The Game Series (56 page)

“Actually, I thought I’d cook,” I reply.

“I thought you had dance class.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still cook, Mum.”

“It would be much easier if we just went out somewhere.”

I grit my teeth. “I have another guest. Someone I want you to meet.”
If she agrees.

“Oh?” Her voice goes up an octave, and I can tell I’ve finally got her attention. “A girl?”

“Yes.”

Mum is silent as she thinks it over just like she thinks over every single detail of her life. Have dinner in a fancy restaurant or let your son cook and meet someone important to him – it shouldn’t be a hard choice. She should go for the second option without even needing to think it over, but I don’t expect her to. I expect her to push for the restaurant.

“Okay,” she agrees, albeit reluctantly. “Call me when you finish your class and you’re home. I’ll come when you’re ready. I suppose one night of your cooking won’t kill me.”

“Gee, thanks, Mum.”

“You’re welcome. Now go to bed. I’ll see you on Thursday. Goodbye, Blake.” She hangs up before I can respond. I scowl at the phone and slam it on the side, wondering if I’ve just made a very, very bad decision.

Dr. Hausen looks at me expectantly, her eyes soft behind her glasses. As usual, her hair is pinned back from her face, but instead of her usual suit, today she’s wearing jeans and a sweater. Her clipboard is nowhere in sight, her hands clutching a steaming mug of coffee.

At least there’s no damn clicky pen.

Today isn’t our usual meet. Today she’s supposed to spend the day running group workshops with the guys here at St. Morris’ instead of her one on one appointments, but she’s here with me instead. She’s taken an hour of her time away from them to sort out the mess flying around my head.

“So, tell me more,” she finally says. “You weren’t exactly descriptive in your phone call.”

I take a deep breath in and push my sleeves up. I lay my hands palm up on my legs, exposing the scars for her to see. It’s unnecessary; she knows exactly what they are and what they look like, but the words are caught in my throat. The only way I can tell her is by showing her.

“Tell me,” she repeats. “You don’t have to hide here, Abbi, you know that. This is a safe place for you. Dig deep inside and find the words to tell me.”

“Blake…” I swallow. “He saw them.”

“How?”

The words that were stuck just seconds ago come flowing out. I tell her about the flashback, how real the memory of the night Pearce almost raped me was, and I tell her how it made me feel. I describe to her how I know I should have stayed in bed, but instead went to class and messed almost everything up. And then I say how nothing makes sense to me anymore, because Blake shouldn’t have reacted the way he did.

“How should he have reacted? In your mind,” Dr. Hausen prompts. “What’s the “right” way for him to react to your scars?”

“He should have grabbed his stuff and got away from me. He should have been horrified by them the way I am, and he shouldn’t even think about coming near me again.”

“What did he do?”

I look at the floor, my eyes tracing the boxed pattern on the rug beneath us. “He held me. He held me and wouldn’t let me go. Even when I pushed him away, he held me again and again and he didn’t let go of me. He let me cry into his chest, and he didn’t promise it would be okay. He didn’t make me promises no one can keep.”

“What did he say?”

“He just promised he would be there. That’s it. I cried harder than I have in so long, and he just promised he’d be there until it didn’t hurt anymore, but that’s impossible. He can’t be there until it stops because it’ll never stop hurting.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. I know he won’t be there all the time, but a part of me wants to believe it.” I look at her. “Is that silly? That after the last few weeks of not wanting to believe him, I suddenly do. It sounds silly to me.”

“You said last time you trust him to an extent. Have you thought that maybe your switch in feelings is you starting to trust in
yourself
and
your
ability to make decisions? After all, if you trust him, there’s no reason not to believe what he says, and if you believe it, there’s no reason not to want to.”

I chew on my bottom lip for a second, peeling a bit of skin off with my teeth. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Tell me how you felt when Blake saw your scars. That moment you realized it wasn’t your secret anymore.”

Fear.

Nothing but pure fear.

