“You almost drowned,” Tyler says, softly, and I know we are both thinking about the day my black rubber tube had unexpectedly flipped—how I got sucked into a circling undertow next to a giant, craggy rock. I remember kicking and flailing all of my limbs as hard as I could, trying to free myself from the strong funnel pulling me down, trapping me beneath the surface. But I couldn’t, and it was Tyler who grabbed on to a fallen tree with one arm and managed to grab on to my hand and lift me to safety with the other.
“You saved me,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. Remembering moments like this in our friendship only added to the nightmare of what he’d done to me in July. It magnified his betrayal, amplified my pain, and made me feel like I’d never be able to trust another man again. The friend Tyler had been to me for so many years was the polar opposite of the attacker he had become. Most of the time my mind didn’t know what to do with this disparity. It made me feel crazy, one moment remembering how close we’d been, how often he was there for me, listening, refusing to abandon me when everyone else seemed to. Then I’d be hit with the memory of the weight of him on me, the stench of alcohol on his breath, and the sharp pain of him jabbing at me with his hips. I couldn’t reconcile these two versions of the same person. My mind kept telling me it couldn’t be real.
“Sometimes I think it was you who saved me,” he says. His green eyes reflect the flickering light from the lantern on the table in front of the couch.
“What’re you talking about?” I say, momentarily distracted from the fury I feel by the memory of that day. “You pulled me out of the water.”
“I’m not talking about the river,” he says. “I’m talking about how you came over and sat next to me at your parents’ party after my dad threw me in the pool. Having you as a friend saved me in so many ways.”
I let out a short, barking laugh and sit down in the pleather recliner, opposite him, and drop the gun into my lap. “You have a fucked-up way of showing your gratitude.”
“I know,” he says. “Trust me, please. I know how badly I screwed up. But you have to believe I never meant to hurt you.”
“So you keep saying. And I keep saying that what you meant to do doesn’t matter. What matters is what you did. You raped me, Tyler. Just say it. Just fucking admit it so I don’t have to shoot you.” I try to sound strong, worried he might call me out on my bluff. I don’t know if I actually have it in me to pull the trigger. I don’t know if I can follow through on my threats.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” he says, but there is a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He is testing me, seeing if he can come out the winner in this battle of wills.
“How can you be sure?” I ask, holding his gaze while I run my free hand over the cool steel of the gun. With one quick bend of my thumb, I turn off the safety and give him a challenging look. Go ahead, the look says. Try me.
“Because that’s not who you are,” Tyler says. “The only person you’ve ever been able to hurt is yourself.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, knowing he’s referring to the years I spent starving myself, the same way I’ve been starving myself since the night he led me up to that room and pinned me down on the bed. Restricting what I eat is my go-to act of self-defense, the best way I know how to feel strong in the midst of turmoil. I’ve lost twenty-six pounds since July, my weight sliding back into double digits. My old behaviors have snuck back in, embracing me like a familiar blanket.
“Is your heart okay?” he asks. “With all the weight you’ve lost?”
“Stop pretending like you give a shit!” I say. My tone is an octave higher than usual, on the verge of shrieking. “Nothing you say right now can make a difference, except admitting what you did!”
“What we did, Amber,” Tyler says. “Don’t forget how drunk you were, too. Don’t forget that it was you who kissed me, first.” His voice is still soft, but it’s also laced with a hint of defiance, a fact that only serves to feed my rage. When we first climbed inside his truck, he’d said he was sorry—he’d said he hated himself for hurting me. And now he was going to blame me? Fuck that. Fuck him.
“Kissing didn’t give you permission to have sex with me! I told you to wait! I asked you to stop! And you ignored me!” I lift the gun again and point it at him, my arm shaking so much that I have to cup the butt of the weapon with two hands in order to hold it still. “You made me bleed! You left bruises all over my body. I couldn’t move without remembering what you did. Goddamn it, Tyler, just admit it! Admit it and promise that you’ll tell the police. That you’ll turn yourself in! That’s all I’m asking you to do!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I can’t. I’ll lose my job. I’ll lose everything.”
“What about what I’ve lost?” I say. I stand up, arms held straight in front of me, gripping the gun. “You don’t give a shit about that, do you? All you’re thinking about is you. What might happen to you.” I breathe in and out, rapidly, feeling my heart flutter, and I am suddenly terrified that I might have another heart attack. But then it hits me that I’ve come too far, fought through too much, to give up now. A renewed sense of determination flows through me. I’m going to right this wrong. “You know what, Tyler? You sound exactly like your father. Like an egomaniacal, self-absorbed, rapist bastard.”
He closes his eyes momentarily, and I know that I’ve hit him where it hurts most. Good, I think. I want you to hurt. I want you in so much pain you feel like you’re going to die. He’s just said that I couldn’t shoot him. But there is a fiery ache in the pit of my stomach and I think I’m capable of doing anything it takes to get him to speak the truth.
“There has to be some other way,” he says, sounding as though he is struggling to remain calm.
“There isn’t,” I say, cocking the hammer with my thumb. “Admit what you did. Say it. Promise you’ll go to the police.” If he refuses, there’s only one thing I can do. One way to make him pay.
“Amber, I can’t. You have to understand. If you’d just stop—”
“The same way you stopped that night?” I take a step toward him, and he freezes, realizing his mistake.
“We can find another way,” he says, again. He stands up then, too, looking like he might come at me, like he’s trying to figure out a way to grab the gun.
“No,” I say, gripping the weapon as tightly as I can. With the safety off, all it will take is a single twitch of my finger. “Sit down. Now!”
He holds completely still, except for his eyes, which bounce between my face and my hands. I can see a thick blue vein pulsing in his neck, and beads of sweat sprout across his forehead, but he doesn’t comply with my order. I am white-hot with rage.
“You won’t shoot me,” he repeats. “Give me the gun, Amber. This has gone on long enough. You can’t prove I forced you to do anything. If you could, I would have been arrested by now. Bringing me here was a mistake. If you stop this, if we just get in the truck and drive back home, I won’t tell the police.”