HEALING THE SCARS

CHAPTER 19

JOEY

As we sit on the bed, the room feels charged with an unspoken tension. Penelope is clearly distressed, her posture rigid and her eyes avoiding mine. My heart aches for her, knowing how much she's been through. I take a deep breath and say, "P, Dylan told me about what happened. I am so sorry."

She flinches, her expression hardening. "I don't want to talk about it, Joey. I just can't. Every time I think about it, I feel weak. So can we please not do this? I don't think I will ever forgive him." Her voice trembles, and she stands up, pacing the room with nervous energy.

I watch her, feeling a mix of concern and helplessness. "Calm down, P, please. I need you to know that Dylan is not a monster. He didn't mean to..." I trail off, knowing it's a delicate subject. I don't want to push her away.

"Stop defending him, Joey. That makes you as bad as he is. Did he send you here to say this to me?" Her voice is sharp, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt.

I shake my head, trying to find the right words. "No, he didn't send me here for that. I just want you to keep an open mind. I'm not defending what he did; it was wrong. But I also want you to know that Dylan has a past, things that still haunt him. He's not a bad man, P, trust me. There's more to him than what you see."

She stops pacing and turns to me, her face a mixture of frustration and confusion. "What past, huh? What could be so damaging that it would turn a man into whatever he is?" Her voice is bitter, laced with disbelief.

I hesitate, knowing I'm treading on thin ice. "That's not my story to tell. He will have to open up to you himself. But what really happened after you guys came home? Dylan says he doesn't remember much. He says he doesn't even remember getting into bed."

Penelope looks away, her expression guarded. "Yeah, well, he was too drunk. He took a whole other bottle and downed it. He insisted I sleep on the bed, and I blacked out. When I woke up, he initiated sex, and I... I just allowed him. I let him. All this is my fault." Her voice breaks, and I see tears welling in her eyes.

Without thinking, I reach out and gently touch her arm. "P, none of this is your fault," I say softly. "Did he force himself on you?" My fingers graze her skin, and she shivers at the contact. It's a subtle reaction, but I feel it too—a current of electricity that both scares and excites me.

She shakes her head, biting her lip. "No, he didn't force me. He just didn't give me another choice. I don't know what I'm more angry at—the fact that he took what he wanted, and now I feel like trash, or the fact that I enjoyed it all and am just afraid to admit it. It's almost like I'd rather accuse and blame him than accept the truth."

Her words hang in the air, heavy with pain and confusion. I reach out, gently touching her neck, my fingers grazing the marks she's tried to hide. I can see the faint bruises, the telltale signs of a passionate night. "Are these from Dylan?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My thumb brushes over the bruises, and a flicker of something—jealousy, perhaps—flares in my chest. I wish it had been me leaving those marks, feeling her skin beneath my lips.

Penelope nods, looking away. "Yes," she murmurs, her voice tight.

A pang of jealousy surges through me, unexpected and unwelcome. I quickly pull my hand back, feeling a flush of guilt and confusion. "Penelope, you have to give yourself some grace. It's been a whole three days of complicated issues. The stress of it may be taking a toll on you. You need to calm down and rethink things."

She pulls away, crossing her arms over her chest. "Can we talk about something else?" she asks, her voice small and tired.

I nod, eager to shift the conversation. "Sure. How come you never told me you had a best friend? Tell me more about her." I try to keep my tone light, but my mind keeps drifting back to the marks on her neck, the unspoken attraction between us.

She rolls her eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Go ask her yourself."

I chuckle, grateful for the change in mood. "Fine, then. I'll find everything out on my own."

For a moment, there's a comfortable silence between us. I can feel the weight of the unspoken attraction, the tension that neither of us wants to acknowledge. It's terrifying, knowing how easily we could cross a line, but neither of us wants to admit it.

"Thank you for talking to me," Penelope says softly. "We may not have agreed, but I feel better." She steps closer and, before I can react, wraps her arms around me in a hug. Her warm skin against mine, the soft press of her body—it's intoxicating. I feel a rush of emotions, a mix of protectiveness and desire. For a split second, I imagine what it would be like to kiss her, to hold her without restraint.

But then, reality crashes in. I quickly pull back, my hands resting on her shoulders. "Penelope, we—" I start, but the door suddenly bursts open. Dylan stands in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene. Instinctively, I release Penelope, stepping back as if burned. My heart races, fear, and guilt twisting in my gut. I can only hope Dylan doesn't get the wrong idea because nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Penelope and I exchange a quick, anxious glance. Her face is flushed, and she quickly steps away from me, her expression a mix of fear and guilt. I force a smile, trying to act nonchalant. "Hey," Dylan says, his voice calm but with an edge of tension. He looks between us, his gaze lingering a moment longer than comfortable.

"Hey, Dylan. We were just talking," I say, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. Penelope nods, not meeting Dylan's eyes.

"Yeah, done talking," she echoes, her voice barely above a whisper. The air is thick with tension, the unspoken feelings between all of us hanging in the balance. I can only hope Dylan won't misinterpret the situation, and won't see the truth we're all trying so hard to ignore.