It was the fear of explaining. Of him knowing everything, really everything, and learning that my depression runs deeper than the scars themselves. It was the fear of him learning everything Pearce did to me, how he abused and defiled me, and walking away. I was scared he’d walk right out of the studio and I’d lose the only person I trust other than Maddie. And then there was – and still is – the fear for me.

That’s the strongest fear I have where Blake Smith is concerned. The fear that he might just break my heart if he walked away.

“That’s why he can’t know,” I explain. “It’s selfish and immature, but every time I see him I feel like I’m losing a little part of myself into him. It’s like he has a hold on my heart and each time we dance, laugh, play, he tugs it a little closer to the palm of his heart. Nothing scares me more than the thought he might just take it with him.”

“He didn’t run at the sight of your scars. They’re the physical embodiment of your depression, the way your feelings manifested themselves, and he didn’t go. What makes you think he’d leave you behind if he knew about what you’ve suffered?”

My eyes go to the window, and loud laughter creeps in through the open window. They’re all down in the yard waiting for Dr. Hausen to finish here with me, and for a moment, I want to go and join them. I want to lock myself away from the world and settle into the routine that structured my life for a year. Here where it’s safe and there’s no reason for me to feel anything for anyone.

“Abbi?”

“Pearce tried his damned hardest to go the whole way. If it wasn’t for Jake walking in as he was about to rip off my pants, he would have. But that doesn’t mean I feel any less dirty or any less ashamed. I still feel dirty from it and what happened afterward. I feel damaged by it, almost. If Blake knew what he’d almost done…” I trail off and shake my head.

“If Blake knew…”

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. Blake won’t find out. No one will.”

Dr. Hausen puts her mug of coffee on the table next to her and leans forward, sliding her glasses from her face. “You can’t always keep things a secret, no matter how buried you think they are.”

“But I can try. I can always try.”

~

The rain is comforting. It beats steadily against my window, breaking the silence that’s resting heavily in my room. The droplets run down the glass, racing each other to the bottom. The calming effect it has on me is more important than ever today.

The last few days have been a never-ending chain of emotion. The flashbacks have been so strong I’ve found myself checking the mirror to see if there’s a bruise somewhere on my body or if it’s in my head. I can feel myself falling into the darkness again, spiraling downward without any control.

But I know we all have a darkness inside us.

For some people it’s obvious, a heavy cloud hanging over them wherever they go. For others, like me, it’s a silent whisper, like a gentle spring breeze. It’s always there, swirling around me and sinking into my skin as I try desperately to fight the pull. There are many ways to describe depression, and I’ve heard them all. I’ve thought them all at some point.

A demon. A black hole. An empty abyss. A clawing hold.

They’re all right yet they’re all so wrong. Everyone has their own experiences of it, their own way of fighting, their own way of coping. I’ve finally worked out what depression is to me, and I know in my heart that’s the only reason I haven’t desperately searched the house for something with a sharp edge.

For me, depression is the ever-present sinking feeling weighing my heart down. It’s the constant downturn of my lips and the dullness of my eyes. It’s the heavy sigh I breathe when I realize there’s yet another day to get through. And it’s the tiny breath of air in my ear that reminds me it’s so easy to end it all.

But for every inch of darkness inside, there’s a centimeter of light.

It’s the light that keeps me going. It’s the promise of tomorrow in the setting sun and the certainty of next week on the calendar. It’s the lifelong dream of the little girl inside that refuses to give up. It’s the “what if” that counters every dark thought.

The light is the single star surrounded by a sea of darkness. It’s the spot you’re drawn to, each and every time. The spot you can’t let go.

There are so many spots of light in my life – my parents, ballet, Maddie… Blake. The problem is I only have two hands, meaning every time I hold onto one of them, another floats away until I grab it back again. A vicious circle that will just keep turning.

But I know this. Which means I can fight it. I can push against the pull, smile through the tears and shine a light in the dark. And, one day, I can fight it and I can win. One day I’ll control the depression, not the other way around, and I hold onto that thought each and every day.

I glance to the clock and realize I have to leave to meet Blake. I’d love nothing more than to stay here in bed, in the silence of my house, and avoid him. Since I have to see him for dance, avoidance isn’t an option, so I have to pull on some big girl panties and face him.

