Rowdy Boy

And on my goddamn watch too.

My hand forms a fist as I grind my teeth, feeling guilty over what happened.

I should’ve been there sooner. Should’ve ignored Ariane, should’ve followed Monica out of the house when I had the chance.

I should’ve done so many things but didn’t … because I was scared of the consequences.

Scared of what it might mean when I let her get close.

Of what it would do to me when I opened my heart.

And she fought me so damn hard every step of the way.

My hand hovers over her cheek, but I don’t dare touch her.

It was easy to make her hate me. Easy to let it consume me whole.

And now we’re both paying the price.

Monica

A bright morning sun wakes me up from a deep and nightmare-fueled sleep. I only remember bits and pieces from the night before, but my brain is flooded with images and memories as though it snapped out of a trance.

Alcohol, music, dancing, fights … and three boys chasing me through the woods until they pinned me to the ground. Cole coming to my rescue, punching them so hard that blood was flying … His eyes burned brighter than the stars filling the night sky when he found me trembling underneath a tree.

My eyes burst open, and I sit up straight, breathing heavily. But my heart only beats faster and faster as I touch the fabric of the duvet that doesn’t belong to me.

I’m not in my own bed. Or my own room.

Right then, a dark figure stretches his thick muscles beside me.

My eyes are practically glued to his skin.

Cole.

My lip quivers as I clutch the bed, watching him sit there and stare at the window ahead.

It all comes flooding back now. Him, carrying me back through the woods, into his house … into his bed.

I fucking slept here all through the night.

How? How was it so easy to fall asleep in someone else’s bed? And why did it feel like second nature to rest my head against his shoulders and drift off?

A familiar scent enters my nostrils as he gets up. His cologne. The sweet, intoxicating smell makes my heart flutter, and it puts my mind at ease.

Why? Why does it all suddenly feel so different? So … normal?

As though I was always meant to be here?

Suddenly, he turns his head and glances at me over his shoulder. “Morning.”

My lips slam together as though they got caught gaping.

He averts his eyes again with his head lowered between his shoulders. It’s only when I look at him in his sweatpants that I realize I’m still wearing that short, black dress that I wore to the party, and I feel so out of place.

“I …” I don’t even know what I want to say. If I should even say anything.

“Are you … okay?” he asks, without looking at me. But he doesn’t have to. I know exactly what he means when he asks.

The air is filled with unspoken words. My heart feels as though it got stabbed, and it’s still bleeding. And he was there to witness it all.

He watched me crumple. At my weakest, he didn’t come to beat me down and destroy what was left. He came to pick up the pieces and brought them back to life. With a simple gesture, a hug, he gave me back my dignity, my ability to let go.

And even though I cried there against his shoulders, he never wavered, never tried to push me back down or bully me into silence.

He was there for me when no one else was.

That means more than either he or I could ever put into words.

“I don’t know,” I reply.

He glances at me over his shoulder. “So you remember everything?”

I nod.

In a split second, the concern clearly shows on his face, but he quickly looks away. His fists ball, and his muscles tighten. “You said something about it happening before. Tell me.”

I suck in a breath.

I’ve never said the words out loud. Never told this story to anyone but my therapist, and even then, it was hard. But I should let it all out. It’s been bleeding like an open wound for far too long now.

“A boy drugged me at a party. Took me to his room. Used me,” I say, each word feeling like I’m swallowing knives. “And he videotaped everything and showed it to his friends.”

His body grows even more rigid. “Did he …?”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but we both know what he means.

I nod.

He turns to look away but not before I spotted the look of disgust on his face. “No wonder …”

“What?”

“The cabin. When I took that picture of you … I saw the fear in your eyes.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry.” His voice is twisted, raw. Like he’s trying not to fall apart. And I know the feeling all too well. “And I’m sorry about what happened to you in the woods.”