Page 79 of Riff

“Yes,” I said, sniffling but refusing to cry about it. Not until I gauged if she thought I was being irrational or not. “He’s been so easy to trust because he’s never lied to you.”

“And now, by omission, he has.”

“Yes.”

“What did he say when you confronted him?”

“That he could explain.”

“And did he?” she asked. I must have looked guilty then, because she nodded. “You didn’t give him a chance to.”

“No,” I admitted. “I know I’m probably overreacting, but I was just—“

“It was a shock,” she said, shrugging a bit. “More so than the feelings of betrayal, I believe it might be the shock of seeing that item, evidence of the past, that is making you react so strongly.”

That… well, that was likely true.

The second I picked it up, knew it was mine, it all came flooding back. In bright, cinematic detail.

The way I’d been walking down the street toward my car, thinking about my bank account, about giving myself a little coffee splurge, maybe flirting with the handsome barista because I was really feeling myself in my new dress.

Then the blur of something dark maroon pulling up beside me, jarring enough to make me gasp, but I hadn’t been quick enough to clock the danger, to remember all the programs I’d seen about vans with sliding doors, and how easily a woman could be abducted into their depths before she even knew she was in trouble.

I couldn’t quite remember if the door had already been open as the van pulled up next to me, or if it had slid open.

All I knew was that hands were grabbing me before I could even fully turn to see what was going on, hot fingers sinking into my hips, dragging me until I was airborne, my legs pedaling in the air, a surprised cry escaping me.

It was too late to scream, though, as I was yanked back against a body, a hand slapping over my mouth as the door slammed shut, cutting off any hope of freedom.

“Vienna,” Dr. Swift called, like she was sensing me back there again.

In the van.

My abductor’s hot breath on my neck.

His hands… roaming.

As the others… as the others cheered him on.

No.

No.

I sucked in a deep breath, counted, and released, seeing the memory start to blur around the edges, then trying again until it disappeared completely.

I sat down on the couch, feeling the tears that I’d been fighting welling up again. This time, I didn’t fight them. I knew they needed out, that they were just poisoning me by staying buried.

Dr. Swift came from her desk with her handy box of tissues—she must have stock at the company at this point from me alone—and sat with me as I cried, talking to me when I finally calmed down again. I listened to what she had to say, how she thought I might productively talk to Riff about the incident without triggering another PTSD episode.

Because, she agreed, there needed to be honesty between us.

“I know Riff is your safe person, Vienna,” she said, giving me a soft smile. “But you have to remember, he is just a person. He will make mistakes. He will let you down. That is the nature of all relationships. What makes a good one is your ability to talk it through and work through your feelings about things.”

She was right, of course.

She hadn’t let me down yet.

And as she led me out of her office half an hour later, looking much like the girl I’d seen leaving before me, I felt lighter, ready to walk back to the clubhouse and have a calm, rational conversation with Riff.

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