Page 91 of Man On

"Would you like it if I prayed with you?"

Unbidden, my eyes fill with tears. My vision is blurry as I take in the way she opens her small hand. Although mine is so much bigger than hers, I feel like she's holding my hand rather than the other way around.

Lending me her comfort and strength, she sits with me while I bow my head and cry. My tears become the prayers my heart desperately needs to shed.

But for once, I'm not praying to be changed or fixed or healed. I’ve come to terms with the truth that I can’t find myself to say out loud. I'm praying for the strength to find acceptance.

Just do it.

Don't be a coward.

It's just a shower.

There's no one here, but even standing in the locker room showers makes my skin itch. How am I supposed to do this?

My head drops to my hands, thinking about how I even got here.

I didn't exactly plan ahead when I walked out last night. I know he’s worried about me, and my one, clipped text response to say I’m fine probably did little to help. But I can’t face him right now. I’m not upset with him over what happened last night. He stopped when I said the words, and that means something to me.

I should have said them sooner. But I was too weak to say them. Too embarrassed. Too curious. Too lost to my own lust. I was warm all over and floating in the ether.

Nothing but absolute shock could have burst that bubble, but burst it did. I almost came just from Noah kissing me… there. The sharp stab of pleasure that went through me when he pressed his tongue against the most forbidden part of me sent a jolt through my system that woke me from my stupor. A cold chill ran over me, waking up all the ghosts of my past. Lights flashed behind my eyes, and the whispers were more like shouts. My grandfather and Pastor Gideon, screaming at me to repent. The taste of bitter medicine that still won’t leave my mouth.

After I left the chapel this morning, I was feeling a lot more clear-headed, but I still wasn’t ready to face Noah. I drove off campus and stopped at a random convenience store, where I got a granola bar and a sports drink. Not sure where to go, but not wanting to go home, I came to the sports complex to brush my teeth and get a change of clothes from my locker. Then I just sat on this bench and stared at my phone as the notifications started rolling in.

Too many texts from Noah. I still haven’t read them. Before all Noah’s messages could load, my phone was ringing. After sending a quick text to Noah that I’m fine, I answered the call. The number wasn’t saved, but it looked familiar.

I wish I hadn’t answered it.

It was my new attorney, a woman named Shonda Clarke, calling to give me details about her plan to help us. She’s hoping we can avoid testifying publicly before a jury by giving a private deposition. With everything that she suspects I saw or experienced, combined with my mother’s deposition, it could be inflammatory enough that the defense will suggest a plea deal. Ms. Clarke also explained that even if Larsen takes a plea deal to avoid a life sentence, there’s still little chance he’ll see the outside of a prison with the number and severity of charges stacked up against him, especially at his age. Our only aim, she says, is to avoid having to testify publicly so we can protect my anonymity.

The deposition will be at her office in a conference room, with her and the defense team present, as well as necessary court officials that are required to be there. She’s managed to schedule it during the few days I have off during fall break next month. She makes sure I’m aware of the potential that I could end up having to testify before a grand jury at some point in the future if her plan doesn’t work as she hopes, but she’s confident. I should feel confident.

I said very little, absorbing as much information as I could, before thanking her for her time and hanging up.

They want me to talk about it. To remember how many boys I saw taken to the basement, to look at pictures meant to “jog my memory” about what the rooms looked like, and if I’d ever witnessed what happened there. And they need as much detail as possible.

I don’t need pictures. I see those rooms every time I close my eyes. I’m there again every time I stand on the cold tile of a locker room shower.

How can I tell them if I can’t even handle a shower?

Just do it.

Don't be a coward.

It's just a shower.

Before I get undressed, I walk across the showers to turn on the water in the shower stall farthest away. I undress with the curtain closed, and make quick work of getting clean so I can get the hell out of here.

It's a testament to how badly I don't want to go home that I even considered the locker room. But I have to get over this eventually. Taking a shower in a locker room, alone, can’t be as hard as facing the questions they’ll ask.

I'm pretty sure I set a world record for how quickly I shower, focusing on the fact that there are walls around me. I keep touching them, trying to draw comfort from the fact that I'm not in the open space, it's fine. This is not the same. This is fine.

Detective Moore’s voice keeps repeating in my head, her voice merging with the others. My heart beats in my throat. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to remember.

It's not fine.

I throw up blue sports drink all over my feet, and all of my attention zeros in on the drain. I watch in horror as the water washes the mess away, the simple circle grate in the floor becoming my only focus. My vision glazes over. The room spins. I reach out to touch the walls again, to remind myself where I am, but I accidentally turn the shower knob. The water pressure increases and quickly turns freezing cold. A sob echoes in the room.

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