So Totally (35 page)

Layney Logan, there are two things in this world you don’t need to question. One is gravity. The other is Layney Logan.

I didn’t know what to do with his words that day. But I think I knew now.

Of course, it had to be Foster. My comic attempts to unburden myself this week should have led me to this moment much sooner, but it was no secret that I was stubborn.

The way he always checked my phone to make sure it was working, hiding in the shadows in case I needed backup, pushing Dean away from me when I felt threatened, the way he kissed me like I was the last thing he wanted but everything he needed.

I haven’t been able to get you out of my system in ten years.

My heart raced with the realization of what I was about to do. I planned to emotionally fillet myself, and the rightness of it was as frightening as the act itself.

I closed my eyes to begin, or else…I wouldn’t have. Words. They were just words. They couldn’t hurt me anymore.

“Foster, I was raped.” Okay, I supposed I could have used a smoother segue.

He didn’t reply. I suppose I didn’t really want him to, not yet.

“I’ve never said those words out loud to anyone. I don’t think I’ve even let myself think those words.” I opened my eyes. I guess I’d emotionally filleted him too by the looks of his face. “It was always more like ‘something bad happened,’ even in my head. But it was more than something bad. I was raped.”

Foster looked like someone just put him on a stage in the middle of the play whose script he’d never seen. He loosened his tie. “I had no idea. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.” I could read his thoughts like he had a teleprompter on his forehead. He looked at the romantic table between us and felt guilty, as if he’d done exactly the wrong thing. “Oh God. The dates… You must fucking hate me. I swear I didn’t know.”

“No, I don’t hate you. It’s okay. It happened a long time ago, really. The dates were fine.”

His gaze intensified. Another thought across his teleprompter. “How long?”

I shook my head. “A long time—”

“Shit.” He pushed back from the table, guilt etching ugly lines into his handsome features. “Layney, when?” But he knew.

I hadn’t meant to shatter him, but it was clear I was breaking his heart all over again. “Eighth grade.”

I might as well have punched him in the gut.

He stalked to the ledge. I didn’t know if I should let him go or follow him. He leaned against the concrete like it was the only thing holding him upright. Then he punched it.

“Foster!”

He held his injured hand close to his chest and collapsed onto the ground, sitting with his back against the ledge. I grabbed the towel wrapped around the bottle of juice and ran to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he told me.

“Let me see your hand.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m being a total jerk. This isn’t about me. I suck.”

“It’s okay. Let me see your hand.”

I sat on the ground and tended to his scrapes, worried that he’d broken something. The knuckles were already swelling.

“Did they get the guy? The one who hurt you?”

I wrapped the towel around his hand and pulled it into my lap. “He’s dead.”

“What?”

“He was in an accident a few weeks after it happened.”

“So it was somebody you knew? Tell me if you want me to shut up.”

“I knew him. He was my cousin.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? I mean, you could have told me. You know that, right?”

I started to say something, but he interrupted. “Smooth, Foster. You probably would have if I hadn’t screwed everything up. When you needed me the most, I betrayed you.”

Hearing him say it out loud was like somebody finally pulled the sliver out of my heart. It hurt. It hurt like hell, but it had to be done. Because a person can’t live her whole life not putting any weight on her heart. I’d protected it for so long, I’d forgotten what it felt like to let it do its job.

I brought his injured hand to my cheek, and the tears spilled. And they felt good.

“We were kids, Foster. Neither one of us was equipped to deal with it. I should have told my mother. I know I should have. I tried. And I think I might have finally been ready to when my aunt called with the news that he’d died. It wouldn’t have done anybody any good by then.”

“But you carried that all alone.” Foster brought his other hand to my cheek too. “You’re so brave.”

“No I’m not. I just hid. That’s not brave.”

“Can you tell me what happened? Do you want to?”

