Page 55 of Because of Dylan

“What did your mother lie about?”

“Everything. She lied about everything. About his reasons to stay away. About him. Even about me. He didn’t even know he had a daughter. Not until I was seven. And when he found out, she lied to keep him away from me so she could continue to get high and drunk on the money he sent her for child support.” I push the heels of my hands into my forehead and closed my eyes to keep the tears away. “I was so angry. At her for all the lies and at him for believing her and never trying to find me until it was too late.” God. I said too much.

“Why was it too late?”

And there it is. He caught that. I knew he would as soon as I let it slip out. I drag a breath in and pull the blanket over my head, closing my eyes inside my already dark cocoon. The air grows warm and stale in the confined space.

“Because if he had come for me, if he had seen where and how I lived, he would have taken me away, and then Theodore would never have hurt me.” It’s out. I said his name out loud for the first time in years. And it didn’t break me. Not like before when he made me say his name again and again while he hurt me, while he wrapped his hands around my throat and robbed me of air, while he raped me.

The silence that follows is heavy with meaning. “Who’s Theodore?” His voice is so soft, so filled with kindness—I can’t refuse him.

“He was my mother’s boyfriend.”

“What else?”

I could hold my response. I could hang up right now and never call again. No one would know. Except me. I would know, and I’m tired of hiding, lying, and being a coward. “He was my tormentor, my molester … my rapist.”

“Where is Theodore now?”

“Rotting in hell.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Maslow buildinggreets me with its mirrored windows and beautiful lines. I overslept, and I’m late. I hate being late. This disruption of my routine spikes my anxiety and need for control. I’m running now, my heart racing with the exertion, my breath rapid and shallow. With only two minutes before classes start, the halls are mostly empty. I take the stairs two at a time and make my way to the second floor—and come to a halt—my sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor.

I nearly crash into Professor Dick. Inches between us, close enough to inhale his clean scent. It hits me in layers.

Soap.

Aftershave.

Fresh laundry.

He’s wearing a baby-blue shirt under the navy jacket. The first couple buttons are open. My gaze gets snagged in that small space of tanned skin just under his throat. He exhales. A minty taste touches my lips. I look up and find his eyes fixed on me. The color more honey than whiskey in the sunlight filtering through the tall windows.

His size doesn’t instill fear in me like so many other bigger men do. There’s no aggression in his stance, no dominance, no cockiness. He has a solid and stable presence, an inner-calm that reaches out to me and tries to dull my sharp edges. He makes me feel safe. Safe enough to get mad and be rude. That familiar twinge of irritation that shows itself every time we cross paths is slowly awakening and dragging me out of my stupor. Is this a defense mechanism? Because he embarrassed me all those years ago. Because of Tommy? Crap on a cracker! The therapist has me analyzing everything now.

We’re standing still, trapped in a virtual tug-of-war. Neither looking away nor making the first move.

He blinks first, opens his mouth, his body sways a little, his head tilts, he leans in, and—all hell breaks loose. Doors slam above and below. The last few people in the halls are running. The insistent vibration of my cell phone in my pocket has me reaching for it. Professor Dick reaches for his phone at the same time. We look at our screens.

LOCKDOWN

ACTIVE SHOOTER ON CAMPUS.

I freeze.

He doesn’t.

Professor Dick grabs my wrist and pulls me down the hall, I resist, my feet dragging with a squeaking sound. My body wants to fight him—flashbacks of another hand grabbing me and dragging me fleet before my eyes.

“Becca, please!”

The plea in his voice snaps me out of it. We run up two flights of stairs to the fourth floor. My heart is beating so fast it is pounding in my ears. He comes to a stop so abruptly that I slam into his back. He doesn’t even register it. He lets go of my wrist and pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket. His office. The door opens. He urges me inside first and locks the door behind him. I stand still, paralyzed by indecision. I don’t know what to do. He wedges a chair under the door handle. Then he steps back and pulls me with him to the floor. We sit with our backs against a bookcase. His chest expanding and contracting with each rapid breath. I’m breathing just as fast, my chest burns with each inhale. The phone buzzes in my hand again. I look at the screen, but the same message as before appears.

Jesus! I never expected to see that message in the campus-wide notification system. We get weather-related messages. Classes canceled because of a snowstorm. But nothing like this. My hands tremble, and I lay the phone on the floor next to my backpack.

“W-what will h-happen?” I’m shaking so much my voice stutters. Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t catch my breath. I suck in air in big gulps, but it’s not enough.

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