Still, as I sat in my car alone each morning, I didn’t know how to make that happen. My parents continued to push me to go to the police, convinced—na?vely so—that the justice system would do its job and put Tyler away. They assumed I was reluctant to report what Tyler did because I was afraid I might end up getting put on trial myself, which of course was part of my hesitance, but mostly, I felt like the only way I could move on was to find a way to stop blaming myself, and the only thing that would let me do that was for Tyler to take the blame himself. If he admitted his guilt, I might find a way to alleviate my own.
I’d refused to go back and see Vanessa again, reasoning that there was no amount of talking that would fix what was broken inside of me. There was only action, only the idea of seeing a grainy picture of Tyler in the paper, the headline LOCAL PARAMEDIC PLEADS GUILTY TO RAPE written in bold, black letters above his face.
I watched as Tyler’s red truck pulled out of the driveway and onto the street. I checked the clock on my cell phone—five thirty-six—and then slid down even farther in my seat to make sure he didn’t see me. I worried that he might recognize my car, but so far, he hadn’t. At least, not that I knew of. It wasn’t like he would call me now and ask if it had been me parked on the street.
And even though I tried to fight it, I felt a small pang of longing then, mourning the relationship he and I had shared for so many years. Just like that, it had vanished, all the days and hours we’d spent together, the laughter we’d shared, the sense of stability that no other relationship in my life seemed to match. There was a vacuum where our friendship had once been. He’d robbed me of the one constant in my world, besides my parents. He’d annihilated more than just my body that night—he’d crushed my entire life.
As he drove past, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight back tears. How was I going to get him to admit what he’d done if I could barely stand the thought of him? How could I be in his physical presence without wanting to turn around and flee? He was so much stronger, he could easily overtake me. He could lure me in with sweet words of amends, promises of atonement, and then, without warning, he could rape me again. My entire body convulsed at the thought. I’d need something to even the playing field, something that would let me be in control. He could apologize, beg forgiveness, and all the years I’d loved him might soften my heart and not make him confess. I needed something to remind me to be strong—to show him I couldn’t be persuaded or sweet-talked. And then, my mind flashed to the image of my father’s black pistol, which was in his home office, locked away in the safe behind his desk. I knew where he kept the key—he’d shown me, years ago, in case I was ever alone in the house and needed to protect myself from anyone trying to break in. That’s it, I realized. The one thing that could make me more powerful than Tyler. If I had a weapon, it would remind me that I was the one in control. There was no question it would give me the upper hand.
After I was sure he was gone, after I’d given him enough time to be blocks and blocks away, I finally sat upright in the driver’s seat and started my car. Once at the gym, I went through the motions of my job, instructing Doris and my other clients through their workouts, cheering for them, correcting their positions as needed. But I was mostly thinking about that gun. How I could sneak it from the safe without my father knowing, how I would have to figure out a place to take Tyler where no one would interrupt us. How once I was holding that gun, I would be invincible.
“You’re distracted today,” Doris said as we finished up the last session of my shift and I walked with her into the locker room.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Just thinking about my test.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, skeptically. “You’ll have to forgive me for saying this, dear, but I’m concerned about how much weight you’ve lost. You’re wasting away.”
“I’m just one of those people with a fast metabolism.” I gave her a big, fake smile to make the lie more palatable. “I eat like crazy, but when I’m busy and a little stressed, the pounds just slide right off.” I glanced down at my body, which, despite the valley between my hip bones and the ribs that showed through my skin, I knew could still stand to lose another ten pounds, at least. I felt disgusting. I pinched the skin of my stomach, sure there were fat cells multiplying beneath it, taunting me when I looked in the mirror.
Doris stared at me, lips pursed and her kind, cornflower-blue eyes still filled with doubt. “If that’s the case, you should talk with your doctor,” she said, and I nodded, knowing that she meant well. But she didn’t understand that every meal was a battlefield, that every bite was a bullet I put in my own mouth. Every pound I lost made me a purer version of myself.
As I drove home, I thought about how I could get Tyler to confess. I could hear a quiet, rational voice whispering in my ear, telling me I was out of my mind, saying that I should just go back and see Vanessa, let her help me navigate my life and stitch together the ragged remnants of my soul. But the louder voice inside me was that of anger—my absolute fury at the idea of Tyler getting away with this. If I let that happen, I was tacitly giving him permission to do the same thing to someone else.
I needed to get my hands on my father’s gun.
When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I noticed an unfamiliar blue sedan parked in the spot next to mine. I wondered if it was one of my father’s clients, whom he sometimes invited over to sign paperwork if he was working from home. Feeling wary as I entered the house through the side door, I heard voices in the family room, just off the kitchen—my parents, and someone else.
“Hi, honey,” my dad said, rising from where he had been sitting, next to my mother, on the couch. “Come meet Larry.”
Larry was a tall, skinny reed of a man dressed in a blue suit that looked too short on his long limbs. He was completely bald, wore round glasses without frames, and his earlobes were huge, sticking out at a weird angle from his head.
“Hi,” I said, dropping my purse on the counter and then crossing my arms over my chest, thinking that no good could come of a strange man in our house. Was he another counselor? A detective, maybe? Did my parents really have the nerve to bring the police to me when I’d refused go to them?
“Nice to meet you, Amber,” Larry said, walking around the couch. He came toward me, holding out his hand, and so I shook it, quickly, and then crossed my arms again.
“Why don’t you come join us?” my mom said. She was still on the couch, turned to look at me. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and I knew that she’d been crying.
My gaze bounced from her, to my dad, and then to Larry, and I shook my head. “I need to shower,” I said. “And study.”
“Amber, please,” my dad said. “That can wait. We invited Larry over to speak with you.”
“Without telling me about it first?” I said, unable to keep the anger from my words. “I told you, I don’t want to talk to the police!”