Page 79 of The Dixon Rule

Keeping that smile plastered on my face all week is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I’ve been an emotional wreck since Percy hit me.

According to him, it was an accident. He claimed it was involuntary. That when I pushed him, his first instinct was to defend himself. Maybe that’s true. Probably not. Either way, I don’t want to make a big thing out of it. I don’t. I can’t.

I fucking can’t.

Tears well up, and I blink rapidly to disperse them. I quickly stack up the mats, eager to get home.

I pray the other counselors have already left for the day as I trudge toward the locker room. Fortunately, it’s empty, and since I usually change clothes at home, I grab my keys, sunglasses, and purse from my locker and hurry toward the door.

I falter midstep when my reflection in the wall of mirrors catches my attention. My gaze homes in on the ugly bruise around my left eye. An anguished sob gets caught in my throat, and I forcibly swallow it down. For a second, I can’t breathe. Suddenly I’m back there. That night. Completely stunned, reeling from the pain of Percy’s fist smashing into my face.

No one’s ever hit me before.

It doesn’t matter if it was an accident. It still fucking hurt. I told everyone at cheer camp that I accidentally caught Kenji’s elbow to the face during dance rehearsal. I told Shane, and Gigi when I saw her the other day, that the same thing happened at camp during a pyramid collapse.

I don’t know why I couldn’t just tell them the truth.

You do know why.

Yeah. I do. It’s for the same reason I didn’t call my dad the second it happened, even though every instinct in my body was ordering me to.

Every instinct except for one—fear. The moment Percy’s knuckles connected with my face, fight-or-flight kicked in, and the latter won in a landslide. I couldn’t do anything but run. Run from Percy, run from the embarrassment, run from the urge to call my father for help. Because Dad would’ve made me go to the police, and that was the last thing I wanted to do in that moment.

I still don’t. I refuse to make a big deal out of it. And the truth is, I did provoke him. I did try to shove him. So what’s the point of reporting it to the cops when, in all likelihood, it won’t go further than an uncomfortable interview?

I want to put this entire humiliating incident out of my mind. It’s over and done with. I’m not worried about Percy coming near me again. Although he’s been texting apologies all week, I’ve made it clear that I want nothing to do with him ever again. I’ve also kept every single one of his messages, screenshots of them saved in a folder on my phone.

My knees feel too wobbly to walk, so I sink onto the long wooden bench and scroll through those messages now.

The first one was sent less than five minutes after I stumbled into my condo that night and raced upstairs to ice my face.

PERCY:

Diana, I’m so sorry. That was a complete accident. I did NOT mean to hit you. It was an entirely instinctive response to you trying to push me.

ME:

I tried to push you because you grabbed my arm. You wouldn’t let go when I asked you to let go—three times.

ME:

Don’t EVER contact me again. FUCKING EVER.

PERCY:

It was an accident. Please believe me.

When I don’t answer, his texts continue to stream in. They arrive daily, rife with excuses.

PERCY:

It was a reflex. Completely unintentional.

PERCY:

Are you okay?

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