Page 63 of On the Line

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I guess you’re right.”

“I know I am. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting someone for coffee. Send me pictures of this Ozzy guy okay? I need a visual.”

I scoff. “That’s going to be hard, he only posts pictures of food.”

She cackles into the phone. I tell her I’ll try to sneak a picture next time I’m with him, and then hang up.

Staring at the ceiling, I go over what Connie and I talked about, trying to sift through my rational and irrational thoughts. It’s a hard task. My feelings are always a complicated mess.

There’s no denying my relationship with Zachary was a large influence on the person I’ve become today. He’s the blueprint I compare everything to. He was my first real boyfriend, and even if deep down I knew that his actions were manipulative—abusive—I still don’t know whathealthy looks like. I continue to experience life through the distorted lens of my past.

It’s toxic, and damaging, and—and … I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to move on from what he did to me. What Spencer did to me.

How can anyone move on from … rape?

I can barely think of the word without wanting to curl up into a ball and sleep the shame away. How do I come to terms with knowing that the version of myself who existed before, died that day? That the person who’s here, feeling the tears rolling down my face, isn’t anyone I truly recognize.

She’s a hollow, empty version of who I once was, and who I hoped to become.

Life isn’t fiction. There’s no satisfying revenge I can exact.

There’s only this. The uncomfortable and painful reality of simply existing. I’m left to revive whatever pieces of my soul they left behind when they were done with me.

Who will ever bother to love me like this?

Cracked. Defective.

Broken.

Just too fucking much …

And just not worth the time.

I let out a long sigh.

Great.

Connie tells me to just have fun, and the first thing I do when we hang up is spiral into a dark pit of despair. Classic James.

Pushing myself up, I grab my sketchbook from beside the bed.

I need to get out of my head.

The sketchbook opens to the last thing I drew.

Ozzy.

It’s a rough sketch, barely halfway finished, but my heart feels like it’s being squeezed by a fist just looking at it. The memory attached to it is so vivid, I can taste it. I can feel his skin, the coarse hair on his thighs, against the tip of my fingers.

It reminds me of what it’s like to be in his presence.

Of how desirablehe makes me feel with just a look.

A touch.

Then, I know.

That whateverthisis between me and Ozzy, I want to chase it for as long as I can.

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