Just Remember to Breathe (17 page)

“Jesus, will you just get over it already? I was drunk. It was bad judgment, and I apologize. Besides, you would have liked it. You know that.”

I started to back out of the kitchen through the other door, away from him. But also away from Dylan and my friends. I didn’t know what was down this hall, but I needed some distance from Randy right now.

“You’re kidding yourself,” I said. “Just leave me alone.”

“Give me what I want and I’ll be happy to.”

A flash of fear ran through my mind. If he tried to grab me, would they even hear me out there? The music was so damned loud. As I backed away, into a darkened hallway, he stepped closer, matching my steps.
 

“It won’t be so bad,” he said. “You could learn to love me as much as I love you.”

What the hell was wrong with him? I’d known Randy for years. His family ran in the same circles as mine. He’d always been arrogant, but this was something different entirely. My heart was pounding as I tried to keep my distance from him.
 

“Just leave me alone, Randy. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

I took one more step backwards, and my foot tangled in something on the floor. As I lost my footing, I started to fall backwards. I let out a scream when he reached out and grabbed my arms.

Where did she go anyway? (Dylan)

“So, yeah,” Joel was saying. “I thought he was going to kill me, to be honest. His eyes were pretty damn cold. But it was all a misunderstanding, and I’m glad they sorted it out. Not just because they’re so happy… but my own safety.”

Joel chuckled, but I didn’t think he was terribly funny. I felt Sherman’s eyes on me briefly, as he put Joel’s story together with what he knew. That I’d lost it in Afghanistan because I’d seen Joel on the Skype feed from Alex’s room. That my overreaction had ended up costing Roberts his life.

Sherman knew it all now, and I didn’t want to look at him, because if I did I might fucking break down.

I’d told him most of the story, anyway. We’d emailed back and forth several times while I was in the hospital, and he was still out there in Afghanistan. He’d said several times that none of the guys blamed me for what happened. But I knew that was bullshit. It was my fault. Of course they blamed me. I blamed myself.

Carrie was sitting next to Sherman, close. She leaned forward and said to me, “You know, I don’t have to say this. But I want you to be careful with my sister. She’s… she’s fallen really hard for you.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her for the world,” I said.
 

Speaking of which, where was she? She’d left to go get water like five or ten minutes before, and hadn’t come back. “Where did she go, anyway?”

“She was in the kitchen a few minutes ago,” Sherman said.
 

Kelly suddenly went stiff, her eyes wide. “I thought I saw Randy Brewer headed that way.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s the guy who—” She cut herself off, I guess not knowing whether Carrie or I knew. But I knew. Randy Brewer was the son of a bitch who’d tried to rape her last spring.

That’s when I heard the cry, clear across the building, barely above the music. It her voice, screaming, “Let go of me! Help!
Dylan!
”

I was on my feet running before the scream finished.

He was protecting me (Alex)

“Woah,” Randy said as he grabbed my arms. “Be careful!”
 

I’d lost my balance, and when he grabbed my arms I still didn’t have my feet under me. He shoved me against a wall, hard, then pressed himself against me.

“God I want you so bad,” he said, putting his lips against the side of my face. I tried to push him away, but he was a lot stronger than I was. As I squirmed, I screamed, as loud as I could, “Let go of me! Help!
Dylan!
”

“Oh, shut up,” he said. He pushed his right hand against my mouth, and with his left he stuck his hand under my skirt, his disgusting hand reaching between my legs. I fought, as hard as I could, struggling against him, against the need to vomit and scream and cry out at the same time.
 

Suddenly there was a huge muscled arm around his neck. He was yanked off of me, and I heard a guttural shout. “Get your hands off of her!”
 

I fell to the floor. Dylan was dragging Randy away from me, his face murder.

Randy struggled against him, pulled away, and then Dylan grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall.

“I’ll kill you, you motherfucker!” Dylan screamed. Then, with his right fist still encased in the cast, he punched Randy in the face. I heard bone crunch, and Randy’s face just collapsed, blood spurting out of his nose. It was a nightmare.
 

