Indisputable (11 page)

Tatum

Blinking my eyes, I’m met with darkness.  My head
feels stuffed with lead when I raise it to look around.  It pounds; a
thousand drums beating within my skull.  My sleeves are damp, and my face
feels tight, puffy, swollen.  Every muscle in my body is tense, as if I
haven’t moved for hours.  What time is it?  It takes a minute for the
fogginess to fade and it suddenly clicks.  I’m in Mr. Ryan’s house. 
But where is he? 

And then I remember. 

Wyatt. 

I think I’m going to be sick. 

Leaping off the couch, I round the corner of the
living room and find myself in a large galley kitchen.  A silver garbage
can stands near the edge of the counter, and I don’t even hesitate to rip the
lid off and heave the contents of my stomach inside.  I wipe my mouth with
the corner of my sleeve when I finish, and leaning a trembling hand against the
counter, I stand up. 

As my eyes adjust to the darkened room, I take in my
surroundings.  A large bay window is situated over the kitchen sink, and
the light from the moon is filtering inside.  Crossing to the faucet, I
run the cold water over my hands before splashing my face.  Then I cup my
hands to take small sips, reveling in the feel of the cold water trickling down
my sore throat.  I lean against the countertop, breathing deeply to try
and calm my racing heart. 

His kitchen is modern, fully equipped with stainless
steel appliances: a large French door fridge with the lower drawer freezer, a
gas stove top and double oven.  The room is dark, yet I can see the color
palette of white on gray cover the cabinets and the walls.  This kitchen
is immaculate, especially for a young bachelor living by himself.  The
thought stops me.  Is he a bachelor?  I don’t know anything about
him, and here I am, standing in his kitchen, puking my guts into his garbage
can in the middle of the night.  And he’s my teacher for God’s sake! 
I should get out of here.

When I follow the hall back to the living room, I spot
the bathroom that I didn’t notice in my scramble to find a barf
receptacle.  I step inside and shut the door softly.  The light
blinds me momentarily when I flip the switch, but as my eyes adjust, my
appearance shocks me even more. 

Bright purple and bluish bruises rim the base of my
throat, like some gaudy, chunky costume jewelry.  Two of the bruises
spread upwards beneath my jawline where I remember Wyatt bit me.  My eyes
are red, my lids swollen, resting as two slits above my cheeks.  My skin
is spotted with red dots around my eyes, spreading over my cheeks towards my
ears.  Popped blood vessels or something like that, from lack of oxygen
and from my exertion to get him off of me.  Tracing my appearance lower, I
take in my red puffy lips, one cut with dried blood. 

I don’t remember bleeding. 

Using the hair tie on my wrist, I pull my hair into a
ponytail and off my neck.  My body temperature is rising from anxiety, and
I finish up in the bathroom quickly so I don’t have to look at myself
anymore. 

When I make it back into the living room, I spend some
time scanning the photographs along the walls.  Most of the pictures are
artsy landscapes and city scenes, but a few frames on the mantel show a small
boy, ranging from three to probably around ten years old.  Riding a bike,
holding a trophy, hugging presumably his mom.  These all must be pictures of
Mr. Ryan as a kid.  And even though I don’t understand it, I’m relieved
that it doesn’t appear a woman lives here with him.  That doesn’t mean
he’s single, but I feel like less of an intruder. 

I can’t go back home by myself.  Wyatt knows
where I live.  He’d find me.  I don’t understand why he attacked
me.  I’m confused and angry.  Really fucking angry.  Not once in
the past year has he struck me as a violent person.  Now, in the matter of
a day, he’s broken down any sense of security I’ve built for myself.  And
the jackass still has my car.  And my keys.  Come to think of it, I
don’t even know where my purse and phone are, if I even brought them here or if
I dropped them at the school.  I feel entirely violated and defenseless.   

I’m alone, frustrated, and exhausted.  But I
can’t turn my mind off enough to sleep.  Mr. Ryan must have left me to
sleep on the couch, and he’s probably in his room.  My stomach feels funny
when I picture him sleeping somewhere on the floor above me. 
Stop
,
I chide myself.  I am not having feelings for my teacher.  This must
be some sort of syndrome.  Like Stockholm syndrome, but for the rescuer,
not the captor.  Couple that with my daddy complex and I’m totally,
utterly fucked up.  

