My heart shudders. The feel of fabric slips against my fingers. Somehow I’ve curled my hands around his shirt without even noticing. I take two seconds to glance up at the darkness in his eyes and down at the heavy rise and fall of his chest before I decide to leap.
“Cassie.”
We’re breathing for each other, our lips are so close. My forehead rocks against his. Our cheeks brush. Our noses. But he stops me, creating a barrier between us by placing a hand on my chest. He’s got to be able to feel the pounding of my heart, and I hate that he knows how much he affects me.
“Dammit!” I pull back in frustration and kick at his dashboard. Why him. Why this guy?
“Cassie.” This time when he says my name it’s in a “let’s be reasonable” tone that a person might use with a little kid, and it only makes me want to kick him.
“Oh, stop.” I blow my new bangs out of my face and scoot away, ready to push open the door. “Just what in the hell is so wrong with me, huh?”
He pulls his hand away, closing it into a fist. “I told you. I don’t—”
“Yeah,” I nearly whisper the word. “It’s not me, it’s you. I got the message. Sorry.” I push open the door and get out. Whatever this is between us, I was sure he felt it, too. I’m so stupid.
“Cassie!” I’m officially tired of hearing him say my name. Just once I’d like to hear him say it in a way that doesn’t make me cringe.
Embarrassed, I duck my head and make a beeline for my room. I don’t wait to see if he follows. I don’t care.
Cassie
I’m not too surprised when Michelle doesn’t come to the support group. These things can be hard at first. Back home, I think I ditched the first three or four times I was supposed to attend any type of group therapy. When I finally did go, I confess I showed up under the influence of chemical substances more times than I didn’t.
I’m not proud. I was angry about what had happened to me. Sometimes you cope the way you know how. I’m still a work in progress, but I’ve gotten better. Lately, my drug of choice is cappuccino. At least it’s legal, and free from Delia’s.
It’s awkward and uncomfortable to share your survival story with a room full of strangers. Looking back, it turned out to be good. I made friends. I learned about myself. I put things in perspective. It’s still a hard hill to climb, and I don’t blame her for being scared.
I sit in the back of what must be the nursery at St. Martins while a few women file in, arranging the rockers in a semi-circle so folks can share more easily. One person puts away a pile of blocks that’s been left out on the floor. A kind-looking older woman in a peasant blouse nods hello to me before moving on. She’s holding a notebook and a Tupperware container of cookies, so I’m betting she’s the facilitator.
I stay near the back, but as everyone gets settled I decide to slip out into the hall. I don’t especially want to stay and share. Not this time. It feels a little too much like settling in and getting to know everyone, and I don’t plan to stay in Evergreen Grove.
I rub my tired eyes at that thought. Here I am in a town where I thought I’d only be stopping long enough to get my car fixed. I’ve gotten a job. I’ve made a friend. I’ve... God. I’ve chased a boy. All for what? I don’t really want to have a life here. What in the hell am I doing? I had plans, and now I can’t seem to remember what those were.
I glance at the closed nursery door, and then at my watch. Michelle’s not coming. I need to get out of here.
I head toward the stairs and spot a familiar figure. Tall, olive-skinned, and athletic. Less cocky than he seemed at the bar where we met, he’s seated himself on the top step and leaned his chin against his two curled fists almost like he’s praying.
I hate to disturb him, but I can’t walk past without him seeing me. “Hey. Dante, right?”
He looks up with the same grin, but not so bright. “Hey. Birthday Girl. Cassie?”
“That’s me.” I hold my hand out to shake his. We were never exactly officially introduced. “I...” This is sort of an uncomfortable time and place to run into him. I’m not sure what to say.
“Um. Are you here for the meeting?” I guess I might as well ask. The church is otherwise closed for business, as far as I can tell.
He laughs. “I don’t guess you’d believe I showed up on the wrong night for AA?”
I give him a sharp look. “Because it’s better to be an alcoholic than a survivor of sexual assault?”
Instantly I feel bad for what I said. I know he was joking to make a difficult situation easier, and I shouldn’t have attacked. Still, rape is a crime where far too often the victim gets blamed. I don’t stand for anyone suggesting what happened to me was my fault. If he was abused or assaulted, he shouldn’t say it about himself, either.