"I didn't want to take the job. Tried to push it off on King. I fucking hated him instantly. He called his secretary a bitch to my face."
"I don't know how that poor woman puts up with him," I admitted, wondering how high her salary must be to put up with him day in and day out.
"That's why you turned to ice," he said, eyes a little far away, lost in some memory.
"What do you mean?"
"When we ran into him on the street. You clearly didn't want to be anywhere near him. But when he called you 'princess,' you fucking turned to ice-cold stone. I get it now."
I'd wanted to throw up. Right there on his shoes. I hated my mind for doing it, but it flashed with awful images, ones put there by the knowledge of what happened, what he'd said when he'd hurt her. I wasn't sure how I managed to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body.
It was the first time I'd had actual contact with him. I'd been watching him for months, following him from work to home, from home to bars or business meetings or charity functions.
But I'd never even heard his voice. Never spoken to him, stood next to him.
I hadn't been prepared for the pinpricks of fear, the hand-around-the-throat sensation of anxiety, the rolling revulsion in my stomach.
I always figured the next time I would be face-to-face with the man, I would be watching him be ushered into a police cruiser while I said something to the effect of Got you, motherfucker.
"I hate that people like him get to walk the streets, get to get away with what they did."
I knew they did so more often than anyone wanted to admit, that most people brushed shoulders with a rapist every month without even being aware of it, I had seen reports that stated that six percent of men were rapists, that responses on a similar study said that one in three men would commit the act if they knew they could get away with it.
We lived in an ugly world. And there were evil people in it. They crossed streets with us, shared office buildings with us, chauffeured children to school with us, stood in line at coffee shops with us, and went to charity events with us.
Evil was really good at wearing the mask of normal.
It fooled people.
Michael's mask fooled me. Fooled my parents. Fooled everyone he'd ever been in contact with.
But he would never fool me again.
"What about your brother?" Nixon asked, pulling me out of my swirling thoughts.
"What about him?"
"Did he believe you? You said your parents didn't. Did your brother?"
We'd had the conversation over the phone since he'd been in Spain at the time.
"He didn't disbelieve me," I said, choosing my words carefully.
"But he didn't exactly believe you either," Nixon concluded.
"Yeah."
"You've been alone in this for a really long time," he said, gaze on my face, deep, full of something, but I couldn't place what it might be.
"Yeah," I agreed, feeling the tears sting my eyes.
I couldn't have known how freeing it would feel to have someone else hear the situation, and immediately believe me, and not think I was crazy.
The relief was enough to make me want to crumble, to crawl into his arms and sob.
I barely--just barely--resisted the urge.
Until he spoke again.
And the temptation became too great to resist.
"You don't have to be alone in it anymore."
I had begun to know Nixon well enough to read the deeper meaning into that, to know he was offering to help me, to be there for me, to give me the support I hadn't been able to find elsewhere.
I flew over to him, straddled his waist, wrapped him up with arms and legs, and cried my relief into his neck.
Practice hadn't exactly made Nixon more equipped to handle tears. His arms went around me too tightly, his words were broken and unsure.
But he was there.
He held on.
He didn't try to tell me to calm down or convince me that it would all be okay.
Nixon wasn't one for giving you empty words or false promises.
I found I appreciated that. Because I wasn't sure it would ever be okay. I wasn't sure I ever wanted it to be okay. My sister was gone. A beautiful life had been cut too short. Our entire family was irrevocably changed. Nothing would ever be the same. That wasn't okay. It could never be okay.
"Ever see those videos of panda zookeepers?" Nixon asked a long while later, the words so unexpected that a weird little choked laugh escaped me.
"What?" I asked, pulling back, trying to gauge what his feelings were from his face. But, as always, he was really good at being hard to read.
"They are walking around the panda enclosures trying to sweep and clean out water dishes and shit. And these fucking pandas keep clinging to their arms and legs every chance they get. The zookeepers keep untangling themselves, but the pandas keep grabbing and holding on. Think you might be part panda, Reagan."