Keeping Secrets in Seattle - By Brooke Moss Page 0,79
Gabe,” I said, my throat tight. It was the first time I’d said that to him in years. When he said nothing and just stared at me, quaking underneath my palms, I added, “Do you…still love me?”
When his lips met mine, the kiss was brief, hard. Not the least bit reassuring. My insides chilled as fear spread through me like cold water in a bathtub.
“I need some time.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper. He backed away from me and focused his gaze on the window overlooking Olive Way, his fists still clenched at his sides. “It’s not your fault. It’s Cam…and Leandra. One of my best friends is a rapist, and I just called off my wedding. I can’t wrap my head around this. There’s too much to process. I just…I just need some time.”
“Time?” I echoed, goose bumps standing up on my arms as I watched him glowering at the cars passing below. “How much time? What can I do—”
“Nothing,” he growled. “Just let me figure this out. That’s all.”
“I…” My mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Will you call me when you’ve got yourself together?”
Gabe nodded. Just once, before stalking out the door and pulling it shut with a click. I looked around at the scattered papers he’d left on the floor and bent to pick them up. One was a flyer for an awards banquet his boss was throwing for the employees of Gabe’s firm, and the rest were discarded receipts for gas and groceries. On the couch lay my journal, open to the page that described the night Cameron attacked me in detail.
I picked it up and hurled it at the wall, knocking over a lamp and shattering it on the floor.
Chapter Twenty
May 13, 2012
Now that the truth is out there, exposed for all to see…the different details of that night are haunting my thoughts again. Especially the way my mother had looked at me that night when I stumbled through the door in a torn shirt with a swollen lip. She’d had pity written all over her face when she said, “This is what happens when you look like we do, Violet.” As if beauty constituted rape…
I didn’t hear from Gabe the next day. Or the four after that. Every night, as I lay in my bed, his words would reverberate in my mind, over and over again:
Why would a parent let their daughter’s rapist go free? I can’t believe they’d let him walk after hurting you.
The first few months after the rape were filled with questions like that. Why had my mother kept it a secret? Was I not worth justice? Over the years I’d simply pushed my feelings of unworthiness to the back corner of my brain where I stored all the other memories of that night.
I fished my BlackBerry out of my pocket after work on the fifth night and furiously punched the numbers on the keypad.
“Violet, dear, are you calling to tell me that you’re sorry?”
My molars ground together. “Hi, Mom. Um, no. What would I be sorry for?”
“For running off to Vegas with a boy I haven’t even met.” She sighed dramatically.
“I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, we broke up.” I wandered over to the couch and flopped down.
“I guessed you did, considering you sent me an e-mail saying you were flying home alone and that the wedding was off.” There was a pause, and I heard the ice in her tumbler tinkle. It was four-thirty. Time to let her frosted hair down and begin her nightly ritual. Cocktails and vacation planning with my plastic surgeon stepfather. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I closed my eyes. “No. It’s over. In fact…um…Gabe came over after I came home.”
Mother drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Nora told me the wedding was canceled.”
“Gabe and Alicia were over before he came to my apartment.” I glanced at the center of the living room where Gabe finally told me he loved me.
“Are you sure about that?” she asked.
“Yes.” My head swam. “Why?”
“Well, Nora said that Alicia’s been over to their house twice since Gabe called off the wedding.” My mom’s voice had a hint of enjoyment in it. She’d always had a thing for controversy. It was the southern belle in her. “Crying and carrying on and such. Nora says she’s just distraught, but that Gabe wants nothing to do with her.”
Justified, I fist-pumped the air in my living room. “Well, she’ll get the hint eventually.”