E. Blair - Falling

I don’t give her a chance to respond when I pull her into me, pressing my lips into hers. Her hands around my back are firm as she holds me close, and I wish she didn’t have to go to school because I want to keep her wrapped up in me like this all day.

We say goodbye, and when she’s inside, I start driving to work. When I pull into the lot and park, my phone buzzes with a text from Candace.

Can I stay with you?

I’ve never been so sure of anything when I type out my response.

Of course, babe.

I don’t know what happened in the past ten minutes since I dropped her off, but if she needs me, she has me. Sitting in my jeep, I go ahead and call her so that I can make sure everything is all right.

“Hey,” she answers apprehensively.

“Did something happen?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to impose, but I just . . .” she trails off when I assure her, “You’re nothing close to an imposition, babe.”

“Kimber is here, and it’s not good. I just think I should give her some space.”

The comfort of knowing that she ran to me, and not Jase, shows me that she’s in this, and I love her even more for that. “When do you get out of class?”

“I’m going straight to work after I get out of school, so I won’t be home till a little after seven tonight.”

“I’ll meet you at your place and help you get a couple bags together, okay?”

I hear her release a sigh before she says, “Thank you, Ryan. Really.”

We hang up, and when I get out of the car, I can’t help myself when I turn to the back of the alley. I walk over towards the dumpster and can see that son of a bitch on top of her again. Shoving his hand between her legs. Slamming his fist into the side of her head. The images unleash a rage inside of me when I think about what happened to her, and the guilt that I was right fuckin’ here and didn’t protect her from it.

Questions storm inside. Is she a different person now because of it? What did she go through after it happened? What is she going through now? I know she has to be masking the pain because I’m pretty certain that I now know what it is that’s constantly causing all of her restless sleep at night. Is that what she dreams about? Fuck! Is that the shit that fills her head when she’s in bed with me?

Raking my hands through my hair, I drop my head and spot a small crate of empty bottles. When I can no longer stand the rapid banging of my heart against my chest, I fume as I pick up the whole crate, smashing it violently against the side of the dumpster. Screams grit through my lungs, and the explosion of glass shattering echoes in the quiet morning air.

“What the hell are you doing?” Max yells out from behind me, but I keep my eyes on the shards of glass that are scattered on the ground. The same ground where some fucker . . .

“Ryan, man,” Max says and knocks me out of my thoughts when I turn to face him, and the anger inside of me is blatant. It’s a force that I can’t push down when I yell, “It was her!”

“What are you talking about?” he questions as he moves closer to me, glass crunching under his boots with each step.

“The girl that was raped . . . It’s her.”

He shakes his head, not piecing it together while my muscles tense up in frustration with everything.

“It’s Candace,” I breathe out because the constricting of my throat makes it painful to speak.

His face drops, stunned when he asks, “How do you know?”

“Because that girl, she has the same tattoo that I saw on Candace last fuckin’ night !” Those last words seethe out of me as I pick up a bottle from another crate and barrel it into the dumpster, creating another spray of glass after it smashes into a splattering of pieces. My breathing is heavy as I press my palms to my forehead and admit, barely holding myself together, “I don’t want it to be her, man.” I can barely choke out the words, but I had to hold my shit together quietly last night and now . . . now it bleeds out.

“Fuck,” I hear him mumble before he asks, “What did she say?”

Looking up at him, I tell him, “She doesn’t know. I couldn’t tell her.” When I see the way he’s looking at me, like I’m an idiot for not telling her, I shout at him, pleading, “What would I fuckin’ say, Max?! What should I have said to her?!” I pause, catching my breath before I continue in a calmer tone. “I love her,” I tell him with a defeated shrug of my shoulders. “I can’t hurt her like that.”

“Has she even told you that she was . . . you know?”

“No,” I respond. “I don’t think she ever intends to either.” I start walking away, not wanting to talk about this shit anymore, and when I pass him, I stop and look over at him. “We’re never gonna mention this again. Got it?”

“Yeah, man,” he whispers to me. “Got it.”

I’m not talking about this shit with anyone. Max knows and that’s where it stays. It won’t come up again. I won’t talk about her like that. Whatever happens, it’s private and stays between Candace and me.

Candace’s roommate wasn’t home when I went over to help her get a few bags packed. Most of her belonging were all ready to go by the time I got there, so it didn’t take us too long before we left, which was good because she was really upset about the whole thing.

We spent a while moving things around in my room to make space for her. She didn’t want to go through the hassle, but I wanted to make sure that she was comfortable and that all her things had a place in my home. She didn’t say how long she was staying, and I told her to play it by ear. I’m just happy that I don’t have to say goodbye to her at night anymore. That she will be here every day with me.

Getting into bed, I sit back against the headboard and watch her as she ties her hair up on top of her head.

“Come over here,” I tell her as I wrap my arms around her.

She slips her arm around my waist as we lie here. It feels good to have her close after the shit day I’ve had. She’s always has this effect on me, and I’ve never needed it more than I do now.

When I kiss the top of her head, she runs her fingers along my scar, asking, “How did you get this?”

“My dad.”

“Sorry,” she says as she looks up at me.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to bring it up if you aren’t comfortable talking about it.”

“Babe, I’d tell you anything.” She keeps her eyes on me when I open up to her and show her the side of me that no one else gets to see. “I came home from a party one night and walked in on my father beating the shit out of my mom in our kitchen. He smashed a coffee mug into the back of her head, and I lost it. I started whaling on him. Eventually, he managed to get his hands on a butcher’s knife.”

“Oh my God,” she whispers. I know it can’t be easy to hear, but I give her this, knowing that I hold what is probably her darkest secret.

“That’s the night he died. He left, and my mom called 911, so we were taken to the hospital by ambulance. The next morning, we were back home, and two cops showed up at the front door to tell me about the car crash.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she quietly admits.

Running my fingers up and down her arm, I tell her, “There’s really nothing to say. I hated him. He had beaten the shit out of me my whole life. He didn’t even need a reason. Sometimes he would just come home from work and knock me around for the hell of it.”

“But why?” she asks, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are rimmed with tears.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I do know that he couldn’t stand me. He hated me just as much as I hated him.”