Page 39 of Falling For Us Again

The tears start to fall before I realize what’s happening, and this time I don’t have the strength to hold them back. I am exhausted emotionally, and everything seems to hurt right now.

I clutch a hand to my chest as the intensity of my tears wracks my body.

I know my tears are not only about tonight but from all the trauma I’ve suffered throughout my life. As much as I’ve had therapy over the years, it was never truly healed, because of theunfinished emotions of Dylan. In a way, I’m weeping about what could have been with Dylan.

Dylan moves his chair closer, his hand finding mine. “It’s okay to cry,” he whispers, his voice soothing. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

He stands and pulls me into his arms, I cling to him as a lifeline as the sobs rack my body, the tears a cathartic release.

Dylan’s presence is a balm to my wounded soul, and for the first time in a long while, I allow myself to be vulnerable.

Chapter 12

SPARKS FLY

Dylan

My heart constricts as I listen to Jenna sob into my arms. The trauma of that night never left her and seeing her like this reminds me of the helplessness I felt. I've never been angrier and more scared in my life than that day, watching those men try to rape her.

I was hesitant to let her walk home alone, but my mother’s call seemed urgent. I was rushing home, but something kept gnawing at me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, and it made me turn back.

When I saw her being attacked, rage and fear like nothing I knew existed rose within me. I grabbed the first thing I could find—a large rock—and hurled it at the car. The sound of breaking glass was thankfully enough to make them stop. They fled, leaving Jenna lying on the ground, broken and terrified.

I remember how I argued with Jenna when she insisted we didn’t go to the police. She was adamant, her voice shaking with fear and shame. “Please, Dylan, no police. I can’t handle that right now,” she’d pleaded, and though it went against every instinct I had, I complied. The look in her eyes was enough to break my resolve.

I memorized the car’s plate number and spent weeks, trying to track it down. But it was a dead end. The car was stolen, and there was no trace of its owners. Jenna never saw their faces clearly, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of that failure. The thought that I might have interacted with those men before or might encounter them again without knowing made me feel sick.

Last year there was a drug bust and the meth lab caught on fire as the criminals were trying to burn evidence. The place blew up and 3 of the men died immediately.

One had burns over 90 percent of his body, and when the priest was brought in to give him last rites, he wanted to confess of his sins, one of them being the attack on Jenna.

He died the next day.

I never thought I was the kind of person that would celebrate someone’s death but here we are.

Her arms tighten around my neck as the tears continue to flow. I hold her, rubbing her back gently and offering silent support. Seeing her like this makes me realize how much power that night still holds over her, and it makes me feel weak, knowing I couldn’t do much to protect her then.

But I’m here right now. For Jenna, for the girl who stole my heart and whose pain has become my own. All the anger and hurt and betrayal that makes me hold her at arm's length shift to the recesses of my mind. For now, I just hold her, letting her know she’s not alone.

Jenna’s sobs slow into a whimper, and she pulls away from me slowly. I hand her a tissue, and she blows her nose into it, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

“Jenna, they can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I’m sorry for bawling like a child,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“Did you hear me? I said they can’t hurt you anymore.” I proceed to tell her about what happened to the men who attacked her.

Her eyes close in relief, and her arms wrap around herself. She says nothing as the tears continue to flow silently.

As much as I want to wrap her in my arms, I know she needs a little space to process all that’s happened.

A comfortable silence settles between us. I study Jenna, taking in her delicate features and the way her eyes, usually so full of life, now seem haunted by memories she’d rather forget.

She’s grown so much and accomplished so many great things in her life. Yet, at this moment, she looks small and scared, nothing like the strong, determined woman she’s groomed herself to be.

“I didn’t realize how much that day still affected me,” she says softly, her voice tinged with disappointment. It’s as if she’s berating herself for being weak, for not having moved on entirely.

Hearing the self-reproach in her voice makes my heart ache. I want to hold her until she understands that none of this is her fault. But I know words are inadequate to erase the scars left by such trauma.

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