Page 55 of Saving Barrette

We get out of the car and I follow my dad through the walkway, where he stops, cursing under his breath. He inhales as if he’s setting himself up for something. He turns, faces me, and pulls me into a hug. “I love you,” he says, choking out the words. “And I’m sorry you’re being put in this position, to tell her this.”

I nod, unsure of what to say, but settle on “I love you too,” and it’s then, as that term of endearment leaves my frozen lips, I realize that just might have been the first time I’ve said it to him.

He nods thoughtfully and reaches for the doorbell. Joey answers, her face blank and emotionless. I hate she’s mad at me for doing this.

I bury my hands in my pockets. “Where’s Barrette?”

Joey opens the door wider. Barrette’s sitting on the couch with two younger boys. Her eyes drift to mine, smiling. I watch Barrette’s face, the excitement to see me, and then I look at her. Really look at her. This isn’t the same girl I once knew. Her eyes are clear, no trace of makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail braided over her shoulder. For a moment, I see a fourteen-year-old Barrette, laughing, stealing my baseball hat and telling me I can have it back if I can catch her. I try to make myself think of every happy memory I have of her because I know the possibility of never seeing that side again is real.

No matter how hard this will be, I have to tell her. I face her, and I don’t know what my expression is. It could be one of a thousand different ones coursing through me, destroying my composure.

I hug her, kiss her cheek, and then ask her if I can talk to her outside. She nods, swallows slowly, her eyes drifting to my dad, and then me. “Is everything okay?” Her arms drop from around my neck and I hate how the missing heat hits my chest. I take her hand and lead her through the door to the porch that hugs the house.

“I uh…” I struggle to find the words. I reach for her hand again, holding it in mine. “I went to the woods today when I was back home and I….” My words die off and I realize I don’t have the guts to say it.

“I found Roman’s hat,” I tell her finally before I lose my nerve, “right next to where I found you that night,” I spit the words, like they taste bad in my mouth.

Do you see the look in her eyes? The sadness rolling through her as she moves back a step? Do you hear her heart breaking?

I do. I can hear it. I caused it. I destroyed it. Do you see my face? Do you notice the tears rolling down my cheeks? I’m a fucking mess.

Her face contorts, her hand covers her mouth, and pain finds residence in her features. It morphs and shifts and wrenches, just like her heart.

“I’m sorry.” I hate those words. They’re easy and empty, but I say them because I don’t know what else to say to her.

Barrette gasps and then stumbles into me. I grab her arms, steadying her right before she collapses against me in sobs.

I SPEND THEnight at Joey’s parents’ house. My dad finds a hotel to stay at and says he’ll drive me back to campus in the morning. I play football with Joey’s brothers in the basement and end up giving Joey’s mom fifty bucks because I broke a light. Those are the lighter moments of the rest of Thanksgiving. The ones where thousands of families around the country are counting their blessings and saying what they’re thankful of.

But there are darker ones. The moments when I hold Barrette in my arms and pray she finds comfort with me there. I crawl into bed with her, which happens to be a pullout couch in the basement. She won’t stop shaking, but here, I hold her. All of her weight is on me. Her body, her thoughts, her burdens, I’ll take them all and see her through them regardless.

I’m here for her, and I can’t let go. I think that if I’m here, if I can save her thoughts from going completely dark, I can save us. Not forever, but right now, in this moment because where we go from here says a lot about our relationship and its meaning.

“Did you always think it was him?” she finally asks after an hour of awkward silence where I debate on asking if she’s okay, and realize what a braindead question that is.

I tighten my grip on her to see if her shaking gets any better. It’s after three in the morning and my entire body is worn out. Two-a-day practices have nothing on this feeling. “I think a part of me wanted it to be.”

Gradually she begins to calm down, the shaking subsides and the tears slow. “I think I knew,” she says, the regret of so much more etched in her sad eyes. “But I’m afraid of what it means.”

“What it means?” I repeat, not following what she’s implying.

She shifts beside me, propping up on her elbow. She chews on her lip, contemplates, and then finally whispers, “He’s a college football player with a future. I’m a nobody, and I was drunk at the time. I know how this works. I’ll be painted to be a slut and targeting him.”

I don’t want to believe her, I don’t, but her words are sadly justifiable. They are, unfortunately, true. They shouldn’t be, no is no, unconscious or not, drunk or not, drugging someone and raping them has no place in this world.

I’m afraid to answer, scared if I say anything, she’ll fall apart again. I know she’s still struggling to understand, to make this newfound discovery fit into what this means for her, but at least she didn’t push me away.

“I remember the hat,” she whispers, like it’s a confession. “I remember a tattoo on the guy’s hand.” I struggle. I watch her face through the light filtering in from the hallway. She sighs, in maybe relief, I don’t know, and then presses her face on my chest. “I don’t remember what the tattoo looked like, just that it was on his hand and up his arm.”

“You remember the hat?”

Her breathing catches, holds, then she sighs and lifts her head to look at me. I tuck my arm under my head and watch the emotions on her face. “I didn’t until Roman was in my room that night. He asked me something really weird, about our sophomore year of high school and if I remembered us kissing.”

I can barely breathe, let alone swallow thinking of his lips on her, much less inside her. “You kissed him?”

“Sophomore year. Just once.”

I nod, waiting for her to continue and I know she can tell I’m bothered by it.

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