Page 32 of Cohen's Control

“Yes,” I whisper, loathing the truth of it. “I don’t like yelling, I don’t like aggressive behavior. I never have. So that’s why he uses it. He knows it makes me anxious.”

Cohen nods, sweeping the cloth around my jaw before tracing the curve of my throat. It's warm and it feels so good.

I don’t know if it’s his soothing demeanor or just him in general, but in the dim light of my 1960’s apartment bathroom, I spill.

“We were happy the first year. I didn’t feel bad about temporarily dropping out of college for this, because it wastemporary.” I put air quotes around temporary with my fingers for good measure, because I never thought I’d quit. Truly. “Then when I started to get a lot of success, he made it harder and harder to go back to school. My schedule filled up, he’d approve me for movies and scenes I hadn’t consented to, and that’s when things gotreallybad.”

“Has he ever been physically violent with you?” Cohen asks, his grip on the washcloth a bit tense at the weight of the question.

“No,” I tell him honestly. “Just classic emotional abuse.” I crack a weak smile. Cohen pulls the shower curtain back, and pushes down the stopper in the tub. He retrieves a bottle of body wash from the window sill, and squirts it under the running water.

He’s running me a bath.

“What was that emotional abuse like for you?” he asks, sounding like Dr. Evans, but feeling more like… a friend.

“I’d have hard lines on scenes,” I tell him as he feeds his hands under my armpits, lifting me from the counter to set me on my feet. “Anal,” I say without meeting his eyes. “I never wanted to do that on film. You know, I explained some things I wanted to leave for my personal life.Ourpersonal life. But then we’d be on set of a high-budget production, Pete would yell at everyone to get the take right, no cuts, and if we had to cut, he’d take the production value out of our paycheck. And he did it before, I know for a fact he did. Then he’d advise the male actors to penetrate me, telling them that part of my kink was acting like it hurt, acting surprised.”

Things can get blurry but one thing that’s always clear to me is consent, and it’s vitality to any sexual act. “A lot was done without my consent, and I know I can press charges for that. But… I just want to move on. That's why I’m in therapy.”

Cohen listens as he turns me toward the tub, lifting my arms slowly. His fingertips smooth down my raised arms, sending a hot vibration rattling through my belly. Gripping the hem of my shirt, he slowly lifts it up and over my head. From the corner of my eye, I see him place it on top of the hamper. Next his solid fingers are dipping into the sides of my waistband, tugging my pants down.

He never looks at my nude body, only my eyes and his feet.

“I know what you’re thinking. Why wouldn’t I just stop and say,I don’t want this,” I say with so much shame weighing down my voice that it comes out as a whisper. “But there’s more to it. He... held things over my head and I was weak.”

He stills. “You’re not weak, Scarlett.”

I lick my lips as he tugs my pants down and I step out. His hand extends out in front of me as he stands behind me, and I slip my palm into his to steady myself. Stepping in, I sink down in the tub and look over, finding Cohen leaning against the wall, eyes on his boots.

“What are you thinking, then?” I whisper the question, afraid to know the answer.

He lets out a breath, dragging a hand down his jaw. “I want him to leave you alone.”

I want to ask,why do you care?I want to remind him that we hardly know one another.

But the truth is, I like someone showing up for me, I like feeling cared for versus hearing empty promises. And I’m starved and selfish, and I want to soak up his wholesome attention for as long as he’ll give it to me.

“When did he finally leave?” Cohen asks, looking over at me, his serious gaze capturing mine as I settle into the bubbles. He doesn’t try to look at my body under the surface or through the soap, and I’ve noticed at work when I catch him watching me, he’s looking at my face.

“I don’t know. The birds were chirping, but it was still dark. Maybe three or four?”

He nods but I don’t miss the strain in his neck as he keeps his jaw shut. “And he showed up at what time?”

“I guess eleven or maybe midnight. I was asleep.”

He isn’t angry when he says it, but I feel bad nonetheless. “You call me next time, okay?” He reaches for a towel from the stack outside the door—I still have no furniture or anything—and places it on the closed toilet seat. “I won’t be loud and I won’t get violent. But you call me if he comes back.”

The way he knows that shouting and violence would send me into a trauma state has something inside my chest swelling.

He nods to the towel before I can answer. “Take your time, get out when you’re ready.”

Panic clutches my throat. “Are you leaving?”

Cohen shakes his head. “No.”

After pulling on some clean black yoga pants and a hoodie, I gather my wet hair and put it on the top of my head, too tired to comb it. My body is vibrating with exhaustion, the only thing keeping my feet moving is adrenaline… and the smell of food.

In the kitchen, I find Cohen, arms above his head. His shirt has lifted from the top of his jeans, and wisps of blonde hair fall in a line down his pants. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I envision dragging the tip of my tongue through his happy trail, down to the gold at the end of the rainbow.

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