Willow
I woke up with a headache thundering behind my eyes and a sour taste in my mouth. The smell of soil filled my nose. I opened my eyes to a tuft of grass and tried to remember. The alcohol had broken last night like a deck of cards, shuffling events and words out of order, dealing them back to me in random flashes.
I blinked. Row after row of crooked gravestones swam into view, a white mist hanging low and seeping between them.
Oh my God, I slept in a graveyard.
I came more awake, aware now of Isaac wedged behind me. His black leather was draped over my body, along with his bare arm, goosebumped from the chill morning air. I noticed the tattoo there, Old English script in black ink, in a line up his forearm.
I burn. I pine. I perish.
Shakespeare? Maybe. The words felt so very Isaac in a way I didn’t fully grasp yet, but maybe someday I would. His warm body was flush to mine. His presence—the hard, heavy reality of him—didn’t terrorize my psyche. I slept all night. I felt safe.
And then I remembered.
I told him everything.
It floated back to me on a current of fear and humiliation. I told Isaac he was beautiful approximately six hundred times. I tried to kiss him. Offered him my body because I thought being half out of my mind with alcohol was the only way I’d ever be able to be physical with a man.
I told my story.
I screamed obscenities at the sky.
Then I threw up.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
The secret suffocating my life was out, and Isaac Pearce had it now. All of it. Every screaming, puking minute of it. Every sordid detail. He bore witness to the ragged agony pouring out of me. It was no longer a shadowy memory locked somewhere inside, leaking to the surface of my skin in little black X’s. It was real. It was out.
Xavier Wilkinson drugged and raped me.
I’d said the words to Isaac. Said that word, out loud, in my own voice, and by doing so, I took away a little of its power. Not a lot; a drop in a vast ocean, but it was a start.
I sat up slowly and Isaac’s jacket slid off my shoulders. My jeans were mud-streaked and damp from lying in the grass all night. My hair fell down around me in a tangled mess.
“Hey,” Isaac said in a low voice.
I whipped my head around to stare down at him. All the words I’d spoken hung heavy in the air between us, and I could not take them back.
What if I don’t want to?
Isaac knowing wasn’t the same as Xavier having a naked picture of me. It wasn’t all over his face. He wasn’t turning it over and over in his mind, looking at it like a lewd photo. He watched me with furrowed brows, concern and uncertainty in his expression.
“Hey,” I said, and winced. My throat was raw and hoarse from screaming. My thoughts such a jumble, I didn’t know what to say except, “We slept in a graveyard.”
Isaac smiled and his brow smoothed out. “Yeah, we did.” He glanced at the gravestone. “I hope…Joseph P. Bouchard, ‘dear and loyal husband,’ didn’t mind.”
“Oh shit, what time is it?”
I felt around in my back pocket for my phone. The face was cracked, a casualty of my drunken exploits. The time read 5:17 in the morning.
I held my aching head in my hands. “Oh God, my parents are going to be up soon. They’re going to find out I didn’t come home. I’ll be fucked. I can’t go home like this.” I rose shakily to my feet. “I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do?”
Isaac got to his feet and tilted his head back and forth to get a crick out of his neck. His white T-shirt was streaked with mud, his jeans damp from hip to ankle.
Quickly, I bent to grab his jacket and handed it back to him.
“Here,” I said. “You look cold. “
He took the jacket from me and wrapped it around my shoulders. He held it shut in front, pulling me gently toward him. His gaze down at me held no judgment. He wasn’t disgusted and repulsed by my story.
“Isaac,” I whispered, swallowing hard.
“Don’t,” he said, and pulled me into his embrace. His arms wrapped around my back and held me tight. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I shook my head against his chest. “No, it’s not. It hasn’t been okay for a really long time.”
“Maybe last night was a start.” He pulled back to meet my eyes, his voice lowering. “Where is he now?”
“College. Living his life. You can’t tell anyone. It’s too late.” I said, panic rising. I pushed away from him. “I have to get home. I have to… God, they’re going to know I slept outside.” I flapped my hands down at my muddy clothes. “I can’t hide this.”
“I can take you to the Fords. Marty will cover for us.”
“No. Not him. I can’t tell him. I wouldn’t be able to look at him in the eye for the rest of the play.”
