Page 114 of Back to Willow

He frowns. “But you had your professor do it instead of me? Like what the fuck? He’s the guy from that night. Should you even be that close to him?”

I freeze. His words are harsh, and while I understand what he means, I know there is nothing inappropriate going on. Arthur has been nothing but a gentleman and respectful of my boundaries.

He has helped me more than anyone else could, in such a short period. Without him, I wonder if I would have been able to tell Liam most of the truth. Probably not.

And yes, the man is sinfully attractive, but no other man has ever—ever—made me feel like Liam has. Like he still does.

This man right in front of me will always hold the biggest part of my heart. Whether I acknowledge it or not.

“He realised how much I was struggling as a single parent, working and studying, and has helped out a couple of times,” I reiterate, my hands clenching into fists.

Why am I even trying to defend myself?

“Oh?” He tilts his head. “That’s weird…Johanna mentioned he was horrible to you at first. He just up and stopped all of the sudden? Why?” His bright blue eyes are dark, an angry storm forming in them.

It only irks me.

“What are you trying to get at?” I grit out.

“Don’t act so innocent, Willow! You know exactly what I’m asking!”

What?

I feel my face contort in confusion until it clicks.

My eyes widen in realisation. And I feel an uncomfortable heat rise through my chest straight to my face. Bile threatens to come out at the same time my eyes sting and tears fight their way out of my eyes.

My body starts to shake uncontrollably with mixed emotions. Anger. Revolt. Hurt. Sadness. If there is someone on this earth who could truly shatter me with these kinds of words, it’s him.

“Get out,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“Not until you answer me,” he barks back, closing in on me.

“Answer what?” I counter, my hands shaking with rage. “What the hell do you want to hear from me? That I fucked my professor?” My voice raises a considerable notch, getting a slight high-pitchedness to it. “Are you even listening to yourself? I was bloody raped. Sex hasn’t been on my mind ever since!”

His mouth opens but no sounds come out, so I continue, “Not until you came the hell back!” My pointer finger pokes at his chest angrily. “So don’t you dare stand in here and accuse me of something impossible. Not after everything!”

At this point, I can feel how the heat irradiating from my skin warms my cold tears. I can barely feel them anymore, but my blurry vision is a firm indicator of my crying. In front of me, Liam stands still, watching me.

“You think it’s easy to recover from this? I still wake up drenched in sweat from recurrent nightmares; a single hand on my shoulder is enough to startle me; I get nauseous just from thinking of someone else that isn’t you kissing me or any part of me. What gives you any right to say this bullshit to me, huh?”

His hands straighten towards me, and I take a staggering step away from him.

“Lo–”

“No,” I scream. “Do you know how much I prayed that night? I prayed for you to show up and stop it.” A sob breaks free from my throat, but I push through it. “Then, I cried. I yelled—begged even—for him to stop, for him to leave me alone. He didn’t stop, and you didn’t show up. Nor did my brother or my dad or anyone else. So, if you are coming to my house to accuse me of ridiculous acts then please, do the both of us a favour and get the hell out!”

He regrets his words now. I can see it in his face, in his eyes.

I don’t think he had realised the extent of my trauma until now. People always say beautiful words and claim to understand. But, how could they understand if they haven’t been through it?

They’re not the ones who cry themselves to sleep and wake up yelling from nightmares. They’re not the ones who break mirrors after taking a look at their reflection or scrub their skin until it bleeds with fake hopes of getting rid of that feeling of being dirty. They’re not the ones who blame themselves for letting it happen. This is a constant cycle, just like a snowball that keeps on rolling and growing.

The true pain goes way beyond the physical one. It’s like ivy. It sticks to your bones and essence, the same way ivy sticks to a wall, turning into part of the structure. The pain becomes part of us, and it never goes away.

The helplessness. The despair. It’s incapacitating at times—and it takes the little control we manage to have over our bodies, over our lives.

“Shit!” He rubs his forehead. “Lo, I forgot…I—”

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