Cindy picked up on her private nature, and seemed to understand it wasn’t personal. Probably she stereotyped Livia as a typical Asian kid, bookish and shy and obsessed with her studies. Livia was happy to play the role. It got people to leave her alone, and besides, she had to admit that on the surface, it wasn’t exactly inaccurate. But beneath the surface . . . she wasn’t sure what she was. Despite her newfound feeling of freedom, she still felt . . . apart from other people. She doubted any of the prosperous-looking students around her could even imagine the events of her past, let alone have survived them. That, and the secrets she kept locked deep inside, felt like a wall between her and the rest of the world.
At random moments, but especially when she was enjoying herself, she felt guilty. Maybe she shouldn’t have gone to college. Maybe she should have become a cop right away, so she could try to find Nason. But she knew it didn’t make sense to feel that way. Rick was a cop, and so was Gavin, and they hadn’t been able to find Nason. She didn’t see what she could do until Weed Tyler was out of prison. So there was nothing wrong with her going to college. But still, it hurt to remember her little bird, and she made sure to say her vows every night before she went to sleep, though when Cindy was in the room, she had to say them silently.
There was a boy on the judo team she liked—Colton, a junior, who had come to SJSU from Los Angeles specifically for the judo and who a lot of people thought had Olympic potential. He had light brown hair and green eyes, and a face full of freckles that reminded Livia of Sean. And he was a lightweight, close enough to Livia’s size so that they practiced together a lot, though she also made sure to train with bigger, stronger opponents. She knew life was less fair than the tatami.
One afternoon after practice, Colton asked if she wanted to get a drink. She didn’t trust alcohol because that time in Llewellyn it had made her feel out of control, albeit in a good way. But she said yes. They went to a bar near the school, and Livia had a beer. It made her feel buzzed, but not so much that she didn’t like it. Afterward, Colton walked her back to her dorm and kissed her goodnight. Livia really enjoyed kissing someone again—the kissing, and the tingling it caused. She wanted to do more than kiss, but after everything that had been done to her, she was afraid to try.
The next few times they went out, they kissed more. And then, one night, after several beers instead of the usual one or two, he asked if she wanted to come back to his apartment. She was afraid, and furious at herself for feeling that way—furious enough that she would have gone with him even if she hadn’t wanted to, because she was never going to be ruled by fear again.
But she did want to. She was afraid of what it would be like. But she wanted to try.
He put on some music—Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay,” a song Livia liked. Then they sat on his couch and kissed for a while, but it wasn’t like the other times, when she had felt the tingling. She supposed that, even buzzed from all the beer, she was too nervous. Colton started touching her, running his hands along her hips and breasts, and it reminded her of what Mr. Lone used to do, which was awful. But she wasn’t going to stop. It would have felt like a victory for Mr. Lone. So she let Colton undress her, and she undressed him, her fingers trembling as she did so. He eased her back on the couch and she tried to relax while he touched her, but it didn’t feel good, she wasn’t wet and tingling the way she was when she touched herself.
“I have a condom,” he said, breathing heavily. “Is it okay? Do you want to?”
She didn’t, but she knew she had to get past it. Had to at least try. So she nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
He leaned away and pulled something from a drawer, then fumbled to get it on himself. She didn’t watch. She was afraid seeing his penis would make her remember too many horrible things.
He pushed her legs open—gently enough, but she didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all. Too many memories were being stirred up, too many terrible feelings. The way Mr. Lone had pulled the towel off her. And made her stop covering herself. Those things. And then Colton moved on top of her, and his weight was on her, and his arms were under hers, and she felt him poking at her, trying to push it in. But she wasn’t wet, and it hurt, and she just . . . she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
“Stop,” she said. “Colton, stop. I can’t. I don’t want to.”
“Wait,” he said, breathlessly. “We’re almost there. Just a little more. Just a little more, Livia.”
“Stop,” she said again, louder this time, angry he wasn’t listening. “I don’t want to.”
He put more weight on her and gripped her more tightly. He pushed harder, trying to get inside.
“No!” she shouted, suddenly enraged. “I said no!”
She hooked a leg under one of his and flipped him off the couch onto the floor. She kept the hook in and stayed with him as he crashed onto his back, landing in a straddle across his torso—the mount, the dominant jiu-jitsu position. She took hold of his throat with one hand and raised up the other to smash his nose into his face—a palm heel, one of the strikes Malcolm had taught her.