Page 49 of Before I Loved You

“W-why am I here?” I demand.

He takes a step inside, seeming confused. “You fell asleep in my car. I didn’t want to leave you alone after your panic attack, so I brought you here to sleep in my bed. I slept downstairs on the couch.”

“No. No. No. Not again.” I run my fingers through my hair, shaking my head.

“Sarah, breathe.” He reaches out for me, but I instinctively flinch, stepping back. His eyebrows pinch together as pain flashes across his face. “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

I point a shaking finger toward the computer, the source of the problem. “That!”

He looks at the computer and then at me. “What about it?”

“Did you film me in bed?” Tears stream down my face. The rational part of me knows that we didn’t have sex in his bed last night and knows that Paul would never film me, but the part of me right now that is stuck back in time, living through the same nightmare every single day, isn’t being rational.

She’s fearful. She’s scared. And she’s so fucking tired of having this video hanging over her head like a goddamn storm cloud ready to unleash terror upon her.

“What?” he asks, bewildered by my accusation.

“Di-did you film me?” I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes.

He hesitates before asking, “Why would you think I would do that to you?”

“It’s facing me!” I scream, opening my blurry eyes. The palms of my hands brace the sides of my head, dropping the blanket as my fingers dig into my scalp.

He walks over to his computer and examines it. “Everything is off, Sarah.” His voice is calm as he removes the camera piece sitting on the top. “This isn’t even plugged in. It’s for gaming.” He picks up a pair of thick headphones and a controller lying on the desk. “See?”

I shake my head; my whole body is a trembling mess. “I have to go.”

I move for the door, but he blocks me, holding my shoulders in place so I can’t run.

He looks up at the ceiling, clenching his jaw. When his eyes fall back onto me, they’re void of all emotion except rage. “Did someone film you?” he asks, cautiously as though knowing my secret when it’s imperative that he never finds out.

Because if I tell him the truth, he’ll try to take care of the problem for me, and there’s no fixing this. It’s already too late. I’m already risking enough just being here right now.

“I need to go!” I say forcefully, yanking my shoulder out of his grip.

“Sarah, talk to me!” His voice is rough and enraged.

“Let me go,” I plead through a sob. “I want…I want nothing to do with you. I lied to you. That night, it meant nothing to me. I barely remember it. You were just one of many. So just let me fucking go.” I bang the palm of my hands against his chest, my fingers shaking, giving away every ounce of fear within me, but not of Paul. Never of Paul. But only fear that the longer I stay here, the greater the chance of me slipping up any second and telling him what he wants to hear—the truth. “P-please,” I beg, my voice quivers.

He looks down at me, and there’s so much fury reflected in his eyes, but I know it’s not aimed at me when his grip on my shoulders loosens and he steps away, letting me run out the door and down the stairs, feeling a tightness in my chest like I’ve never experienced before.

* * *

It’s been days since I ran out of Paul’s room like the world was set on fire. And my heart hasn’t felt the same.

Staring at the blank canvas, I feel utterly ashamed.

I came to the art studio to escape my own thoughts.

The cruel words I lashed out at him have played over and over again in my mind like a broken record, and no matter what I do, I can’t make them stop. I can’t push the pain away.

And after sitting here for hours, the only thing I’ve accomplished is mixing black and white paint, forming an ominous grey, representing my mood.

How could I say those words to Paul?

How could I look him in the eyes and hurt him like that?

Because I had no choice.

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