Page 48 of Homestead

I sit up and blink at him, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.

My face is too cold. My hands and knees are trembling. My stomach starts to heave.

I was about to be raped, but now I’m not.

It’s like my brain and body can’t catch up.

9

Jimmy has knelt downon the deck and is using both hands to examine the blow to the side of my head. I don’t think it’s bleeding, but I might not know if it was.

He’s making a lot of anxious, wordless sounds, and for some reason they make the whole thing worse.

They make it clear how horrible what happened actually is if even quiet, stoic Jimmy can’t control his voice.

I glance over toward the bent body of the man who attacked me. It’s a mistake. Jimmy shot him in the head.

With a surge of panic, I push away Jimmy’s hands and lean away from the wood of the deck to vomit in choked, painful wretches.

It’s mortifying—the final indignity—and I start to sob when I’ve finally emptied my stomach.

Making more of those gruff sounds of protest, Jimmy adjusts his position so he can gather me up in his arms and carry me into the house.

I’m glad to get inside. It feels safer there. I’m still crying when he puts me down on the couch. I curl up on my side in the fetal position.

He stares down at me like he’s frozen for several seconds. Then he goes and wets a kitchen towel and brings it over to wipe down my face and neck, concentrating on the spot where I was hit. He moves my hand and positions it to hold the cool, wet towel around what will definitely become a bruise.

We have no ice since it hasn’t been below freezing even at night in the past couple of weeks. We have no cold pack or frozen vegetables to help reduce swelling. At the moment even that reality feels tragic to me.

Jimmy stares at me again, once more trapped in what might be indecision. Then he walks away from the couch.

This time I don’t know what he’s doing until he returns with one of his old T-shirts, one I’d recently moved out of regular rotation because it was so thin and worn. I was saving it to tear into rags.

It must be the first item of clothing he saw. He lifts me up to remove the torn remnants of my shirt and pulls the T-shirt over my head instead.

His hands move down to my skirt. I’m not sure what he’s doing. He fiddles with the fabric.

Finally he rasps out, “Did he…? Did he…?” His face twists dramatically. He can’t finish the question.

He doesn’t need to. “No.” I’m vaguely surprised my voice still works. It’s achingly sore from screaming. “He didn’t rape me. He… He… tried.”

“I know he did. Oh my God, Chloe.” He frames my face with both big hands, his touch incredibly gentle. “Are you okay?”

“I… I think so.” I pull back from him slightly, not because I don’t like his strong presence but because it’s making me feel even weaker. “I left my gun in the house. I should have had?—”

“No.” He’s kneeling next to the couch. He reaches out like he might touch me again, but he stops himself. “No, no, no.”

“I didn’t expect it.” I’m starting to cry again, but I make myself talk through it. “I was home, so I… so I thought… I should have had my gun. I’m so sorry.”

“No!” he says more fiercely now. “You didn’t do anything wrong, baby. You were at home. You should have been safe.”

He’s never called me baby before today. While it sounds tender and entirely unconscious on his part, I’d rather him call me girlie like he sometimes does when he’s in a good mood.

Baby makes me feel small and young, and I already feel like that most of the time. I’ve been trying so hard not to be that.

I want to be strong, but I’m not. I guess I’ll always be helpless. Need protection.

I hug my arms to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut, shaking as I stifle more sobs.

---