Isaac didn’t debate me on that though I could tell he wanted to. “How about Angie? Does she know?”
I shook my head miserably. “No. And I hate that I keep doing this to her. Having her cover for me. I don’t want to get her in trouble. I don’t want to…”
Tell her.
“She’s your friend. Willow…” He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “What about your parents? Forget last night. Forget the play. They don’t know what happened? Don’t you think you should tell them?”
“No,” I said, my voice hard. “I told you. And I’ll…I’ll tell Angie. But that’s it. No one else needs to know.”
Isaac started to say something more, but I shook my head. “It’s my choice. Mine. And I’m not ready. And even if I were, it’s too late.”
“You keep saying that.”
I stiffened. “Because it’s true.”
“Maybe not,” he said quietly. “Martin told me once that the idea of too late kills hope.”
“They won’t believe me,” I said. “I waited too long and he’s got that photo…” I shook my head harder. “No. I have to get to Angie’s place, get cleaned up, and try not to lose the play.”
I pulled up my phone and called Angie.
“Hello?” she said groggily.
“Ange, it’s me.”
“Willow? What time is it?”
I closed my eyes. “I need you.”
The McKenzies lived in a modest-size house on the southern edge of Harmony. Angie met us at the back door, wearing baggy pajama pants and a T-shirt that read, I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. Her eyes widened as she took in my stained and muddy clothes, then she flew at me, arms wide.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, hugging me tight. “It’s okay. Whatever happened, everything is going to be okay.” She let me go and eyed Isaac suspiciously. “My dad’s away on business, but my mom is here,” she whispered. “If she sees you…”
Isaac had retreated into silence, his usual stony mask on his face again.
“Give us a minute?” I asked.
Angie glanced back over her shoulder, into the house. “A fast minute.”
I pulled Isaac aside on Angie’s back porch and started to take off his jacket.
“Keep it,” he said.
“I can’t,” I said. The tears were coming again.
“Willow,” he said. “Don’t.”
“You said that before,” I said. “Don’t what? I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel right now.”
“And I’m not trying to tell you. I just want you to know that with me…it’s okay. It’s okay that you told me.” He gritted his teeth. “I want to kill the fucker, I’m not going to lie. I want to track his ass down and…” He inhaled through his nose. “But I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do, okay? I promise.”
The tears spilled over and I heaved a steadying breath. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Angie’s patience ran out. She took me into her embrace and her voice was soft when she spoke to Isaac. “I’ll take care of her.”
He hesitated, as if he didn’t want to leave me for a second. “Thanks.” He turned to me. “Text me later.”
“I will.”
We watched him walk back to his truck into the cool morning, his hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched.
The second his truck was gone, Angie pulled me to face her. “Tell me the truth,” she said, brushing the tangle of hair back for my face. I’d never heard her voice so hard or serious. “Is he the reason you look like this?”
I shook my head. “No. He’s the reason I don’t look worse.”
She nodded. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”
She hustled me up to her room on the second floor. From down the hall, behind her parents’ master bedroom, the sound of running water could be heard. A dog, a beautiful Irish Setter with a flowing auburn coat, bounded up the stairs after us.
“Barkley, no,” Angie said but he nosed his way in the room anyway.
“Mom’s getting ready for work,” she said as she closed the door behind us. I realized with a pang of regret I didn’t know what her parents did for a living. I’d never asked.
Angie’s room assaulted my aching head. It was exactly as I had pictured it: full of pop culture kitsch. Posters of obscure alternative bands I’d never heard of. One of Emma Watson as Hermione. Three separate bookshelves were stuffed with novels, comic books and row after row of Manga. Clothes lay discarded on the floor—all of Angie’s lettered T-shirts.
She sat me down on the black bedspread of her bed. Barkley sat and watched his human pace in front of us.
“I don’t know what to do here. I need a story to tell my mother, okay? You weren’t feeling well after rehearsal? So you ended up here? And…?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Angie knelt between my feet and took my hands and hers. “What happened, Willow? Forget everything else. What happened? Tell me everything.”
I told her everything.
Unlike last night’s combustive rage, the story came out between soft hiccupping sobs. Telling Isaac was a grenade thrown through the ice and numbness, shattering it in a messy explosion. Telling Angie was simply letting the words fall out of the hole left behind.
