Better Than Okay (14 page)

Chapter 10

It was her fourth shower of the day. She stood under
the hot water, letting the stream pound gently on her back, massaging her
muscles. A week had passed since she was released from the hospital. A week had
passed since he happened.

He was a security guard. He was supposed to be
protecting people. Not ripping them to shreds. She’d seen him around a lot,
even spoke to him regularly because he worked a lot of the venues she
frequented. She used to forget his name sometimes. Now it was forever etched in
her memory, her skin, her being. Connor Dorsey.

She grabbed her washcloth and poured more soap
onto it, scrubbing her body until every inch of it was covered in a soapy
lather. She still felt dirty, like she’d never be totally clean again. She
scrubbed harder. She was angry. No, she was worse than angry. Worse than
disgusted. Worse than violated.

The hospital had only kept her overnight for
observation since she had a concussion. Just as nurse Francine had promised,
Dr. Stoke had come in with Officer Landberg, who’d questioned her relentlessly
about what she remembered, asking over and over again for every detail she
could muster. She’d been in an out of consciousness throughout the attack and
what she did remember she wanted to forget. But even now, her memory wouldn’t
let her. When she closed her eyes, he was there, prying, ripping, taking,
destroying.

 
Brian had insisted on being in the room
through the questioning, and she’d let him, although he looked like he was
going to be sick the entire time. Of course, he had to leave when they did the
rape kit. She’d given her consent, although she still didn’t completely
understand why it was necessary if he was already in custody. Officer Cohle and
the district attorney Ben Thomas had assured her that it was important to
gather as much viable evidence as possible. They’d told her that the state
would be pursuing prosecution. They’d tested for diseases. They’d given her a
morning after pill.

By the time her mom arrived early the next
morning, the hours long tests had already been completed, thank goodness. Tori
had barely been able to keep it together. Who knows what would’ve happened if
she’d had to witness the excruciatingly slow, incredibly invasive and detailed
process of pulling hairs and swabbing and photographing. She couldn’t remember
everything that happened when she was raped. But she remembered the rape kit.
She closed her eyes, scrubbing harder.

 
“You okay in there,
Desi?” she asked now, her voice full of worry that she was trying
unsuccessfully to hide.

She was using the other nickname she’d given her and only pulled
out when she was sick or really hurting. Destiny sighed. She hated that she was
the cause of the new lines that appeared around her mom’s eyes in the days
since she’d been in town.

“Yeah, I’m okay, Mom,” she answered.

She rinsed off then poured more soap on the washcloth and lathered
herself again, scrubbing. Two more scrub downs and she’d be done. For now.

She finally turned off the water a few minutes later and stepped
out, drying herself quickly. The mirror hadn’t gotten totally fogged this time,
and she caught a glimpse of herself. There was still a faint, black and purple
ring under her right eye and the top of her forehead was still bandaged,
covering the mid-sized gash there. She inhaled and released the breath slowly.
Her bruised ribs had been the quickest to heal and she barely felt anything
there anymore. Bruises still lingered on her forearms and the inside of her
thighs.

She slipped on her old “FAMU” sweatpants and a t-shirt, and
stepped out of the bathroom, inhaling the scent of garlic and pasta. It was
really too hot to be wearing anything but shorts and a tank top, but she didn’t
like showing her bruises. She hated how her mom and Dorian and Brian looked
every time they noticed them. She’d stopped trying to slather on foundation to
cover up the bruise on her eye a couple of days ago after her mom had gently
told her it was still visible. She heard voices in the living room, which meant
either Dorian or Brian was there.

“Hey,” Brian smiled when she entered the room.

 
After everything that
happened her heart still pounded whenever she saw him.

“Hey.”

She smiled, her first real one of the day. Honestly, seeing him
was the thing that was keeping her feeling normal. As much as she loved her mom
and was endlessly grateful that she’d flown down at a moment’s notice to be
with her, Tori was hovering. And the hovering reminded her of everything that
she wanted to forget.

His eyes traveled over her swiftly. He looked at the bruise
underneath her eye and quickly looked away, controlling the unabashed fury that
had just flashed there. He released a quick breath before looking at her again.
She knew that he was trying to assess how she was feeling. She met his eyes and
smiled softly. She felt calmer when he was around.

“Your mom said you hadn’t eaten so I stopped and got you a
chocolate milkshake. It’s in the refrigerator.” He glanced over at Tori, who
smiled at him gratefully.

“Thanks,” Destiny grinned faintly.

He knew even the thought of eating made her stomach churn. She’d
been forcing herself to eat for the past week, mostly because her mom was
watching her like a hawk. Tori looked from Destiny to Brian.

“Let me get in here and finish cooking,” she said, standing.

She was petite and looked at least five years younger than her
forty-four years. Like Destiny, her skin was caramel colored and her hair was
the same dark brown color, although it wasn’t as thick. Her eyes were not quite
as round as her daughter’s, though they were just as expressive. She’d been
called a MILF more than once by Dorian’s friends, which usually got them beat
up.

She watched her mom’s slender frame disappear into the kitchen and
she sighed. She’d be leaving soon. She wanted to stay longer but Destiny had
tried to convince her that she would be fine. She knew she didn’t have anymore
vacation days at work and she didn’t want her to lose her job on top of
everything else. Plus, she just wanted to feel normal. And that wasn’t going to
happen until she started doing normal things. Like going back to work, which
she planned on doing Monday.

