Page 66 of Loved By The Bad Boy

It’s a silent request for me to forget what I saw earlier. “You look very pretty, Mom.”

There’s an aura only a mother can exude. It oozes off her and wraps around me like a warm blanket on a rainy morning. It’s different from Gracie’s hug, and I lean into her for a side hug.

“Josef is not a bad man,” she says. I don’t want to focus on the words leaving her lips, so I stare at her pretty face. Her makeup is flawless. Knowing she was crying a few minutes ago and is all so perfect now reminds me of Olivia. We are all broken, every single one of us. Some are just better at hiding it than others. “She’s his daughter, and he is still in denial. Going to the station makes it real. But I don’t care. We are going through with this, okay? I’m here for you, Benny.”

Anger flashes through me. We wouldn’t be here if she had been there for me earlier. The anger leaves as fast as it comes. I am used to those flashes of raw, overwhelming emotions. We exit their bedroom, and Gracie brightens up once we join her. She offers Mom a smile, and all three of us troop out. We sit behind while Mom drives. I’m not used to seeing her drive. Josef does that.

The drive to the station is a blur, including the walk inside. Temperatures drop when we enter. We sit on the bench lining the walls while Mom talks to a cop. I watch like a spectator until they turn the questions back to me. Gracie gives my hand a firm squeeze, drawing me back to reality.

I blink morosely at everyone staring at me in anticipation. Sadly, as an adult, I have to do all the talking myself. I wish someone else would do it on my behalf because I don’t want to narrate the whole experience again, much less to professional strangers.

“We will need to talk in private,” the voice says.

It’s one of the policemen Mom approached. He motions to a long hallway like I know what lies ahead. The man must have sensed my hesitation. He offers me a kind smile, and I wonder if it’s real or fake. Maybe he will laugh at me later for coming here to file a report for sexual assault.

Men don’t do shit like this.

They man up and live the rest of their lives without mentioning this to anyone.

It’s the norm.

A tap on my shoulder drags me out of my daydream. Gracie appears in front of me. “If you don’t want to do this today, that’s completely fine,” she whispers. “We can come another day, Benny.”

But we don’t have time. Our break is for only a week, so I have to use the free days wisely.

“I want to do it,” I whisper back. Mom flashes me an encouraging smile. Gracie slips off the memory bracelet and pushes it onto my wrist. My heart skips at the thought of being away from her for the next hour. I don’t want to be alone with that officer. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

She makes the crisscross sign on her chest, and her cuteness elicits a smile from me. “Promise.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more, Benny. I’m right here. Waiting.”

The officer walks ahead, and I follow. Right before he turns the corner, I look behind to check on Gracie. She’s still there, hands tucked in her pockets. I can do this. As long as she’s here, I’ll be fine. The man motions to a room the size of a cubicle. With the scanty furniture and gray walls, I feel like a suspect about to be investigated. He tells me to get comfortable, but that’s impossible.

Comfort is where Gracie is.

I fiddle with the charms on the memory bracelet as the officer reads out some jargon about my comfort to me. Some shit about taking a break if I want, talking only when I feel like it. It’s all legal nonsense. If I don’t let it all out today, I’ll have to come back tomorrow or some other day.

Who wants to go through this tortuous process again?

I hate it here.

I want my Gracie here.

I want to go home and cuddle with her. Skin to skin, no sex or kisses.

A click echoes in the silence. I notice the voice recorder on the desk for the first time. My chest caves in on me. I recline on the metal chair, and the officer offers me one of those sympathetic smiles. He starts easy with some generic questions I know will lead up to the bigger moment.

The pressure in my chest builds each time he nods. I don’t know if he’s listening or pretending. With his face schooled in a mask, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I repeat most of what I told my girlfriend, doing well not to appear vulnerable. I need to be strong and keep up the facade. Like Mom and Olivia, I can only show weakness to the ones I love. And he doesn’t fall into that category.

I prop my elbows on the cold desk. He seems to pay rapt attention to each word I say, and it’s relieving. “Where were your parents when all these were happening? Did you live with them?”

“Yeah, but my dad was dead. Mom remarried.”

When he leans in, I sit up, spine stiff and straight. I feel like his next question will annoy me. “What about your mom? Where was she when all of these was happening with your sister?”

“Stepsister,” I correct.

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