Angie sat next to me on the bed and cried with me. “You have to call the police,” she said. “You have to press charges.”
“I can’t. It was nine months ago.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I destroyed all the evidence, and he has that photo.”
“Willow, you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I said. “I can’t… God, I… I feel so dirty.”
“He’s the dirty one,” Angie spat. “He’s a disgusting, vile, despicable, inhuman monster. He’s the one that should be ashamed. He’s the one…” She broke off, shaking her head. She reached for one of her T-shirts to wipe her eyes, then handed it to me.
Barkley laid his long muzzle in my lap, and looked up at me with liquid brown eyes in that silent way dogs have of understanding everything.
“I’ve never told anyone,” I said. “Ever. Not until last night. Please, just let me…process that it’s out there. Okay?”
“Of course.” Angie hugged me hard again. “God, I’m sorry. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.”
A knock at the door and a woman’s voice called from the other side, “Angie?”
The door opened to an older version of Angie. The same black curls, same plump roundness in a flowing dress.
“Honey, I’m heading out. Is Barkley in— Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Her face morphed into shocked concern as she looked from me to her daughter and back again. “Hello…?”
“Willow, this is my mom, Bonnie,” Angie said, her arms still around me. “Mom, this is my friend, Willow Holloway. She had a rough night last night. She needs to get cleaned up, have a shower and some food, and then we need to tell her parents she spent the night here with me, okay?”
“Angela,” Bonnie said in a grave tone.
“Nothing illegal happened, I promise,” Angie said. “She needs our help, okay? Please. You can trust me. You know you can.”
Bonnie shooed Barkley away gently, and sat on the other side of me, brushed my long hair back from my face. “You’ve been drinking.”
Angie bit her lip. “Okay, so one illegal thing…”
“Angie had nothing to do with it, Mrs. McKenzie,” I said. “I promise. And I’m so sorry for showing up here like this. She’s right, I had a rough night, that’s all.”
“Willow’s playing Ophelia in the HCT production of Hamlet,” Angie said. “It’s a big deal. And she’s brilliant. Her parents will pull her out of it if we don’t help her.”
“I don’t like lying,” Bonnie said, all the while stroking my hair as if Angie and I had been friends since preschool. “I’ll make an exception if you both promise me that saying she spent the night here is enough to fix things. I don’t want to find out there was more to the story and my lie made things worse. You get what I’m saying?”
We nodded.
“Okay. I’m going to trust you both.” Her tone implied she better not regret it later.
“Thank you.” I sagged against her and she wrapped her arms around me. A mother’s hug, warm and comforting. “Thank you,” I whispered again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Is there something you want to talk about, honey?” she asked.
“No,” I said, shooting Angie a look.
Then my phone rang, making us all jump.
“God, it’s my mom,” I said, my voice trembling. “She’s going to tell my dad. I’ll lose Hamlet.” I swallowed hard. “I’ll lose Hamlet.”
Bonnie plucked the phone out of my hand and hit the green answer button.
“Hello, Mrs. Holloway? My name is Bonnie McKenzie, I’m Angie McKenzie’s mom.” A pause, and she frowned. “Angie. Willow’s friend?” Pause. “Yes, hi. Willow is in the shower right now. I answered her phone because I’m sure you’re concerned about her.” A pause. “Yes, last night, my daughter was studying at The Scoop. The girls met up after Willow’s rehearsal and decided to come here. They stayed up too late talking and lost track of time. I’d assumed Willow called you, but learned this morning that’s not the case.”
Angie and I exchanged glances, listening with rising hope as her mom saved my ass.
“I know,” Bonnie said with a short laugh. “Teenagers, right? We’re always the last to know. But Willow’s not feeling well. I think it’d be best if she stayed home from school today. I can drive her home or…” A pause. “Yes, of course,” she said, shooting me a sympathetic look. “You can come pick her up from here.” A pause. “Very good, I’ll text you the address. Okay, bye now.”
She pressed the button and handed the phone back to me. “I’d say you have about twenty minutes to get cleaned up.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “Again.”
“Mom, you’re a straight-up rock star,” Angie said.
Bonnie pursed her lips. “Well, I’m not doing that again, ladies. It may have worked, though. Your mother—I hate to say it—sounded more irritated than concerned.”
