Page 8 of Dallas

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. And at that point, he had her contact info, and for all I know she just gave him mine. I don’t know what he wants from me. But I can tell you that he’s never wanted anything from me that I wanted to give him.”

He looks wild then, like he’s ready to commit a murder or turn the tables over, or both. He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. His palm is rough, his fingertips callused. The heat it generates when he touches me is ashock. Usually, touch freaks me out. Usually, I can’t stand it. But right now, I need it.

There’s a shift in his demeanor, his eyes going dark, the blue harsh like a flame. “That motherfucker better never touch you.”

His voice is low, much lower than it was when I last saw him, the words echoing inside me, filling all those hollow, aching places that have been so pronounced for all these years.

His words are what I’ve needed this whole time. What I haven’t gotten– not from anyone. He’s on my side.

“I can’t get any protection,” I say. “I’ve tried, but the police won’t help. He hasn’tdoneanything. That’s the problem.”

He scowls. “Menacing? Harassing? Stalking?”

“I agree. But I don’t have sufficient evidence of any of that. It’s my word against his.”

“Your word against a pedophile’s word.”

“You know that nobody cares,” I say. “You know that, as well as I do. We know it better than anyone. There aren’t any real saviors coming for kids like us. We don’t matter. It’s amazing, rare and…” I take a sharp breath. He and I both know that the way the worldshouldwork has nothing to do with reality. “That he was imprisoned at all is a minor miracle. I guess I can’t expect any more than that.”

“You should be able to. You should be able to expect all the protection in the world.”

“That would be nice. But…” My throat aches, and suddenly, I don’t want any more of the French fries. “When can we go home?”

I don’t know what home is for him, I realize.

Gold Valley. The announcer said it before he rodetonight, but I’m not totally sure where that is. Somewhere west, toward the coast, I think.

“I have another event tomorrow night. But I swear to you, right afterward, will drive out.”

The idea of going back home to my apartment tonight makes my stomach hurt. And he already said that I was going home withhimtonight…

“You’re going to come to my motel room.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

His tone is blunt and uncompromising. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a command. I don’t remember Dallas being quite this bossy. But I don’t remember his voice being this deep, or his hands being this rough.

A lot has changed for me. And clearly, a lot has changed for him.

“Is this insane? Because you don’t really know me anymore.” I feel compelled to point this out. I’m not trying to talk him out of taking me with him – I want to go with him. But it feels like someone has to be rational.

I don’tthinkit’s insane, but the problem with being a traumatized kid who has turned into an adult with few support systems is that sometimes I don’t know when I’m being weird. There’s nothing quite like having a light conversation with your friends and making a joke about the parental neglect you’ve experienced, which makes you laugh, only to realize they’re all staring at you in abject horror.

Story of my life.

“I know you,” he says, those blue eyes looking into me. “I’ve always known you.”

Again, I’m fighting back tears, and I’m not a crier. Life hasn’t given me that luxury. It’s hard, and I’ve had to beharder. I had to put walls up around myself, around my body, around my heart. The only person who’s ever gotten close to getting around them is Dallas. Because he’s always been a taller wall, a stronger wall, all around me.

These last few years without him have felt hard. Rough. Like I’m constantly in danger of being dashed against the rocks.

Being back with him now is like the sweetest gift.

“I think I’m ready to go,” I say.

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