Just thinking his name made her smile faintly, even though she was sure that wasn’t the appropriate response at all. She hadn’t even heard from him again after that night at the basketball court, so he was probably either weirded out by her, or he felt he had paid his penance by being her punching bag for the night.
Not that they talked regularly, but there had been a moment that night when she had actually thought he was going to kiss her—which was crazy, obviously, but she still figured she would hear from him after that.
It had effectively changed the tone of her dreams though. Since that night—when for a moment, he was just a handsome, mature guy who was consoling her in her time of need—her dreams about him were much more pleasant. Having sexual dreams about him prior to that had been weird for her—especially when she didn’t know him at all. As she interacted with him more, the less awkward it became, and the less she cared if it was acceptable or not. No one else knew, and if it made everything easier on her, then nobody needed to have an opinion about it.
It might also be helping that she finally told her therapist the truth after he advised her to. The woman hadn’t seemed surprised at all, and her expression remained stoic as Willow went on to explain the added complications and how Ethan wasn’t actually a bad guy. By the end of her rambling, she wasn’t sure what her therapist thought about it, because her face was so impassive, but Willow had an idea of how it must sound.
The only flicker of surprise she betrayed was when Willow said that Ethan was actually the one who told her she needed to come clean in therapy, followed by, “You’re still in contact with this man?”
Still feeling like a tattletale in kindergarten, Willow went on another long-winded defense of Ethan’s character and explained that she was the one who contacted him afterward. It was a close approximation of the truth, even if she left out all of the crucial details.
Although the therapist hadn’t said anything about it—the session flew by—Willow felt incredibly defensive about Ethan. It felt like a little secret that was only for her, yet her more logical side recognized that the basis of their relationship was… well, a little warped.
Since she hadn’t heard from him since that night, she also wasn’t sure that their odd acquaintanceship even qualified as a relationship, but since she had rezoned him, she liked the idea that he was looking out for her. As absurd as it seemed, she even convinced herself that maybe he was why she had only been raped once. The other girls had all been used multiple times, generally by a couple different guys, except for one girl—Lane’s favorite, who was solely “used” by him.
She wondered where that girl had ended up. In the bedroom she had been stuffed in, there had been eight to ten other girls depending on the night, but she only knew what happened to the ones at the pizza parlor.
Hopefully she was returned to wherever her home was—hopefully all of them had been.
Thinking about that brought her mood down a little, but she was surprised that when images of herself bent over in front of Ethan started to seep in, she was able to immediately shove them out and replace them with the night at the park, holding onto him as he wrapped his arms around her and let her cry on him.
That was a relief. Still an odd memory, but much better than the stomach ache that always accompanied the other ones.
On a whim, Willow checked the time and saw that it was still before 10, so she typed out a simple message to Ethan that she took his advice and told the therapist.
He responded right away, asking how that went.
“Can you talk right now?” she sent back.
A minute passed before he answered, “Not right this second. I’ll call you in a few minutes?”
“Sure.” After sending the message, she paused thoughtfully, then added, “Or we could meet somewhere. Whichever.”
Another minute passed. “Are you hungry?”
Something like excitement spiked in her stomach, but she did her best to ignore it as she sent back, “I could eat.”
“Do you like Chinese?”
“What a stupid question—who are these people who don’t like Chinese and why are they in your life?”
“Good point,” he replied, then told her to meet him at a Chinese restaurant she had never been to before that was apparently open until 10:30.
Hopping off the bed, she tugged her comfy top off and shimmied out of her pants, grabbing the skirt she had worn to dinner and pulling it on, then grabbing a little red cami top out of her drawer, and the black crochet—completely see-through—3/4 sleeve sweater out of her closet—it was casually sexy, and always fell off one of her shoulders. It was her favorite item of clothing before she went school clothes shopping.
Then she took the red suede ankle boots she had ordered out of the box—they were sexy as hell, but stiletto heels and they were not even remotely pleasant to walk in. Once she had pulled on her new outfit, she went into the bathroom to quickly spruce up her hair and make-up, and she was dragging lipstick across her bottom lip when she froze, remembering her mom was downstairs.
“Shit!” Throwing the lipstick down, she went back to her bedroom, opening the door and creeping out into the hall. The staircase looked dark—maybe her mom had followed her up. Creeping closer, she peered down into the dark hole that led to her living room.
The dark still creeped her out, so she quickly headed back to her room to grab her phone and purse, then proceeded to sneak out of her house.
When Willow walked into the tiny restaurant, Ethan’s last remaining doubt that agreeing to meet her was a bad idea evaporated.
When she flashed him a smile, he returned it and somehow managed to keep from ogling her.
Every time he saw the damn girl, she was dressed more and more provocatively. What the hell was that all about?
Reminding himself of her age didn’t help. It should have, but it didn’t.