The sky has cleared when I get downstairs so I leave my coat behind. I splash through the puddles like a child as I head towards Starbucks. My feet are twitching with the need to dance – but not alone. Despite what’s happening in my head, my heart and my body are crying out for the closeness and security dancing with Blake brings me.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were about to walk right past me.”

I turn in the direction of his voice and smile. “Good job you know better, isn’t it?”

His lips curve upwards, and I cross the street. He’s leaning against the wall opposite me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and his eyes intent on me from beneath his hair.

“You could really do with a haircut,” I say, noticing the way it’s curling over his ears.

“Hi, Abbi. I’m great, thanks, hope you are too. Oh, no, I haven’t done much today. Just work. What’s that? Oh, same old, same old. Joe shouting, Matt moaning and crazy people ordering more seafood than is healthy. And yes, you are correct, I do need a haircut.”

“You know, I can see you really annoying me doing that.”

He pushes off the wall, grinning. “So my shining manners haven’t annoyed you yet?”

“
Yet
.” I laugh. “There’s still plenty of time.”

“Then I should probably tell you you’re having dinner at mine on Thursday before you are annoyed at me.”

I look at him. “I am, am I?”

“I think I was supposed to ask instead of tell you.”

“I think that’s usually how it goes, yeah.”

“Well, see.” He shifts uncomfortably, looking more like a sheepish teen than a grown man. “Mum is here this weekend, and I’d rather cook my own foot than go for a meal in New York with her.”

“And where do I come into this?”

He shifts again, and I stifle my smile.

“I kinda, sorta, maybe told her I’d cook because I wanted her to meet you,” he mumbles.

I raise an eyebrow when he stops outside Prospect Park. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I was hoping it wouldn’t mean I’d have to put on a damn shirt and remember my posh-boy manners in some bloody overpriced restaurant.”

“And it worked.” I purse my lips. “By the way, I’m impressed you knew how to get here from Starbucks.”

“Yeah, I used Google maps, but whatever.”

I laugh. “So you need me to come and have dinner at your place and meet your mom on Thursday after dance.”

“My mum.”

“Huh?” I glance over my shoulder at him as I pass the many memorials guarding the opening of the park.

“My mum,” he repeats, his lips tugging into an amused smile. “Not my “mom.””

“Seriously? There’s a one letter difference. Same thing. Freakin’ British.”

“Bloody Americans.” He laughs, making me smile. “But yeah. Basically. Please?”

“What do I get out of this?” I tease.

“You get to… Er… Well, I’d say meet my mum, but that’s not always pleasant. She’s kind of… Particular about people. She’s also probably a little pissed she spent three years trying to marry me off to various daughters of her friends’ and I’m still single.”

“You’re making this sound so appealing I can barely contain my excitement.”

“I’m not convincing you, am I?” He sighs. “I guess I’ll have to learn how to iron a damn shirt and shine my shoes. And to think, I was going to make lasagna.”

I pause, turning to look at him. His eyes are wide, his shoulders are up by his ears like he’s paused mid-shrug, and his lips are turned downwards. If he thinks he’s fooling me, he obviously thinks I’m stupid, because I can see the glint of laughter in his eyes.

“Oh, alright.” I sigh the words out heavily, playing along. “I’ll come over. Can’t have you
ironing
now, can we?” I roll my eyes.

Blake grins, and we start walking again. “Ironing is the cruelest kind of torture.”

“You’re so male it’s unreal.”

“And to think it was only a couple of weeks ago you were checking if I was all male.”

Ass.
“I’m still debating it, actually. I think it’s the eyelashes – you have girly eyelashes. They make you pretty.”

“Pretty? Flippin’ pretty?” He shakes his head. “You could seriously damage that manhood calling me pretty.”

I smile. “But you are pretty. Like a little poodle puppy with a bow on its head.”

“You did not just compare me to a poodle, Abbi.”

I cover my mouth with one of my hands and nibble on my thumbnail. “It’s fair,” I argue. “You just sprung a Meet The Parents on me.”