I sigh, hating myself for being sideswiped and confused. For not realizing he'd lost his erection and assuming he was just taunting me again.
And my face--oh, god, I know I must have looked shocked, and that sure as hell isn't the way to look around a fragile male ego. But even when my mind had clicked to reality, I still couldn't quite believe it. King of Fuck, after all.
I play back his words in his head. They destroyed him?
He kept me in his head when they what?
I was his light?
What does that mean?
Except that's not a question I really need to ask. I know only too well what it means. They tortured him. They broke him.
The Jailer. The Woman.
They destroyed him.
I think of all those long weeks after the botched raid--when we didn't know if Dallas was alive or dead. Was that what they were doing? Ruining an innocent boy for fun? For punishment? For the sin of sleeping with his sister?
I don't know, but I think that must be true.
Every therapist I've seen over the last seventeen years has listed survivor's guilt among my many diagnoses. I've always known it was an accurate assessment, but only now do I fully understand the depth of what he suffered without me. I still don't know exactly what they did to him--until just now I'd believed that he didn't remember what they did to him.
Now I know differently. He remembers, although he'd sworn otherwise.
I suspect that he remembers everything. Every horrible moment.
They destroyed me, he'd confessed. But I kept you in my head.
I tremble with the memory of those words. He still wants me, even though he should hate me. Because I'd been safe at home while he'd been left behind to suffer.
And I really don't know how we move on from here.
Reluctantly, I get dressed again. I gather my spilled tote and then pause by the bathroom door. I don't know if he'd rather talk to me or be alone, but I can't stand being quiet any longer.
I knock softly. "Dallas? Dallas, will you please come out and talk to me?"
He doesn't answer, and I close my eyes and exhale, sad for him and for us. And, yes, scared, too. Because I'd thought that we were moving forw
ard, and now I think we're farther back than when we started.
I head to the front door, step out into the late afternoon sunshine, and immediately wish I'd stayed locked up inside.
My parents are right there, strolling along the little path that runs through the island's interior.
My mom smiles and waves, but my dad's expression is thunderous. I'm terribly afraid I look guilty, but turning the other way would look even worse.
So I take a deep breath and put my acting skills to the test. "Hey!" I say, waving. "I was bummed I missed Dallas at breakfast, so I thought I'd come say hi."
"I hope he doesn't miss dinner," my mom says.
"I don't know what he's planning," I say. "He was on some sort of work call." My voice sounds cheery and overly perky. "I told him I'd catch him later."
I give my mom a hug and my dad a kiss on the cheek. "I'm going to go change for dinner. I love you," I say, again in my chipper voice that I can't seem to turn off. I give them a little wave and then it's all I can do not to sprint to my bungalow.
Dallas heard the door slam and called himself nine kinds of a fool. He should never have tested his limits with her.
For that matter, he should never have kissed her, should never have touched her.