After Brenna left, the house felt too quiet. Cold. I thought about calling my mom, but I was afraid she’d only take Brenna’s side and I didn’t want to deal with it.
So I remain alone. Missing Ethan despite my anger toward him. All of the conflicted emotions come rushing back. It’s hard to hold on to anger. It eats at you, chips away at your happiness, making you miserable. And I miss him. And when I’m alone with my thoughts, I miss him even more.
And right now? I feel horribly alone.
Lonely.
Giving in to the unease that’s wrapped itself around me, I creep around the rooms of my tiny house, checking all the locks on my windows, tugging the curtains closed, sealing the blinds shut. All the doors are locked, the garage is shut, and my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, is sitting on her front porch watching the world pass her by as the sun fades into the horizon. Yet I still can’t let the feeling go.
The feeling of being watched.
I go to my kitchen, which faces the backyard. The tiny window above the sink has no curtain or blinds on it. It’s small, sits very high, and I like that it lets in so much natural light. I stare out the window now, at the darkening forest just beyond the fence, and wonder if someone is out there, watching me. Waiting.
Shaking my head, I tell myself it’s my overactive imagination. The memories of what happened to me messing with my head. There’s no one out there. The bad guy is in jail. He can’t touch me.
No one can.
I remember feeling very, very small after it happened. Insignificant. The media frenzy scared me. The attention was terrifying. Daddy didn’t want me talking to anyone and he wouldn’t talk, either. He eventually quit his job and found a new one.
He was ashamed.
Of what happened to me.
Of me.
Mom cried so much I was afraid to approach her.
So I didn’t.
Brenna stayed away from the house. She went and lived with a friend for a while, to keep out of the fray. Daddy didn’t want her victimized, too.
I heard him say that to Mom one night, while I crouched on the other side of my bedroom door, my ear pressed close to the wood as I eavesdropped on them talking about me.
Their favorite—and not so favorite—subject.
I couldn’t count on them. I tried, but I couldn’t open up. They looked at me like I was an open bloody wound they couldn’t stare at for too long, always looking away with the tiniest shiver.
Always, always I noticed that little shiver. It’s what hurt the most.
There was only one person who was there for me those long, lonely months after everything that happened. When I tried to get back to my everyday life, when I tried to move on and pretend that I was a normal teenager with normal wants and dreams and wishes and ambitions, there was Will.
Will.
I was fourteen the first time he called me. My parents had finally relented and let me get a phone. Will and I were still writing letters to each other and when I mentioned my new cellphone, he sent me his number and told me to call him.
I sent him my cell number back, too afraid to be the first one to call.
So we set up a specific time and he called me. Hearing his voice for the first time after so long . . .
I clutched the phone tight to my ear, so tight the phone left an imprint on my cheek. Hearing his deep, much more manly voice gave me hope.
He gave me light, when all I’d ever felt was darkness.
We talked about nothing. About everything. The calls were always short, no more than fifteen minutes long, and that was never enough. I was afraid my parents would figure out I was talking to him and I didn’t want to take any risks. I didn’t want to get cut off from him.
Until one day, he cut me off. I called him one last time, from another phone. My sister’s, though she never knew. He answered, told me it wasn’t a good idea that we talked anymore, and that was it.
The end.
Will and Katie were finished.
He was the only one who could call me that. Katie. I was Katherine to everyone else. Will was the only one who made me feel like it was okay to be Katie. Katie was strong. Katie survived. Katie saved herself.
Thanks to Will.
The morning dawns crisp and cold. I know this because I’m sitting out on my back porch when it happens, a mug of steaming hot coffee in my hands, wearing my thickest fleece jacket and sweats, thick socks and boots on my feet, a hat on my head. I bet I look fucking ridiculous, but I don’t care.
I couldn’t sleep; I tossed and turned in my bed until the sheets were practically torn off the mattress. Giving up around four, I went and made a giant pot of coffee, sucking down two cups while I focused on a work project, losing myself in the mindless tasks for a while.
Until I saw the grayish-pink dawn stretch its beams across my floor, gently filling the dark room with light. I refilled my cup and went outside, watching the sun slowly rise. The ratty grass in my backyard was covered with frozen dew, and it gleamed like little sparkling diamonds when the sun finally shone upon the ground.
It’s deep into fall. The trees have started to turn and the nights and mornings are cold. The breeze brings with it chilly air plus a hint of salt from the ocean and I breathe deep, taking with it the scent of my coffee, too.
This is a morning for sharing contentment. When a man wakes up with his woman, brews them a pot of strong coffee, and they sit together in the hushed morning light, smiling secret smiles at each other while their loyal dog lies at their feet.
Frowning, I glance down at the empty spot by my feet. I think I need a dog. Something to keep me company. The loneliness in me that Katie filled so perfectly stretches wide and black, a void deep within my soul. A dog would make me feel better. A dog would give me companionship.