She crossed the room and seated herself on the futon next to
Brian, crossing her legs under her. She knew he’d come straight there from
work, the way he had every day since she’d been released.

“My mom is stressed,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “And
it’s my fault.” She glanced guilty toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, causing her to meet his eyes. “Don’t do that.
Nothing about this is your fault.”

She traced a finger over the letters printed on her sweats and sighed.
“She leaves Sunday,” she said unnecessarily.

When she looked up at him again she knew he was trying to read her
expression. She had no idea what was on her face, because she wasn’t entirely
sure what she felt.

“She wants me to go to therapy,” she said, tracing the print on
her pant leg again. “There’s a church down the street from here that offers ra…
well, counseling on Saturday afternoons.”

She sighed and looked up at him, chewing on her lip. She hated the
idea, honestly. How was she supposed to feel, talking to total strangers about
her attack when it hurt so much to even remember it?

“You know I went to counseling,” he told her matter-of-factly.

She blinked, surprised. He was always so contained and stoic, it
was difficult to imagine him laid up on a couch listening to a shrink.

“Clara made me go after my mom left,” he stopped, his eyes far
away. “I only went for a few months, but I went.”

“Did it help?” she asked, eyeing him.

“Yeah, it did,” he looked at her again, his eyes trailing from her
bandaged head to her eye. “I think you should go.”

She sighed and leaned back on the futon. He studied her for a
second longer then leaned forward, rummaging through his bag that was on the
floor in front of him.

“I brought a couple of copies for you,” he said, handing her the
new issue of
UMusic
.

She knew he wasn’t going to press the issue and she was grateful.
She looked at the magazine. Her story had earned a cover line. She smiled
automatically although she knew it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Thinking about
covering the Jazz Fest concerts made her think about covering Roc D’s show and
thinking about that made her think about him. She hated that he had stolen what
was probably one of the best experiences of her life without even being there.

“What?” he asked quietly, trying to read her expression.

She hesitated, looking away. It seemed like forever before she
spoke. “I just wonder if I’ll ever be able to go to a concert again.”

She shrugged, and studied her hands. He looked away briefly then
back to her, his eyes resolved.

“Yes,” he said simply.

She stared at the blank TV and released a breath. Finally she
turned her attention to the magazine in her hands.

“Thanks for bringing this,” she said, forcing another smile.

She ran a finger over her cover line then sighed and flipped it
open. She’d told Gabe that she had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in this
week. She didn’t want anyone else knowing what had happened and she couldn’t go
to work with visible bruises. So she’d been housebound all of this week,
ashamed to go out in public. She studied the layout Chuck was so proud of.

“What’d you think?” she asked, knowing Brian had already read her
story.

She bit her lip and looked at him. His opinion had always meant a
lot to her, not just because he knew music, but because she knew he wouldn’t
lie to her.

“Honestly? This part right here…” He took the magazine from her
and scanned it, before reading. “
There
was a point in the night when the band’s energy peaked, the organic but precise
sounds of each instrument fusing together, culminating in a few seconds of
unhurried perfection that was so beautifully intense even the band itself
seemed to stand in awe of their own instruments.”
 

He looked up at her grinning slightly though his eyes were
serious.

“That sentence is why you’re the best writer I know.”

She smiled, her face flushing at his obvious exaggeration.
 

“And the part where you compared the jazz movement from the
twenties to the mainstreaming of hip-hop in the early nineties was pretty spot
on.”

“You think?” she asked, biting her lip and tilting her head.

He nodded and grinned. “I’m pretty sure you have me to thank for
the story though.”

“Why is that?” she asked, suppressing a grin.

“Because spending the day with me was obviously inspirational for you.
You know, with you being able to bask in my presence and infinite music
knowledge.”

She giggled and slapped at his shoulder. He smiled and grabbed her
hand. He didn’t let go immediately and she looked up at him. It was the first
time he’d really even touched her since that night at the hospital. It was
almost like he was afraid to. She didn’t move her hand and he slowly interlaced
his fingers with hers, still studying her face. He was peering into her soul
again. And even though she knew it was damaged and spliced, she let him,
because in that moment, he made her feel whole.

“Okay, Tweety Bird, not a lot, I know,” Tori said as she entered
the room, breaking the tension.

Brian released her hand and Destiny blushed. Her mom shot her a
knowing look but said nothing as she handed her a plate with more chicken
Alfredo on it than Destiny cared to eat.

“Here you go, hon.” She handed Brian a plate that was stacked to
the brim.

“I’ve really missed your cooking, Aunt Tori,” he said, eyeing the
food with gusto.

Tori smiled just as there was a knock on the door. The knob turned
and Dorian stepped in. He’d been using his key all week, and Destiny wondered
why he even bothered knocking.

“Yo,” he said boisterously as he entered and locked the door
behind him.

Brian nodded his head at him.

“Hey auntie,” he grinned, dropping a quick kiss on Tori’s cheek.

“Hi, honey. I’ll grab your plate,” she told him as she headed back
toward the kitchen.

“What’s up with the pig tails?” he asked Destiny, pulling lightly
at the loose braids that were hanging over her shoulders.

She swatted his hand away.

 
“You look like
Pocahontas,” he said, staring at her warily. “I feel like any minute now you’re
gonna break into song and start singing about the river and the circle of life
or some shit.”

“Shut up,” she said bursting into giggles.

Brian laughed. “You do kinda look like Pocahontas,” he agreed,
still grinning.
 

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Like you whisper to the dirt.”

“Like you communicate with the leaves,” Dorian added, laughing.