“I always knew when it was Monday. Those were the busiest days. Something about the weekend not working out for them, maybe. I don’t know. They all didn’t come for a fuck. Some just wanted someone to talk to. I hated them the most. Stupid, right? But it’s like, why the hell should I listen to your whiny ass? I’m locked up here, forced to have sex with strangers, and you want me to sympathize with you not getting a fucking promotion at work? Not one of them got the fucking irony of that. Not one. Stupid fucking bastards.”
She takes a deep breath and lays her head back on the headrest, still staring at the house. “This is the second time I’ve come back since I escaped. I was angrier the first time than I am this time. Isn’t that strange? I feel more defiant this time. You bent me, but you didn’t break me. I’m still standing. I’m free. That’s pretty much how I feel. I think you’re partially responsible for that. For just being quiet while I say all kinds of stupid, rambling shit. It’s a gift you have.”
She holds her hand out to me, her attention still on the house. I take it in both of mine, pressing hers between them. If I could pull her memories from her and carry them for her for a while, I would. She did that for me with Cassandra. The pain is still there and some of the anger, but it’s not near what it once was. I hope I can do that for her.
“Sex isn’t mechanical with you. I hope you know that. You’ve given me so many firsts, you have no idea. Thank you for that too.” She pulls her hand from mine and starts the car. “I’m done here. I don’t ever want to come back.”
I glance behind us at the house as we drive away. I’m going to have nightmares about it. About Vera and all the other girls who were held inside. If I thought she was brave before, I was wrong. She’s a fucking superhero. I admire her more than anyone else I’ve ever met. She makes what I went through almost insignificant by comparison. She’s a rock star. A goddess. She’s fucking courageous. And she’s mine…for a time.
Chapter 22
Vera
I don’t know why I took Beau to that house. It felt necessary, I guess. That’s probably the best way to put it. The only way to put it. Necessary. Like if I didn’t take him there right then I was going to fly apart into a thousand little pieces. I can’t give him the answers he wants, but I can give him all the rest of me. The good, the bad, and the seriously fucked-up.
And there’s a whole hell of a lot of seriously fucked-up, that’s for sure.
I don’t question why we work the way we do. We just do. We’re symbiotic. I’ve never felt this way with a person before, and I can’t help but wonder if he and Cassandra were like this or if this is new for him too. I don’t know anything about relationships. Maybe this is normal and everybody who has an affair feels the same way. I don’t dare ask him, though. I’m not jealous anymore, just curious. He might not like the question or might read something else into it. Something permanent. Something I can’t give him.
We go back to my motel room and order pizza. People our age go out to the movies, parties, clubs, and friends’ houses. Not us. We’re more comfortable away from crowds. We don’t want to see or be seen. We’re not tied to social media. We don’t binge-watch TV shows. It hadn’t really occurred to me until this moment how odd we must seem to other people. How totally out of place we are in society. We don’t even talk unnecessarily to fill the void. There are no awkward silences. That’s unusual too. Over the past few years I’ve watched the interactions people have with each other to try to get a sense of what’s normal. I have no perspective on what’s customary. I’m relearning how to be a person and not doing a very good job of it.
Beau never makes me feel that way, though. It’s one of the things I like best about him. There are so many things I like about him, from the way he looks to how I feel when I’m with him.
He kicks off his shoes, lies down on the bed, stacking his hands under his head, and stares at the ceiling. His thinking pose. I lie down next to him and mimic him. Except I can’t concentrate, so I turn my head on the pillow to look at him, only to find him watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re remarkable.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I think you’re remarkable.”
“Not hardly.”
I shift to my side, pillowing my head on my bent arm. “How did you keep track of time in prison?”
This time he copies my pose. “Counted the days.”
“Like with slashes on the wall or something?”
“No, in my head. I kept a running total.”
“You never forgot or lost track?”
“No. Not even once.”
“I lost track,” I say. “A lot. I think it was not knowing night from day. There was no routine either. The days just kind of blended together. Plus, I lost chunks of time fucking. I’d zone out, then all of a sudden it was dinner or breakfast. There are no clocks in my head. I think maybe it was better that way. Made time go by faster. When I escaped, I found out how many years I’d been held—almost four.”
“Two thousand two hundred and seventy-one days for me.”
“You still remember the number of days? How long is that?”
“A little over six years.”
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”