My mind is reeling even more now that I’m awake, and
the house is quiet.  I should raid Mr. Ryan’s kitchen for something to
help me sleep.  After searching a few cabinets and not seeing anything
that will help me, I check the fridge. 

Holy crap, Mr. Ryan likes beer!  Half of the left
side of the fridge is filled with brews. 

Not knowing a thing about what kind is good, I grab a
six pack of some light amber colored beer called Michelob and bring it with me
to the couch.  I uncap one and decide to go all in, taking a long drink off
the glass bottle.  It’s not too bad, a little bitter tasting, but I want
to forget so I take another drink. 

And another. 

And another.  The more I drink, the more I like
the taste, and the better my body starts to feel. 

The six pack is gone. It’s a little after 2 a.m., and
I am feeling drunk.  More than drunk, I am feeling annihilated.  I
think I’ve gotten up to pee probably six…seven times since I started
drinking?  I don’t remember, but I need to go again, so I hoist myself out
of the nice warm cushion I’ve been perched in. 

“Ow! Shit,” I cry out as I stumble into the coffee
table.  Rounding the corner into the hall, I trip on my own feet and knock
down a planter sitting on top of a pedestal.  I giggle.  My bladder
is full to bursting.  I leave the plant and power my way into the
bathroom, dropping my pants, and sitting down without even turning the light
on.  Sweet relief.  I wash my hands, and upon exiting the bathroom, I
run into a hard, thick wall I don’t remember being there a few minutes ago.

“Oof.” I ricochet off the wall, falling backwards on
my ass, but a pair of warm, strong hands reach out to catch me.

“Tatum?  What are you doing?”  I recognize
Mr. Ryan’s sleepy voice, and I can’t help but giggle.  He just caught me
from falling on my ass, and I’m drunk in his house.  My life is so messed
up.

“Just using the bathroom,” I slur, my voice sounding
funny to my own ears.  His face is screwed up, like he’s piecing something
together.  Abruptly, he yanks me forward, closer to his warm, strong
chest, and brings his face down to meet mine.  I think he’s going to kiss
me! 

Instead, he sniffs loudly, and I laugh again. 
He’s smelling me!

“Have you been drinking?” he asks,
incredulously.  Uh, oh.  Mr. Ryan is grumpy.  Probably pissed I
stole his beer.  

“Noooo,” I giggle, trying to bury my face in my elbow
so to not have to look at his stern face.  But I’m curious, so I peer up
at him through my thick lashes.

“How much did you drink?  And what did you
drink?  You were sleeping when I went to bed.”

“Your beer,” I slur again quietly.

“You drank my beer?  Why?” He looks like he’s
trying not to smile.  The corner of his lips are twitching. 

“Thirsty.  Trying to forget.”  And suddenly
melancholy settles within me; I do want to forget.  Forget about this
afternoon, forget about Wyatt and Mrs. Marsden, and forget about my mom and
being unwanted and worthless.  For some reason, I think Mr. Ryan can make
me forget. 

I launch myself towards him, latching my arms around
his neck, and he stills.  He looks down at me, caught off guard, but as if
he’s scared to even move.  I press myself against him suggestively. 
I want him.  I need him.  His warmth settles deep inside of me, and I
cling to the feeling like it’s a life preserver. 

“What are you doing, Tatum,” he whispers, a look of
panic on his face.  But if I’m not mistaken in my drunken haze, I think I
see lust, too. 

“Please help me forget, Mr. Ryan.  I need you to
help me forget.”  I try to press my mouth into his, but he halts me, using
his arms still on my shoulders to hold me back.  I try again, attempting
to maneuver against his stronghold.  If only he’d let me kiss him, he’d
see he wants this, too.  I know it. 