Randy fell backwards to the floor, and Dylan rushed forward, straddling him. He was like nothing I’d ever seen. Savage, his face twisted in rage, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched and tense. He threw a punch, then another, screaming in Randy’s face the entire time. Then he grabbed Randy by the shoulders and lifted his upper body and slammed it on the floor, twice, hard. Randy’s head bounced off the floor with a loud crack.

The music had stopped, and there were screams as some of the other guests saw what was happening. Dylan raised his fist to punch Randy again, and suddenly Sherman was behind him, grabbing Dylan behind the elbows.

“He’s down,” Sherman shouted in Dylan’s ear. “That’s enough!”

Dylan struggled in his rage, trying to get away, to get back to Randy.
 

Sherman shouted, “It’s enough! Go check on Alex!”

At my name, Dylan stopped struggling. He turned, suddenly, toward me. I could see spatters of Randy’s blood on his face.

I burst into tears as someone called out, “Somebody call 911!”

The next moment, Dylan’s arms were around me, and I was sobbing. I was sobbing because of the attempted rape, because of my fear, because of Randy’s attempt to attack me a second time. But I was also sobbing for Dylan, for the man I loved, who had been in such a murderous rage. I was sobbing for what might happen to him, because Randy was unconscious and looked as if Dylan had hit him hard enough to kill him.

I was sobbing because I was terrified that I was going to lose him.

The next twenty minutes were a blur as the paramedics and police arrived. The paramedics went to work on Randy, and soon carried him out on a gurney, a brace around his neck, bandages on the back of his head. Then the police went to work, questioning people. Then they came to us.

 
They had to pull us apart, because I wouldn’t let go of him. His arms were calm, down by his sides, but I kept mine around his waist as they pulled us apart and placed the handcuffs on him. I sank to the floor as they took him away.
 

As they hauled him away, one officer on each side, hands gripping his upper arms, he turned his head and looked back at me, his eyes wide. I couldn’t tell what he was trying to tell me.

A female police officer approached me, and said, “You’re Alex? I’m Officer Perez. You can call me Christina.”

I nodded, unable to stop the tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

“I need to take your statement now, while it’s fresh, okay?”

I tried to control myself, and it just got worse. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Well, it’s too soon to tell. They’re taking him to the hospital now; there may be a head injury.”

“I don’t mean
him!
He’s a rapist! I want to know about Dylan.”

Her eyes widened, then she said, “Wait. Let’s back up, and please tell me the whole story.”

And so I did. Starting with the first date I had with Randy last spring, then when he tried to rape me and his roommates intervened. About how I was too ashamed to report it. And how he had cornered me in the kitchen, backed me into that dark hallway, and then stuck his hand up my skirt while holding me against the wall.

“He was going to rape me,” I whispered. “Dylan stopped him. He was protecting me.”

All the time I was telling the story, Carrie and Sherman were standing at the other end of the kitchen. Carrie’s eyes were huge and sad. When the questioning was over, without a word, she walked over and put her arms around me. I began sobbing again, breaking down this time completely. I cried like I was never going to be able to stop. I cried for the boy I loved, who had grown not just into a man, but a man filled with rage.
 

A man who might be capable of murder.
 

A man who had just been led away, his arms locked behind his back in handcuffs.

Right where I belonged (Dylan)

Oh, fuck,
I thought, as the police started to lead me out of the apartment. I looked over my shoulder, saw her still standing there against the wall, a cop next to her. She was sobbing, and met my eyes with a look of longing mixed with fear. I would have done anything to erase the fear. But there was no going back. She’d seen what I was capable of.
I’d
seen what I was capable of.

Randy, or whatever the hell is name was, had already been carried out by the paramedics before they arrested me. But I couldn’t clear my head of the vision of him, slamming her up against a wall, one hand over her mouth and the other up her skirt as she struggled.
 