I shuttered my eyes, wanting the shutter out the rest of it too. It seemed too big, too impossible. “We were at Uncle Bob and Aunt Kate’s for the weekly Friday card games. We always stayed over on account of all the gin and tonics. Anyway, my cousin, Robbie, was in high school and too cool to hang out with the ’rents, so it was just me watching movies in the rec room after the adults went to bed. Robbie came home from a party, agitated and strange.”

My lungs still worked the air in and out, my heart kept its beat, but I floated outside of my body and watched from above, going back and forth to the roof and basement family room. Safe and apart from both girls.

“Robbie wanted me to have a drink with him. He still had some of his fifth and didn’t want to waste his buzz. I didn’t want to, but he said…he said…” This was getting harder instead of easier. I steeled my nerves, detaching a little more. “He said I would be safe. That I could trust him. He told me that I should find out how I handled my alcohol someplace where I wasn’t in danger of getting out of control.”

I could smell the booze and remembered the sickly sweetness of the cola coupled with the hot bite of the whiskey. I wanted to retch. Foster held me close, stroking my hair and encouraging me to keep talking.

“I don’t remember much more.”

“One drink?” he asked.

I shook my head. The unbearable part was coming. The unthinkable. “I didn’t even finish it.”

The solidness of Foster tightened around me. “Your cousin roofied you?”

I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. It was too horrible to imagine. What kind of person did that? Who would offer a young girl safety and use her trust to degrade her?

Foster’s breath came out in harsh barks, and I realized he was crying. Or trying not to.

“The next day, he apologized. He said he was just out-of-his-mind drunk. That he couldn’t believe he did that to me. I don’t think he was ever sober again after that. My aunt kept calling my mom. She was so worried about him. He kept disappearing and was high all the time. She was afraid he was killing himself—I think maybe he was.”

“I wish I could kill him.”

I pulled back to look at Foster. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t trust you then. I was so confused. I felt so dirty, Foster. I was afraid you would feel it all over me if you touched me.”

“I was confused too, you know. And I don’t know if I will ever feel right again knowing how much I hurt you when you needed me the most.” He wiped my tears with his thumb. “When we kissed…did I…did you?”

“No,” I reassured him. “I have a lot going on in my head—but kissing you never made it worse. I promise.”

Some of the tension left his body. “I suppose if I start acting nicer to you, it’s going to piss you off.”

I stroked his face, wiping away his tears too. “I want you to treat me normal, please. Except—” I looked so deeply into his eyes it felt like I could see his soul. He wanted to be there for me. He wanted me. “I need a time-out from the kissing. There are some things I need to deal with. I’m not ready for more than friendship right now.”

“Sure. I understand. Do you think it’s too late for us?”

I knew the answer he was hoping for, but I couldn’t give it to him. “I don’t know, Foster. I’m not in a place where I can conceive of life with or without you. I just don’t know.”

“Whatever you need, I’m here.”

I nodded. “If I figure out what that is, you’ll be the first to know.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A
CROSS the
table, Foster rubbed his temples and pointed to my Excedrin bottle. I tossed it to him, and he popped two without water and surveyed the scene in front of him.

We’d lost control again. Everyone was talking at once, Mr. Blake was listening to Jimi Hendrix on his iPod, and Alden and Evie were really arguing with each other. Something I’d noticed them doing more and more of. I gestured to them with my eyes, and Foster smirked.

I stood and cleared my throat. Several times. I shot Foster
the look
, so he whistled. And then winced from his headache.

“The floor is yours, Ms. Logan.”

“Thank you, Mr. Foster.” I held up the calendar. “Hot off the press, gang. Our fundraiser is back from the printer and it looks fabulous.” I passed a couple down each side of the table.

“Is your Dates of Doom story ready for this week’s issue, Logan?”

I gulped. “Yeah.” We were going to send out the paper on Friday and announce the fundraiser sale. “I’ll go over it with you after the staff meeting, okay?”

“Ms. Logan, if you want to get me in a room alone, you don’t have to manufacture reasons. Just ask.”

I rolled my eyes.

And my heart did this little flutter thing that happened every time he made suggestive comments now.

