My thoughts were not friendly company tonight.
Rick’s accusations stung. More information than I’d wanted, and yet less than I really needed to act on. I wasn’t in a position to have any leverage with Colin.
And while I was glad that I’d cleared the air with Shelly, our conversation had dredged up more memories. What I’d told Colin was true; I’d sat there, almost comatose, when Andrew had driven me home.
The weight of what had happened, of what Andrew had done, had sat between us like another passenger in the car. I hadn’t dared look at him, afraid I’d see the face of my friend masking a violent stranger. Or maybe I was more afraid that Andrew—sane, safe Andrew—had returned and I’d have to deal with his horror at his own actions.
Before we had even slowed to a stop, I bolted out of the car and ran into my house. I wasn’t sure how long I lay there on my bed. Movies showed rape victims rushing to take a shower, to wash it all away, but I just lay there. As if the water would make it real. Or maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, there’d be nothing left. I already knew the important things could never be rinsed off. The shame, the fear. The pain. So it was better not to feel.
I might have stayed there forever, slowly withering away, only found two weeks later when my dad returned from his route. But Shelly had come.
She’d taken one look at my torn clothes and discolored wrists, and she’d known. God, the horror of that, of someone else knowing about that dark moment, was like another thrust of the rape.
“Who did this?” she’d asked.
I couldn’t tell her. I’d seen the way she looked at Andrew when she thought I wasn’t looking. The way she invited him to everything, the way she asked after him if I’d seen him without her. I hadn’t even been able to tell her that he liked me, that he had asked me out, again and again. How could I tell her this?
As it turned out, I didn’t have to.
My silence gave it away. “No,” she’d gasped.
But she’d brought something new to the table: anger.
Anger was good. I felt it burble in me now, hot springs of wrath. Manipulative. Controlling. Asshole. This had started about Andrew, but now it was about Colin.
Why did Colin have to force things? Well, I answered my own question there. Because I’d told him no, repeatedly. To men, no just meant make me.
I had wanted Colin, but by taking away my choice, he’d degraded me as much as Andrew had. Colin hadn’t even had to do it, because I’d needed more money than I could make at the bakery. Because of Andrew. Andrew, who pushed me for custody and then disappeared. Andrew, who Colin had spoken with, but not me.
Was it possible Colin had used Andrew the same way he’d used Rick—to try and force my hand into coming to him? No, that seemed beyond even him. Still, though, the lines had utterly blurred. We’d moved from shades of gray into hot mess.
I couldn’t stand the cool sheets, the drafty room, the black, yawning bay windows. There was only one thing to do at a time like this. Night baking. I tiptoed from the bedroom, so as not to disturb the slumbering child across the hall, crept down the stairs, so as not to disturb the hibernating man in the study, and into the kitchen.
I opened the pantry door with a sort of reverence and fingered the packages, like a painter might before selecting his materials. A cheesecake, maybe? I’d gotten enough cream cheese for it. It would have to harden overnight, but in the morning I’d drizzle it with melted chocolate and some of those raspberries.
Or maybe something chocolaty. What was I thinking? Definitely something chocolaty.
A tart. A light chocolate crust, a smooth truffle filling, and a shiny chocolate topping. A bit more foreplay, what with the three separate components, but—ah—the payoff. My eyes glazed at the thought. It was an orgasm in cake form. Really, no one could pamper themselves better than a baker.
I crushed graham crackers for the crust, then pressed the mix into the tart mold I’d bought from Goodwill a year ago. While that hardened in the oven, I whisked eggs and melted chocolate to make my filling. Once the tart itself had baked, I poured a thin layer of glaze over the top, forming a black, glossy surface.
It would take a while to set, so I wandered through the quiet house. There wasn’t anything to see, nothing to touch, so my hands rested behind my back.
Light peeked out from under the study door.
I knocked, my timidity downgrading it into more of a tap.
“Come in,” he said from inside, and I opened the door.
This study was nothing like Philip’s. It was open and airy, matching the minimalism in the rest of the house. A desk and chair filled out one end of the room. A small sofa sat in the other, and that’s where Colin lay. He shut the drawer on the side table just as I entered.