PART ONE
Seven Years later
Chapter One
Wren
It was just like out of a movie.
The couch, me reclining on it, facing away from Dr. Michael Carter, who sat in a brown leather wingback chair, one leg crossed over the other, yellow legal pad in his lap, pen scribbling away. Mike, he’d told me to call him during our first visit if that made me feel more comfortable.
Nothing was making me feel comfortable lately, which was why I was here in the first place. I’d been dealing with it pretty well, or so I’d thought, but that had now changed. I’d made the first appointment with Dr. Mike—almost a year ago now—under the guise of wanting to get a control of my “serial dating.” I’d gotten into the bad habit of sleeping with guys and never returning their calls, even the ones that I actually did find myself liking. I’d become a “real bitch” as one of the guys had so kindly phrased it after we’d slept together and I then refused to see him again. Worse, I was starting to get a reputation around town, which, as a small business owner, I did not want, but I didn’t seem to know how to stop it.
Talking with Dr. Mike was helpful, sort of. I didn’t feel as though I was any closer to actually untangling the knot that was my problems, but just speaking out loud about them really did seem to help.
“So, these dreams,” Dr. Mike was saying. “You’ve been having recurring nightmares.”
I stared at a speck on the ceiling. “Yes. But that’s not that strange; I’ve been having those dreams for the past seven years now. I’m used to them.”
“What’s changed, then?”
The speck moved; it was actually a fly. “Because I found out that person is getting released from prison.”
“And how did you find this out?”
I hesitated. There was always this awkward moment when I had to admit what I’d been doing all these years. “I called the prison he’s at. I’ve been… I looked him up online. He had a MySpace profile that I found, and he’d started a Facebook one, but then…but then the incident happened and…” I let my voice trail off. I was stalking him online, although it’s difficult to stalk someone in this way when they’re in prison and can’t actually access the internet. I’d learned his name from the newspaper article, which I could recite verbatim:
Carmel resident, Isaac Wentworth, 20, was killed last night in
an altercation in the parking lot of the Watering Hole. Oliver
“Ollie” Boardman, 18, also a resident of Carmel, has been detained,
charges pending. An unidentified female was also at the scene,
but she left before police arrived. Authorities would like to speak
with her, so anyone with information regarding her whereabouts
or who she is, is asked to come forward.
No one knew me was the thing. I had seen the article, so yes, I could’ve come forward; I could have driven myself down to the Carmel police station and answered whatever questions they had. But I didn’t. Instead, I stared at that article, reread it so many times that I eventually had it memorized. I didn’t come forward when Oliver plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter, and, because they’d avoided a trial, the district attorney offered him ten to twelve years. And now he was getting out after seven. I told myself that my coming forward wouldn’t have changed anything. It would not give Isaac his life back; it would not make Oliver’s statement any more or less true.
“The incident,” Dr. Mike said. “We haven’t really touched upon that much in your sessions. Do you feel ready to talk about it?”
Dr. Mike knew the broad details: something had happened about seven years ago, something that had made me mistrustful of pretty much every guy I’d ever been around, and that someone had ended up in prison because of it. I’d been purposefully vague with him, and he’d been completely accepting of my vagueness. There was no way I would’ve been able to stand something like that—I would need to know, right then, the specifics of whatever the hell it was the person was talking about. Not Dr. Mike, though. He’d probed a little, trying to extract more information, but when I wasn’t forthcoming with it, he let it drop, maybe knowing that this day would eventually arrive.
Did I feel ready to talk about it?
“I think I do,” I said.
“Good. Tell me what happened.”
“Well…” It had been seven years ago, yet I could remember it as though it had just happened. I could still feel his weight pressing against me, the terrible helplessness when you realize you are overpowered. “The thing is…nothing happened to me. Because Oliver showed up. If he hadn’t though, I don’t know what would have happened. That is something I think about. A lot.” And that was stupid; I knew it. What was the point in wasting all this energy playing out bad scenarios that could have—but didn’t—happen? People did it all the time, but no good was coming from me thinking about the fact that Isaac Wentworth could have raped me, or beaten me, or killed me if Oliver hadn’t been there.
“Something did happen to you, though,” Dr. Mike said.
“I just feel so stupid. I still feel so stupid for being so naïve. It was my first weekend in Carmel. I’d gone out to that bar alone, and when Isaac and his group of friends asked if I wanted to sit with them, I actually felt happy because I thought that the locals were including me, that I must’ve looked like I belonged.” The shame still burned red hot when I thought back to how pleased I’d been at the invitation to sit with them. I was so proud of myself! Moving to this town all by myself, going out to a bar alone, getting invited to sit with some guys at their table. How could I not have seen how foolish I was being?
“It’s a very natural response to want to be accepted, especially when you’re in a new environment.” I could hear Dr. Mike scribbling something on his yellow legal pad. I wondered what he was writing. Clearly beyond help. The whole thing was obviously her fault. She deserved it.