“Mr. Foster, if I ever get you in a room without witnesses, you might think of running.” I made the scissors motion with my fingers. To the rest of the staff, I asked, “How are we doing with the cell phone regulation story?”

“I’ve got a lead on a planned parent protest,” said Maryanne.

Foster perked up. “Spill.”

“Josie Carter’s mom is organizing a parent call-in day. They are staggering the calls, but essentially, a bunch of parents and relatives are going to call the office on the same day and give them messages for their students—things they would have been able to tell the kids if they still had their cell phones. They want to show the administration that the phones have become an integral part of family communication these days.”

“Good work, Maryanne. You plan on covering this one, don’t you?”

She beamed at the praise. “I’d love to.”

Foster stood up. He was wearing his Charlie Brown shirt again. How was it that such a stupid shirt was suddenly so adorable to me? It was like I was becoming a girl or something.

“I’m guessing we need to keep this as quiet as we can, or they won’t be able to pull it off. So nobody discusses the call-in away from this table, got it?” Everyone nodded. I’ll admit I liked watching him be a leader. It didn’t seem like it was a personal attack on me anymore. “Maryanne, if you need help covering this, let Logan or me know. We’ll get you what you need. This is a big story, but I want you to run with it.”

She blushed and stammered something unintelligible. I collected the calendars while Chelsea led a brainstorming session about possible features for the next issue. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, like things were coming together.

It had been two months since the night I said the word “rape.” I wasn’t sure I had done the right thing until the next morning. I rolled over and realized I had slept the whole night through. And while I hadn’t relished the thought of facing Foster again in the light of day, I wasn’t petrified of running into him either. I felt as if I was poking one foot out of the blanket that had been oppressing me lately. I still had some work to do, but one foot was free.

Foster joined me at a table full of calendar boxes and straightened a pile of papers that didn’t need straightening. “So, how are you?”

I opened up a calendar to pretend that I was looking at it. “I’m doing okay. Really.”

“I wanted to tell you…I went to a support meeting two weeks ago. For friends and family of people who have been…you know.”

He knocked the wind out of me. “What?”

“I probably won’t go back…but I went. Just to see if it would help me be normal again. I’m never sure how to act anymore. I don’t want to freak you out by being too nice, but I’m afraid that bra-stuffing jokes are crossing the line.”

It happened to him too. I didn’t really believe that when my therapist—and, yes I have one now—told me that. Steve told me that Foster’s life changed that awful night too.

It didn’t sink in—even after he hit the concrete with his fist. But standing with him in a noisy newsroom while he talked about going to a partner-support group made it hit home. He lost his best friend, he carried a lot of guilt, and by the way I caught him looking at me from time to time, he was still in love with me.

Maybe.

“I have a therapist now. I see him once a week.” I pivoted away from him slightly to lessen the intimacy, a small protection I still allowed myself. “Maybe sometime you could come with me. If you want. You don’t have to or anything. It’s probably a dumb idea, right?”

“What would I have to do?” he asked. He was now facing the rest of the room while I still faced the wall. It seemed to be one of those conversations that went better with no eye contact.

“Um. Talk. If you felt like it. Sometimes he just asks me questions.”

“Do you talk about me?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you going to tell me what you say?”

“Maybe someday.”

“Would you feel weird if I came?”

“Yes. But I would still want you to. If you want, I mean.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Are you glad you’re talking to him? Does it make everything…better?”

For the most part, I really liked Steve the Therapist. Every once in a while, he got on my nerves with all his let’s-hug-it-outness. If I got paid a dime every time he said the word “communication,” my sixty minutes in the chair would be free. But he was helping me open up.

“I wasn’t sold on the idea at first. But I went with my mom twice, and the rest I’ve been to solo. It’s nice to know that, relatively speaking, I’m normal. There’s no right way or wrong way to be…afterward. Some girls get overly emo, but some are like me and close off. Steve, my therapist, doesn’t talk much about the night it happened. We’ve been sticking to forward motion progress.” I stole a sidelong glance. “Learning to trust, that kind of thing.”