someone who might even say, “I’ll keep your secret.” The implication would be clear. From now on, be afraid of me, and never contradict me. Never refuse a favor I ask, and glorify me with compliments.
“My father and his girlfriend are coming on Saturday to take me to see my sister’s doctor,” I said.
“Why?”
“According to what my father and the doctor believe, my sister has made great progress toward redemption. She, Dr. Alexander, wants to let her go home for Thanksgiving, when I will be there, of course. She wants to see if I will cooperate, accept it. She wants to explain it to me and, I’m sure, get me to believe that Haylee is sincere and I should try to mend what’s been broken between us.”
“That’s a lot to put on you, considering what you went through,” Troy said. “I can’t imagine any apology washing away the memories.” He made the turns and started us down the dark road that turned into gravel.
“Neither can I.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Listen to what she has to say. Maybe try.”
“So you still want to forgive your sister?”
“When someone has hurt you, you only give them more power when you remain vengeful and angry.”
“Who told you that?”
“My therapist,” I said.
“Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed away from them.”
He drove up the incline, stopped, and turned off the engine. It wasn’t as perfect a night sky as it had been the first time, but there still were enough flickering stars to make it special. The lights of buildings and homes twinkled, and we were high enough and distant enough to make
it look like a toy world. Smoke from fireplaces looked limp, like chiffon scars drifting toward the heavens, and headlights of cars were pinpoints as they wove over the streets. It was easy to feel we were above the day-to-day conflicts and troubles that confronted us. We could be safe here; we could reveal our pain.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m wearing my emotional armor. Tell me why you would even need a therapist.”