I look into this man’s sky-blue eyes, and they’re so different from the brown ones that hurt me. I open my mouth to speak, but only a squeak comes out. My phone dings again, and I look toward it.
“Do you want me to get it for you?” he asks softly. He reaches for it and then puts it within my reach. I take it, jerking it from his hand as I crouch further into the corner. He pulls back like I scare him. I look down at the screen.
Rachel: Where are you, hussy? I saw you locking lips with the douchebag. Did you leave with him?
I need to reply. But my fingers are shaking too much.
“Do you want me to do it?” the man asks. He gently takes the phone from my grasp with a twisty tug, and I let it go. It’s of no use to me. I’m shaking too badly to use it.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks.
I swallow hard. I screamed when it started, before he covered my mouth with his hand, right before he banged my head on the bathroom countertop, and now my throat hurts. “Help me.” The words are a whisper, and he leans closer because he can’t hear what I’m saying.
“What?” he asks softly.
“Help me,” I say. He looks at my face. He doesn’t look down at my exposed body. He just looks at my face, like I’m not sitting here with my skirt hiked up above my hips, like my shirt’s not torn open. Like I wasn’t just raped. Defiled. Used. I tug at my skirt, and he looks around the room, opens a cabinet, and lays an unfolded towel over me. I start to adjust my clothes beneath it. He looks down and picks up my shoes, which I must have kicked off when I was flailing. He sets them next to my feet. He sees my panties hanging over my ankle, and he reaches for them, lifting my leg gently so he can pull them off my foot. “I need those,” I say. I really, really need them.
He shakes them out and holds them up, as if I was putting them on. “They’re torn,” he says.
“I need them,” I say again. A tear rolls down my cheek, and his face softens. He finds the scraps of fabric where the man who hurt me ripped them at the hip, and he ties a knot in them. He holds them up, like I’m two and need his help getting dressed. I put my feet in them and stand up, unsteady on my legs. He reaches out to support me. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t pull them up. He helps me. He hisses in a breath when he pulls them past the blood on my inner thighs. He lifts his gaze, looking into my face as he pulls them over my hips, and then he tugs my skirt down to cover them. I lower the towel, and he closes my shirt with gentle fingers. He bends over and picks up my phone where I dropped it.
“Can I call someone for you?” he asks.
I nod. But I can’t think of who. I can’t call my parents. I wasn’t supposed to be at this party. I was supposed to be in my dorm room studying.
“Call Rachel,” I say. I lean against the counter, feeling like I can’t hold myself up anymore.
He scrolls through my contacts until he finds her name. He calls, and I can hear the faint ring through the phone. “Hello, Rachel?” he asks.
“Who are you and why do you have that hussy’s phone?” I hear Rachel ask.
He looks at me. “Do you want to talk to her?” he asks me over the phone.
I shake my head.
He closes his eyes and says, “My name is Peter Reed, and I’m here with your friend…” He stops and looks at me, his eyebrows scrunching together. “What’s your name?”
“Reagan,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And he really looks like he is. “I can’t hear you.” His tone is soft and much more sympathetic than I deserve.
“Reagan,” I bark. I groan inwardly at the way I said that. It was a spurt. But he heard me. That’s what matters.
“I’m here with your friend, Reagan. She needs you.”
“Where?” I hear Rachel say.
“J-just tell her the party. M-master bathroom, I think.” I look around.
“Do you want me to just go find her?” he asks, looking at me over the phone.
My gut clenches. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. My jaw quivers, and I hate it. But this man makes me feel safe.
He reaches out and very gently lays his hand on the side of my head. I jerk back, and he immediately realizes that touching me was a mistake. “I won’t leave. I promise,” he says. He turns back to the phone. “We’re in the back bedroom, in the bathroom. She’s hurt.” He looks at my face while he says it. Not at my abused body. His eyes stare into mine. “She’s strong,” he says. “But I think she needs you.” He looks down at the phone. “I think she hung up on me.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I say.
“I’m going to stay with you,” he says to assure me. “I’m not leaving. I promise.”
I nod and lean against the counter, crossing my arms beneath my br**sts.
“I’m going with you so I can be sure you go to the hospital,” he says.
I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”
He looks into my eyes. “A rape kit is necessary.”
Oh, I’m going to the hospital. I need to be tested for STDs. And get a morning-after pill. And do all the things I never thought I’d have to think about, much less do. “I know. I’ll go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
I shake my head. He’s already seen enough of my shame.
“I can’t walk away and leave you like this.”