She nods her head and closes her eyes when she softly says, “I didn’t know anyone was there that night. That anyone saw me like that.” When she opens her eyes, she asks, “What happened?”
I know we both need to hash everything out, and as hard as this conversation may get, it’s one that needs to happen. I’ll spend days in this bed with her, filling in all the blanks, just so we can have nothing between us but fleshed out honesty.
“I was working late that night,” I begin as I hold her hand that’s rested between our chests because I know this is going to be difficult for her to hear. “I heard noises outside but ignored it. There are so many people who cut through the back lot, and I figured it was just some drunken college kids.” I take a moment as the guilt creeps in and then confess, “I’m so sorry. You were out there the whole time, and I just ignored it.” The pain of my words to her is something I don’t think I will ever be able to get rid of.
She’s silent as tears begin to roll off the side of her face. Wiping them away, I continue, “It wasn’t until I heard you screaming that I ran out. I swear I moved as fast as I could, but . . . by the time I made it out . . .” I’m scared to continue because I don’t know if I should say anything else, knowing how bad this will hurt her to hear. “Baby, are you sure you wanna hear this?”
“I feel like I need to.” Her hand is tightly clenched around mine when she asks, “What did you see?”
Letting out a sigh, I reveal, “You were naked and covered in blood and dirt.” I choke around the words, and she begins to whimper as she tries to hold in her cries. “He had his hand between your legs, and you were screaming, then all of a sudden, he punched you in the side of your head and knocked you out. It all happened so fast. In a second, I pulled him off of you and beat the shit out of him, but I couldn’t hold on to him and he fled. I stayed with you—”
“While I was naked?” she asks out of embarrassment.
“I had covered you up with my shirt. But I saw your tattoo. That’s how I knew the connection.”
“But how did you not know before?”
“I thought it could be you, but I had such a hard time after seeing what I did that I just figured my head was playing with me. Trying to trick me into thinking it was you,” I tell her. “When I saw you the first time at your work, it was my initial thought. The girl from that night was so tiny, and so was the girl in the coffee shop. Max tried telling me my mind was just trying to put closure to everything.”
“Max knows?”
Nodding my head, I gently tell her, “Yeah, babe, he does. I had told him about what happened at the bar because he was head of security and needed to know, and then I told him about the girl in the coffee shop because I was really screwed up about it. I never thought I’d fall in love with you; it wasn’t like I told him behind your back, he just always knew everything. Then once I saw your tattoo and put it together, we never spoke about it again. And I swear we never have.”
“God,” she breathes out. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Babe, you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” I try telling her, but I know my words are weak in comparison to her feelings about this.
“It’s humiliating, Ryan.”
Running my hand through her hair, I say, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. No one could even come close to how genuine you are, and I swear to you, that’s all people see when they look at you, including Max.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Only my mom.”
“Why would you tell her?” she cries, mortified.
“She heard us when we were at her house, and you were upset, telling me that you blamed yourself for what happened. She thought we were fighting. I was upset after you fell asleep, and we were talking downstairs. Again, she knew about what I saw before I ever met you, and I felt like I needed someone to talk to. I probably never should have said anything to her, but my own guilt about not getting to you faster was eating away at me, and then seeing how hurt you were, thinking it was your fault . . . it killed me.”
I hold her close as she wraps her arm around my neck, clinging on to me as I continue to hold her hand.
“All I ever wanted to do was protect you, and the one moment you needed me the most, I let you down. If only I would have gone out there when I first heard the noises, but I didn’t, and I’m so sorry, baby.” I take a moment before I tell her, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and what had happened after the ambulance took you to the hospital.”
She loosens her hold around my neck and wipes her face as she takes a deep breath.
“I know I shouldn’t ask,” I say. “But . . . what happened that night?”
“It was a mess,” she quickly responds and then takes a pause before she continues. “I didn’t even like him, and I had only gone out with him that night so that I could talk to him.” Never letting go of my hand, she tells me, “There was a party at his frat house, and he had gotten mad at me for leading him on. He had thrown me into a wall and pinned me against it. We fought, and I ran out. But he drove me, and I didn’t have my phone, so I . . .”
She trails off, and I suddenly feel bad for asking her. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I need to.”
“Why?”
She drops her head before she eventually brings it back up, telling me, “My therapist keeps telling me I should talk about it.”