Page 80 of In For a Penny
But I have no choice.
“Oliver?” I ask through the door. I hear him quickly get up from the couch and run to the bathroom door. I open it, leaving only a crack in between, enough for me to look him in the eye. He looks frantic, guilty, like a man on death row.
He’s blaming himself.
Shit.
“Can you get me a towel from Allie’s room, please? She should have some clean ones in her closet. I’m out.” I’ll wash them before she gets back.
“Yes, of course.” He rushes into Allie’s room and comes back with two fluffy towels. I smile weakly. One for my hair and one for my body. “Thanks,” I say, taking both towels in my hands. His eyes fall on my wrists, on the yellowing bruises.
“Can I see?” he asks. “Where he hurt you, I mean.”
“Uh…I don’t see how that will do anyone any good here,” I say.
He closes his eyes. “I need to see it. It’s my fault.”
I knew he would do this. I knew he would blame himself. “It’s definitely not your fault. Don’t ever think it’s your fault. Just because you introduced me to him does not mean it’s your fault.”
He still doesn’t know the details, and I have no intention of telling him. But after everything he’s done for me, I can’t let him think that he carries any of the blame here. I owe it to Oliver to give him peace of mind and explain.
I open the door fully and haphazardly wrap one of the towels around me. I tell him. I tell him about how he drugged me. I tell him about how he pretended to care about me with the barman and the cabby, how I thought it was to throw them off because I was clearly too far gone and he was getting handsy. I tell him how I asked Tom to take me home, but he clearly didn’t. I tell him about how I fought to stay awake. I tell him how he hurt me and how I decided the best, least-violent course of action was to go with it. Pretend to like it. But I never told him once that I asked for Oliver’s help. He didn’t deserve that. He held me all throughout the retelling of one of the worst nights of my life, patting my back and reassuring me that everything was going to be okay whenever I had to stop and take a breath.
“It sounds horrible and dark to say, but…how absolutelypedestrian. Such a cliché.” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Not that I ever imagined being…you know…before. But really? Roofies? A roofie in my beer? What a prosaic and uninspired way to…” I take a deep breath. “Not that I needed excitement or newness—the violation of my body and spirit was enough, thank you very much. But it annoys me greatly that I am now left feeling positively crushed, unclean, and broken by the most banal way one can be taken advantage of.” I laugh once. I’m disappointed in myself. It was so simple, and I feel like I wasn’t smart enough. I shouldn’t have trusted him just because Oliver knew him.
“This isn’t funny. Nothing about this is funny,” he says angrily.
I sigh deeply and nod. “I know.”
“Then how about you stop trying to joke about this? I hate it when you try to add levity to these types of situations.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “What types of situations? Rape? Because in the span of our three-month friendship we’ve had the misfortune of going through shit like this on a weekly basis?” I say haughtily.
“You know what I mean, Penny. Don’t fucking joke about it. And it feels longer than just three months.” He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his short hair.
“That’s what happens when you see someone almost every day.”
“Show me what he did,” he says, his hands closed into fists at his sides.
I hesitate for a second but, for some reason, decide to drop my towel, giving him a full-frontal view of my body. He takes in the finger bruises on my hips and my shoulder. He delicately pulls on one of my hands and closely inspects my wrist. He carefully drops my arm to my side and holds my gaze. He’s asking for permission, and I know exactly for what. I nod, and he slowly kneels in front of me. I squeeze my eyes shut as he pushes my legs open a little to get a better view. I hear him gasp. Looking down, I see his hands hover over the bruise, trembling in anger. I run my fingers through his hair, and he looks up, torn.
He opens his mouth to say something, but we’re interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Perfect timing,” he says. I ask him what he means, but he wraps the towel around me and pushes me gently in the direction of my bedroom. “Put some comfortable clothes on, and let me know when you’re decent. I’ll get the door.”
Confused, I walk back into my room and decide to slip into leggings and a hoodie, perfectly covering any and all bruising and marks left over from Friday night’s nightmare. As I finish pulling the sweater over my head, I hear his voice.
“I brought the pizza, like you asked. Is she okay? She told me she was sick on Saturday, but I haven’t heard from her since.”
Josh.
I run out of my bedroom. “You called him? You fucking called him?” I yell angrily. “I don’t want to talk about this, Oliver. I don’t want to tell anyone. And least of all him!” Josh stares at me with hurt in his eyes.
“What happened? What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything, mate. I did,” Oliver says. “I need you to make sure she eats something and doesn’t leave this apartment. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He looks at me angrily. “I have an errand I need to run.”
Suddenly, it dawns on me. He’s going to find Tom. I grab on to his arm with both my hands, pulling him away from the front door with all of my body weight. “No. No.No. I told you, no. I don’t need you to‘run any errands’,and I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. It’s fine.”