“And Isaac asked if I wanted to go smoke a cigarette. I don’t even smoke, but I said yes. I thought he was cute. So, we went out to the parking lot, and he said he’d left his lighter in his truck, so we walked over there, but he didn’t even bother with the lighter. He just sort of cornered me against his truck and tried to kiss me.” I paused again, not wanting to continue because to admit that a small part of me had, for a split second, felt thrilled that someone was this interested in me, to admit that would be to suggest that I had invited the whole thing to happen. That I had somehow been sending some sort of subconscious signal that he’d picked up on. Which I knew was bullshit, but at the same time couldn’t help believing, too.
“How did that make you feel?” Dr. Mike asked after a few long moments had passed and I hadn’t said anything.
“I felt…” There was no point in lying or withholding the truth. I was paying him to listen to this, after all; he wasn’t someone I was trying to impress. There would be no hope of the nightmares ever letting up if I wasn’t honest about it all. “I felt surprised. I couldn’t believe it, and yes, there was a part of me that was excited because he was kissing me. I might have kissed him back. I can’t remember. But then…but then, he started trying to take things further, and I told him to stop.”
I had laughed as I said it; the idea that he wouldn’t still not occurring to me yet. That was the sort of thing that happened in movies, or to girls who dressed in short skirts and tight shirts and had too much to drink. It wasn’t supposed to happen to me, not during my first week in my new town, my first night out on my own.
“He wouldn’t stop, though. It didn’t seem to matter how many times I said it; I felt like I said it dozens of times, but maybe it was only once or twice. I don’t know.”
“Would it make a difference? How many times you said it?”
“Wouldn’t it? If I only said it once or twice, maybe he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he didn’t think that I really meant it.”
“It shouldn’t matter if you said it once or a hundred times. You shouldn’t need to say it one hundred times. The fact of the matter is: he was doing something to you that you didn’t want him to do.”
That was probably the most opinionated I’d heard Dr. Mike get about anything I’d said so far. He’d given me slippery non-answers in my previous sessions when I detailed the guys I’d been with, wondering aloud if my ability to just turn my emotions off was an ability that I’d always had or if it was a result of the night in the parking lot. It didn’t seem as though Dr. Mike was going to give me any of the answers I was looking for, despite the exorbitant amount of money I was paying him. It was as though he was expecting me to figure out those answers on my own, which didn’t seem like something I was going to be able to do any time soon.
After my appointment, I went back to work. I usually scheduled my appointments with Dr. Mike during the lull between breakfast and lunch, so when I returned, the place was mostly empty, and my main waitress, Lena, was re-setting the tables with clean silverware and napkins.
It still made me feel giddy sometimes to think that I owned this restaurant. I didn’t have much in the way of accomplishments to my name—no college degree and no husband or children to speak of—but after the previous café had been put up for sale, I used the inheritance money my grandma had left me and bought the place, shut it down for a few months while it was renovated, and re-opened it under a new name: Ollie’s.
We did breakfast and lunch, wholesome, hearty food, not the slop you’d get at the diner right off the highway, but not the high-priced, tiny plate fare you’d get at some of the swankier establishments in town. I wanted the place to be welcoming, laid back, but also visually appealing. I’d been a little nervous about the whole thing at first because I didn’t have much restaurant experience aside from a few waitressing jobs, and I didn’t have a degree in business, but I was determined to make this work. I did not consider failure to be an option, even if no one wanted to come in to the restaurant and eat.
“Hey, Wren,” Lena said when she saw me. “Everything go okay at your appointment?”
“Pretty good!” I said, trying to sound cheerful. I told Lena I’d started seeing Dr. Mike, though I hadn’t specified why. I didn’t need to though; Lena was totally one of those women who was all about self-help, and she herself was “seeing” someone, though it was for the opposite reason of why I was going: Lena couldn’t seem to make any relationship work, or she was choosing the wrong guys, or some combination of the two.
I went out back and put my purse in the office, said “hi” to Shaun and the other two cooks, then went back out to the dining room. I needed a coffee.
There was a guy sitting at the bar, drinking a cup of coffee of his own, and working on a club sandwich. It was Ryan, one of the out-of-state employees who worked at one of the nearby guest ranches. Last season, he’d had a girlfriend, but one of the very first things he’d said to me when he set foot in the restaurant was that they’d broken up. I had acted nonchalant about this information, though I figured it would only be a matter of time before he and I hooked up.
“Wren,” he said. “Was hoping I’d run into you.”
“Had an appointment,” I said. “How’s the sandwich?”
“Delicious as always. You got plans tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a bunch of things I need to take care of.” I didn’t have anything I needed to take care of, but I’d felt odd after I left Dr. Mike’s, and I knew when I was feeling like this, it was better to spend the night alone.
“How about this weekend? You ought to come on over to the ranch. There’s going to be a barbecue and a little party of sorts to kick off the start of the season. Saturday night.”
I nodded as I poured a giant cup of coffee in my special mug that said This is whiskey on the side in pretty pink script. It was a joke because I’d never had whiskey in this mug before, or any mug, for that matter; I got tipsy off of a few beers, so I definitely couldn’t handle something like whiskey. “I might be able to make that,” I said. I did love a good barbecue.
“That’d be mighty nice,” Ryan said, giving me a look that plenty of guys had given me before. I used to feel dangerously thrilled, but now it didn’t really do anything. It wasn’t exciting; it wasn’t even that much fun. It was just another way to spend an evening.