Breakable

I knew who was responsible. He was lying in a bloody heap at my feet, moaning as if either of us should give a shit.

‘So it’s my fault he attacked me?’ she gasped, furious. ‘It’s my fault I can’t walk from a house to my truck without one of you trying to rape me?’

One of you.

‘ “One of you”? You’re gonna lump me in with that piece of shit?’ I gestured to the guy I’d put on the ground, indignation bubbling to the surface like a chemical reaction, instantaneous and unrelenting. ‘I am nothing like him.’ I heard my words push into the space between us, hostile and defensive. As I spat them out, her eyes slid over my mouth – and the ring in my lip. I saw the fear she tried to swallow before I could see it.

My anger was not for her. Her fear should not be for me. But I was making it so.

She asked for her keys again, hand out, her voice breaking mid-sentence – but she stared into my eyes, determined. I was astounded at her bravery in the face of this night. And here I stood, another man trying to bully her into doing something she didn’t want to do.

One of you.

She was wrong, but not entirely. The sensation that washed over me at this realization wasn’t pleasant.

‘Do you live on campus?’ I asked, allowing the gentleness she deserved back into my voice. This was her choice, not mine. Saving her didn’t give me the right to dictate to her. She could drive across campus without me, though I’d prefer she didn’t. ‘Let me drive you,’ I coaxed. ‘I can walk back over here and get my ride after.’

Relief swept over me at her surrendering nod. As she gathered her personal effects from the floor of the truck, I helped her, returning items to her bag, braving an unjustified twinge of jealousy when I handed her a condom packet.

As though I’d offered her a scorpion instead of a harmless square of cellophane, she retracted her hand and said it wasn’t hers.

So he’d thought it out far enough to try to keep himself ‘safe’ from evidence?

Don’t turn round. Don’t look at him.

Ignoring my mind’s warning, I glanced back to make certain he was still on the ground. He was. I may have mumbled something about his intent to conceal evidence, which made me wish she’d let me call the police, because intent like that could point to fully cognizant plotting. I’m not sure if I said it out loud. She didn’t reply, if I had. I shoved the condom into my pocket, wondering if a condom could go through a shredder, because I would be trying that little experiment when I got home.

In my imagination, he’d be wearing it at the time.

I climbed into her truck, shut the door and turned the key in the ignition. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to call the police?’ Resolved as I was to let this be her decision, I had to ask one last time.

She stared at the back of the house and the party within through the windshield, silent for a full minute. ‘I’m sure,’ she said.

I nodded and backed out of the lot, headlight beams showing the damage I’d done to her attacker. It wasn’t near enough. I forced myself to keep the truck in reverse. I’d have rather put it in drive and flattened him beneath the tyres.

It had been years since I’d felt this level of violence roiling through my blood.

Staring at the road, I pretended an artificial composure to force myself to become calm, knowing that it would work, albeit slowly. At the intersection, I asked the name of her dorm and turned right when she gave it, her voice weaker and quaking, now that the danger was past.

I gave her as much privacy as I could, keeping peripheral watch while she strained to regroup. She hugged herself as though she was freezing, even though the night was more perfect than October had a right to be. A little warm, even. She shuddered in waves, her body throwing off the need to defend itself while her mind couldn’t escape the degradation she’d just experienced.

I wanted to reach across the cab and touch her. I didn’t.

It could have been so much worse.

But I would never, ever say that to her.

In her dorm lot, I parked and locked the truck, handing her the keys and walking with her to the side entrance. I fought to keep my hands to myself. I wanted to comfort her, but a stranger’s touch was the last thing she needed. Though she was familiar to me – unique and fascinating – I was unknown to her.

She didn’t even know my name.

I asked for her ID at the door, figuring she’d have a difficult time swiping the card, the way her body was shaking. I wondered if I should walk her all the way to her room, or if that would feel like a threat. It was a miracle she’d allowed herself to trust me this far.

Then she gasped when she handed over the card, her eyes on my knuckles. ‘Oh, my God. You’re bleeding.’

‘Nah. Mostly his blood,’ I said. Like that’s comforting. Jesus.

I swiped the card and handed it back, staring down into her face, now fully visible under the dome light of the entryway. My eyes touched what my fingers couldn’t, tracing the visible tracks of her tears, the smudges of mascara beneath her eyes. I wanted to smooth the anguished furrows from her brow with my thumbs, pull her within the circle of my arms and press her face against my chest, let my heartbeat calm her.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ I asked, and her eyes filled instantly. My hands curled into fists at my sides. Don’t touch her.

‘Yes. Fine,’ she said, gaze falling from mine. What a horrible little liar she was.