“Let him fuck me!” I shout. It's cathartic, spilling out the hidden sickness inside of me like that. I've tried to protect Carter, but it wasn’t working.
Carter braces and for a moment it looks like he'll be sick. I watch him search his memories. “I don't know what you're talking about Vesp. You mean that night?” His eyes glaze over with tears and now I'm going to be sick. “You think I would have let him…” he chokes up, “do that to you? You think I would have given him permission like it was mine to give?”
The hurt on his face is so vivid, I can't bear to look at it. I can tolerate my own pain better than his.
“He told me—”
“He's a liar!” Carter shouts. “I'm sorry. I need—I need air,” he says between heavy breaths.
“Carter—” I call to him apologetically. But he's already heading for the door.
“I just need to take a walk,” he says.
He leaves and I stare at the door in silence. I didn't believe Sam when he told me. Of course, Carter wouldn't have done that. But part of me wishes he had. It would be easier somehow. I stare at the door for forty some odd minutes, perking up when I hear the key unlocking the door.
I stand at attention when Carter enters. He doesn't look well. He's pale and his eyes are pink and puffed. What I asked was cruel.
“I'm sorry for what I implied earlier. I had some elaborate speech in my head, but really I'm just sorry, Carter.”
Carter dips his head back, running his fingers through his hair, messy from a long day. We're both already so tired. His chest and shoulders drop as he rubs his hands over his face.
“I'm sorry I didn't protect you, Vesp. I'm sorry if I'm smothering you. I just—I feel like I failed you and—”
“No. No…” I insist, running over to him and grabbing his hands. “I didn't mean it. I was just feeling attacked and I said it to attack you. It was disgusting. Like I said, I am not the one who did this. Neither are you.”
Carter bows his head and sighs. “You're right. I still think you should see someone and I collected some good names, but I didn't mean to pressure you. It's just that, I've been waiting so long to have you back and it's like you're right here in front of me, but I can't reach you. I've thought about how amazing things would be when you came back, and I didn't realize how painful this would be. For you. It's selfish of me to expect you to come back and pretend that past year didn't happen. I’m reliving it, too. The cops came to my job to talk to me, looking for new information, anything I could have remembered since the many times they questioned me right after you were taken. I didn’t mention it because I hate bringing that night up. But it made me relive it, and it’s fresh again and I feel like he’s right around the corner to snatch you. I want to help, but I have nothing and I feel so fucking ineffective. That fucking bastard—”
I shake my head, regret pinching my chest. “No. No. Carter. He let me go. He’s not coming back for me. I understand this is hard on you. And you are being amazing. Maybe too amazing. I want us to enjoy each other. You calling every few hours, constantly worrying. That's not healthy for you. I didn't expect any of this. To be honest, I had assumed you moved on long ago. I thought I was forgotten.”
“I'm not your mother, Vesp.”
“I know,” I mutter under my breath. I think about the map sitting in my purse, how despite this understanding, loving man in front of me, all I can think about is finding that location. He may not understand it, but going there is something I have to do. I have to leave that place on my own terms.
“What do you say we just eat something, and enjoy the weekend? Let's just enjoy each other in the present. It's been a long week for both of us I think.”
“I think that's a great idea. In fact, why don't we go out to eat for a change?” I suggest.
At first I'm not sure if I have the right place as I drive along the dirt driveway. But as it curves and I see a peek of the barn from behind the trees, I know my theory was right.
I waited two weeks to come here. Two long weeks. I always hated that saying: long weeks, days, minutes. A minute is a minute. An hour is an hour. But now I understand that's not true. Not when you've been lying naked in a cold basement, starving, thirsty and seconds seem to freeze endlessly. Not when you're in the arms of the cruelest man you've ever known and he feeds you pleasure, direct, like a shot of heroin, and those minutes count down, accelerating in speed like a free fall, so that you hit the ground with a painful explosion when it's over all too quickly.