“Tatum, stop.  Stop!” he says, a little more
forcefully this time, and he has my attention.  He doesn’t want me. 
And why would he?  The girl who lied to him when we first met, the girl
who treats him with hardly an ounce of respect, the girl who makes every minute
I’m around him full of torture and defiance.  I’m worthless to him,
too. 

This time I have nobody to blame but myself.  My
head droops in defeat. 

“We can’t do this.  I am your teacher and you—you
were sexually assaulted today!  Damnit, Sweetheart, look at me.” 

I don’t want to.  I try not to, but he slips his
hand beneath my chin, lifting my face to meet his steady gaze.  

“I know what you’re thinking, and I can guarantee
you’re wrong.  But you’ve been drinking, and you’re my student.  It’s
not right.  I could lose my job.  I can only imagine what terrible
thoughts are going through your head right now, but doing anything with me is
not going to take away the pain of what he did to you.  It won’t.” 

“But we’ve done it before,” I reply feebly.

“Tatum,” he growls while shaking his head.  “We
just can’t.”

My body shudders as a tear slips from my eye, one
after the other.  I begin to cry and massive sobs wrack my body.  For
the third time today, Mr. Ryan enfolds me in his strong arms, and I hold on,
afraid I’ll sink if I let go.

Mr. Ryan leads me to sit on his massive sectional and
once again, pulls me onto his lap.  He strokes my hair as I try to quiet
my cries.  I can’t stop picturing what Wyatt did to me, and I feel dirty
and disgusting.  Even though I’ve had sex with him before, it feels much
different knowing what he did was forced on me.  I can still feel his hand
between my legs and not in a sexually pleasant way.  His fingers felt
foreign and wrong, like they didn’t belong inside me.  And they didn’t
belong.  I didn’t want them there, but he did it anyways.  And Mr.
Ryan was there to see that. 

Oh my God. 

Embarrassment blazes inside of me like a rapidly
spreading wildfire as I realize what all Mr. Ryan saw.  At the time, I
know he saw me against the wall, struggling against Wyatt, but I didn’t
initially think he saw all the graphic, disgusting details. 

I lift my head suddenly to look him in the eyes, even
though inside I’m mortified. “What did you see?” I choke out, because suddenly
it’s the most important thing in the world to me.  I need to know.

“What?” he asks, probably thinking I’m rambling
because I’m drunk.  So I sit up straighter and hold his gaze, trying to
show I’m serious.  His hand stills it’s ministrations in my hair.

“When you found me today, what did you see?” I repeat.

“You don’t want me to describe that—ˮ

“Damnit, tell me how much you saw!” I demand as my
embarrassment morphs into anger. 

He visibly takes a deep breath and I focus on the rise
and fall of his chest.  I want to reach out to touch him there, to steady
myself with his strong body, but I don’t.  He doesn’t want me to.  I
shouldn’t be feeling this way.  It doesn’t matter what happened two weeks
ago.  He’s my teacher now and we hated each other two days ago, but something
changed today.  He saw something happen to me that I would have never
shared with him under other circumstances.

Now, he holds my deepest darkest secret because he was
in the right place at the right time.  Something like that, something that
happens not by choice but by fate or destiny, is so much more powerful than if
I had chosen to trust him with that knowledge.  He was there because life
intended him to be, not because I wanted him to be.  He’s forever
intricately woven into one of the darkest moments of my life, and it’d be
impossible to unstitch that bond. 

Now that life has given me a little taste of what it’s
like to have someone care about me, to protect me, and nurture me, I realize I
need it.  It’s as necessary as any other sustenance.  I don’t think
that’s the alcohol talking, either.

His arms are still loosely resting around my body when
he answers without meeting my stare, “I saw everything within a few seconds
prior to me tearing him off of you.  I probably can guess which parts
you’re really wondering about, and yeah, Tatum, I did see what he was doing to
you.”  His voice is angry and pained, but hearing his emotions doesn’t
make me feel any better.

I try choking back the sob working to claw its way
through my chest, and a sound comes out like a hitched keening cry.  I
don’t want to spend my night crying and crying, over and over again, but the
pain is so much more than I could have ever imagined.  I feel dirty, and I
need a distraction if I want to sleep again tonight.