“What?” he asks softly.
“Help me,” I say. He looks at my face. He doesn’t look down at my exposed body. He just looks at my face, like I’m not sitting here with my skirt hiked up above my hips, like my shirt’s not torn open. Like I wasn’t just raped. Defiled. Used. I tug at my skirt, and he looks around the room, opens a cabinet, and lays an unfolded towel over me. I start to adjust my clothes beneath it. He looks down and picks up my shoes, which I must have kicked off when I was flailing. He sets them next to my feet. He sees my panties hanging over my ankle, and he reaches for them, lifting my leg gently so he can pull them off my foot. “I need those,” I say. I really, really need them.
He shakes them out and holds them up, as if I was putting them on. “They’re torn,” he says.
“I need them,” I say again. A tear rolls down my cheek, and his face softens. He finds the scraps of fabric where the man who hurt me ripped them at the hip, and he ties a knot in them. He holds them up, like I’m two and need his help getting dressed. I put my feet in them and stand up, unsteady on my legs. He reaches out to support me. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t pull them up. He helps me. He hisses in a breath when he pulls them past the blood on my inner thighs. He lifts his gaze, looking into my face as he pulls them over my hips, and then he tugs my skirt down to cover them. I lower the towel, and he closes my shirt with gentle fingers. He bends over and picks up my phone where I dropped it.
“Can I call someone for you?” he asks.
I nod. But I can’t think of who. I can’t call my parents. I wasn’t supposed to be at this party. I was supposed to be in my dorm room studying.
“Call Rachel,” I say. I lean against the counter, feeling like I can’t hold myself up anymore.
He scrolls through my contacts until he finds her name. He calls, and I can hear the faint ring through the phone. “Hello, Rachel?” he asks.
“Who are you and why do you have that hussy’s phone?” I hear Rachel ask.
He looks at me. “Do you want to talk to her?” he asks me over the phone.
I shake my head.
He closes his eyes and says, “My name is Peter Reed, and I’m here with your friend…” He stops and looks at me, his eyebrows scrunching together. “What’s your name?”
“Reagan,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And he really looks like he is. “I can’t hear you.” His tone is soft and much more sympathetic than I deserve.
“Reagan,” I bark. I groan inwardly at the way I said that. It was a spurt. But he heard me. That’s what matters.
“I’m here with your friend, Reagan. She needs you.”
“Where?” I hear Rachel say.
“J-just tell her the party. M-master bathroom, I think.” I look around.
“Do you want me to just go find her?” he asks, looking at me over the phone.
My gut clenches. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. My jaw quivers, and I hate it. But this man makes me feel safe.
He reaches out and very gently lays his hand on the side of my head. I jerk back, and he immediately realizes that touching me was a mistake. “I won’t leave. I promise,” he says. He turns back to the phone. “We’re in the back bedroom, in the bathroom. She’s hurt.” He looks at my face while he says it. Not at my abused body. His eyes stare into mine. “She’s strong,” he says. “But I think she needs you.” He looks down at the phone. “I think she hung up on me.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I say.
“I’m going to stay with you,” he says to assure me. “I’m not leaving. I promise.”
I nod and lean against the counter, crossing my arms beneath my br**sts.
“I’m going with you so I can be sure you go to the hospital,” he says.
I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”
He looks into my eyes. “A rape kit is necessary.”
Oh, I’m going to the hospital. I need to be tested for STDs. And get a morning-after pill. And do all the things I never thought I’d have to think about, much less do. “I know. I’ll go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
I shake my head. He’s already seen enough of my shame.
“I can’t walk away and leave you like this.”
There’s a quick knock on the door, and he calls out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Rachel,” says a muffled voice. My soul cries out for her. I nod, and he opens the door. She rushes in and stops short. Her face contorts, but she bites it back quickly when she sees a tear roll down my face. “What happened?” she croons. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me in tight. I sob into her shoulder as she holds me. I look up at him through the curtain of her hair and see that he’s blinking furiously. He sniffles and straightens his spine when he sees me looking at him.
“She needs to go to the hospital,” he says quietly.
“I’ll take her.” She looks around. “How can we get her out of here without everyone seeing her?” she asks.
He pulls his hoodie over his head and walks over to me. He bunches it up like he wants to put it over my head, but he asks for permission to do it with his eyes. I nod, and he drops it over me, and his scent wraps around me. It’s like citrus and woodsy outdoor smells combined. It wraps me up and holds me close, still warm from his body. I tug it down around my hips. Rachel wets a corner of the towel he gave me earlier and wipes beneath my eyes. “You have scratches on your face,” she says. Then she sees my neck. “Did he choke you?” she gasps. But she quickly recovers. I cover my neck with my hand. That’s not the worst he did.
A growl starts low in Peter’s belly, but I can hear it. He’s angry for me. “Thank you,” I whisper to him as she leads me to the door, her hand holding tightly to mine.
“Can I come with you?” he asks.
Rachel looks at me for confirmation, but I shake my head.
“Can I at least check on you later?” he asks. “How can I find you again?”
“We need to go,” Rachel says.
He follows us down the hallway and through the noisy kitchen and the even noisier living room. He shields my body with the width of his and opens the door for us so we can walk in front of him. Rachel’s hand is in mine, but I feel the need to reach for his, because he represents strength for me. “Thank you, Peter Reed,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome,” he whispers back. He opens the car door for me, and I gingerly sit down. I’m sore so I hiss. He stiffens. “Are you sure I can’t go?”
I nod. I lay my head back and close my eyes. And let Rachel drive me to the hospital.
A shriek jerks me from my memories. I watch as a blond man walks out of the front of the jail, and the girl who was with the three men launches herself at Peter Reed. I know it’s him. I haven’t seen him since that night, but I am completely sure that my savior just walked out of the prison.
A knock sounds on the passenger window, and I jump. I look over at my dad, who makes a face at me through the glass. I unlock the door, and he gets in. He looks at the scene in front of us. “Are you happy now?” he asks.
My dad’s an attorney, and he took over Pete’s legal needs when I found out where he was. I went looking for him a few weeks after the attack. I asked around campus until I finally found someone who knew one of his brothers. Pete was in jail for a foolish mistake. So, I asked my dad to help him. He’s been working to have him freed ever since.
My dad’s well known in this town for his work with the youth detention program, and he does a lot of pro bono work for people who can’t afford representation. Dad found out that Pete had legal counsel that someone else set up for him, so he asked to assist in the case. Pete still had to go to jail, but he got a much lighter sentence because of Dad’s help. Pete doesn’t deserve to be in jail. He deserves to be given a medal of honor.
I look at Dad and smile. “Yes, I’m happy now. Did you get to ask him about coming to the farm?” I ask it very shyly because my dad reads me like I’m a book.
He nods.
“And?” My insides are flipping around, and my heart is racing.
“He’s coming.”
I lay a hand on my chest and force myself to take a deep breath.
“What do you hope to get out of seeing this boy?” Dad asks.
“I just want to thank him, Dad.”
Dad grins and rolls his eyes. “I was thinking you might want to have his babies.”
I snort. “Not yet.”
I’ll see Pete tomorrow. I can’t wait.
“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “He’s been in jail two years. He may be a little harder than that boy you met that night so long ago.”
Dad talks about it like it happened years ago. But it happens again and again in my head, every single night.
“He still saved me, Dad,” I say quietly.