I didn’t care if I went to prison. I hoped the son of a bitch was dead.

As they shoved me into the back of a patrol car, a wave of exhaustion and nausea swept over me. Was it really only three hours ago that she whispered,
I’m losing my virginity tonight.
God, I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick my way out of the back of the car, run back to her and throw my arms around her, protect her, love her, take care of her forever.

But, I’d screwed that up, too.

So, instead of doing any of that exciting, dramatic, powerful stuff that I’d have liked to do, I sat there in the back of the car for what seemed an eternity while the police continued to do whatever it is that police do. Onlookers on the street walked by, glancing in the back of the car, where I was Exhibit A for the guy you do not want your daughter to fall in love with.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I was there for maybe thirty minutes before the police car finally pulled out. Two officers were in the front, a male and a female. Neither of them said a word to me at first, until we got stuck in traffic. Finally, the male officer, sitting behind the wheel, said, “If you care, dispatcher says it looks like the guy you beat up is going to live.”

My hands, still wrapped behind my back, were hurting like hell, especially the one in the cast. I suspected I’d done more damage to my hand.
Worth it.

I shrugged in response to the officer’s comment.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked.

I looked up at him. Conventional wisdom said I should have stayed quiet until I saw a lawyer. But what difference did it really make? I wasn’t going to fucking lie to anyone. Yes, I’d gone way too far. But the fact was, I was protecting her. If I had to go to jail for that, so be it.

I finally answered. “He sexually assaulted my girlfriend. I intervened.”

The female officer winced.
 

“I call bullshit,” said the male. “I’m guessing she was getting a little on the side, and you got pissed off.”

I had to swallow the surge of rage I felt.
Do not respond. Don’t do it.
 

I finally said, “I don’t think I want to talk to you any more.”

The officer burst into laughter and slapped the steering wheel. “You hear that, Perez? He doesn’t want to talk to me any more. Fucking college kid punk. I tell you what, he ought to be in the fucking Marines learning some discipline, instead of fucking around at penthouse parties on the Upper West Side. You hear that?” he shouted at me. “I fucking hate rich kids. All of you. Think you can do anything, get away with anything. I bet your dad’s lawyer will be pounding on the front door of the police station before we even get there.”

Perez, the female officer, leaned over and whispered something urgently, to her partner. Whatever. I shook my head, turned to stare out the window. He could think what he wanted, it didn’t make any difference to me.

The abuse continued for a little while, but I tuned it out, concentrating instead on the growing bloom of pain in my right hand.
 

The problem was simple.

I was no good for Alex. I wasn’t even any good for myself. Yeah, I’d protected her. But what about next time? What if the next person who pissed me off and I lost control was Alex?

Hopefully, after tonight, she recognized that. But what if she didn’t? What if she had some misguided belief that she could somehow heal me? There wasn’t any healing. What happened in Afghanistan was part of who I was now, and if I thought about it honestly, something like tonight was bound to happen again.

I’d kill myself before I ever laid a hand on her. But I’d seen what happened to couples over the long term. I’m sure, once upon a time, my parents had had that bloom of love and happiness. But too much alcohol, and too much stress and anger and hate finally turned them into a perfect caricature of the abusive couple. It wasn’t until my Mom got clean—and kicked his ass out—before she finally got her life together.

No way in hell was I going to put Alex through that. And it would happen. It would happen sure as the sun was going to rise in the morning.

I blinked back tears. Because I was going to have to figure out a way to let her down easy, to say goodbye, and disappear into my own world, this time permanently. Like I should have done in February, when the bomb meant for me killed my best friend instead.

At the jailhouse, they booked me in, which took forever. Fingerprints. Search. It was humiliating.

That was the point where my escort, the cop from the car, finally muttered something when he got a look at the mess of my leg.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Got blown up in Afghanistan,” I answered.

He grunted. I guess that was all the apology I was going to get.

They confiscated my wallet and everything else, and into the jail cell I went. Right where I belonged.