“Sounds about right,” I said.
Bonnie stood up and smoothed down her skirt. “Get showered, wash your hair, and make sure you use the mouthwash on the sink. Angie, maybe you could loan Willow some clothes. She’s too tall for you, but perhaps one of your skirts and a T-shirt? I’ll put your clothes in the wash and you can pick them up, later. Breakfast? I was going to do eggs and bacon.”
I stared at this woman. A real mom doing mom things. It was like seeing a ghost or a UFO. I’d heard they existed but had never seen it for myself.
“Thanks, Mom,” Angie said. “You’re the best.”
She made a hmmmph sound, then reached out to cup my chin. “Next time, if you think you’re going to have a rough night, call Angie first, okay? And then Angie will tell me. Won’t she?”
“Yes, she will,” Angie said.
Bonnie patted my cheek and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
I shook my head. “Your mom…”
“Yeah, she’s a keeper. She’s a therapist. Reading a situation and keeping it confidential is kind of her specialty.”
A therapist, I thought. Immediately followed by Isaac’s words: everything happens for a reason.
I took a shower in Angie’s bathroom, washing away last night under the warm water and flowery shower soap. Mouthwash rinsed away the taste of vomit and booze. The reflection in the mirror showed puffy, bloodshot eyes. I gave more silent thanks to Bonnie’s quick thinking by saying I was sick. There was no way I could’ve gone to school anyway.
When I came out of the bathroom, Angie gave me a long flowing skirt with green and red flowers on it, and an oversize green T-shirt that said, IRONY, the opposite of WRINKLY.
Angie sized me up “Sloppy, but it’ll do.”
We went downstairs, and I had a few bites of egg and bacon while sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. The McKenzie’s house was as updated as mine, but on a smaller scale, and with all the warmth and comfort mine lacked.
Bonnie must be good at her job, I thought.
Twenty minutes later, my cracked phone buzzed a text. It was my mother.
I’m outside.
“I’ll bet she regrets coming all the way over here after you offered to drive me home,” I said, feeding Barkley a piece of my bacon. “Her suspiciousness wore off and now she’s just irritated she had to come and get me.”
Bonnie’s mom raised her eyebrows at me. “Was she the reason for your rough night?”
“No,” I said.
“Then I would go out there and apologize to her.” She smiled behind her cup of coffee. “You know? For the inconvenience?”
I had to laugh. It had only taken one phone conversation, and Angie’s mom had read the situation with mine perfectly.
I slid off the stool, and Angie and Bonnie walked me to the front door, Barkley in tow. Outside, my mother waited in her silver Mercedes. I rubbed the dog’s ears, and then hugged Bonnie, hoping to take a little bit of her comfort home with me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You thank me by remembering what I said,” Bonnie said. “I’m here anytime to talk.”
Tears welled in my eyes. They spilled over as I hugged Angie.
“Us girls got to stick together, right?” she said, her voice quavering. “We’ll talk more later, okay? After you’ve had some rest.”
I nodded, exhausted down to my bones.
My mother laid on the horn, and I sighed. “That’s my cue.”
I walked down the driveway holding only my phone, Angie’s skirt swishing about my legs. Angie and Bonnie and their sweet dog remained at the front door. A picture postcard of warmth and friendship and home.
I waved back, before climbing into the passenger seat. I let my hair fall down the left side of my face, hoping my mom wouldn’t see how bloodshot and swollen my eyes were.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry about last night. We got carried away and now I’m not really feeling well.”
“I guess not. Your voice sounds terrible,” she said as she pulled away from the drive. “But I don’t appreciate this, Willow. It makes me look bad in front of your friend’s mother that I didn’t know where you were last night.”
“She understands. She’s a therapist,” I added. “And I like her. A lot.”
“A therapist.” Mom sniffed. “Maybe I should send you to her.”
“Maybe you should,” I muttered.
My mom sniffed again and glanced over at me. Her frown deepened and I braced myself for a question. The one I almost wanted to hear. I could feel the truth bubbling up again. I’d told it twice. I could tell it again to her. She just had to ask.
Mom: What’s wrong, honey?
Me: Mom, it was Xavier…
But she fumbled her lines. “What on earth are you wearing?”