Page 106 of Give My Everything
Ben lifts his hand and holds up one finger.
“Is that your second question?”
My shoulders droop, and I pick up my Oreo and shove it into my mouth whole in irritation.
“Your turn,” I grumble.
Ben grins but turns contemplative. His elbows rest on the table and his hands are steepled together, his fingers pressed to his mouth as he thinks and watches me.
“Everything seemed good until the very end,” he says, and I know he’s referencing our frantic sex in the staff room at Sheldon House. “What changed that had you climbing off of me so upset?”
I hated how I responded, but mostly because I didn’t know it would be something that would happen. Being in control of my body is…the most important thing to me, and having Ben see me fall apart like that made me feel horrible.
Sure, he’s seen me cry and get angry.
But seeing me shutdown because of sex? That’s a completely different type of vulnerability. Now he wants to know why, and I don’t know what to tell him.
I pull my hair forward over my left shoulder and start braiding it, trying to figure out what to say, but the more time goes by, the more I realize I have to tell him the truth.
Not because he needs to know, but becauseIneed him to know. I want him to know he didn’t do anything wrong. For some reason, in this moment, that outpaces my desire to keep it to myself.
“When I was fifteen, I was raped,” I say, careful to keep my eyes on my hair. “He drugged me so I couldn’t fight back. He told me I was nothing, and then he came inside of me.”
My eyes flit up to Ben and see him frozen in place, his gaze laser focused on me.
“He’s the only one who has ever not worn a condom, so I didn’t know I would react that way.”
Ben sits back in his chair, one hand holding his chin and mouth, the other tucked under his arm. He looks like…well, to be honest, I don’t know this expression from Ben. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind.
I can only hope he’ll tell me.
“Fuck, Remmy, I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s not your fault.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t wish you hadn’t gone through that.” He leans forward and places his hand on mine on the table. “Thank you for telling me.”
There’s a fear I’ve learned sits in the minds of all rape victims: the fear of not being believed, of being seen as having deserved it, having been asking for it.
And no matter what we do, we have to accept and push past that fear with every person we decide to tell.
Every. Person.
Because your best friend might believe you, but your mom might not.
Your boyfriend might say you didn’t deserve it, but his friends might feel differently.
An academic advisor might saynobodyis asking for it, but a woman who sees you in a short skirt might say otherwise.
Everyone has an opinion. Everyone thinks they have a right to tell you whether it really happened or not.
Sitting in front of Ben, seeing this wide-open expression, this complete willingness to be here in this moment with me…it takes down a layer of bricks I didn’t realize I could remove from the wall I try to protect myself with.
I say the only thing that’s on my mind.
“Thank you for believing me.”
“Alright, time for next questions?” I ask, wiping my hands on a paper towel and pushing my plate away, leaving the uneaten crust.
