Bound to You

Chapter 6

I don't remember how I ended up in the back of your car. One minute I was washing the blood from between my legs and the next, I was curled up in the space behind the passenger's seat of the car, the carpet of the floorboard scratching against my bare thighs.

I don't know how long I was there before you finally came out. I heard your voice through the window as you called goodnight to my parents, heard the rattle of your keys. You didn't see me at first. You started the car, put it in reverse, and when you turned to look out the back window, you startled, your eyes going wide.

"Lena?" You put the car in park and my stomach dropped. "What's happened?"

"Drive," I croaked. My throat was dry. I didn't even know why.

You opened your mouth to argue, but I cut you off. "Please. Please, just drive. Please get me away from here."

You stared at me for a long moment and finally, you backed the car out of the driveway. I could feel every bump and rock under the wheels.

"Where am I going?" you asked.

I wanted to ask you to take me to your place, let me sleep right here, in the backseat of your car, in your driveway. But I knew you wouldn't let me. Your sense of what was appropriate was too strong.

"I don't care," I finally said. "Just not home."

We drove in silence, until I saw the sign for Scalzi Park, probably long since closed for the night, fly by the window. The car rolled to a stop, and you stared out the window for a long time before finally looking down at me.

"Lena-" you started, but I didn't want to answer any questions yet. I didn't want to talk about what Jason had done.

"Where did you get those scars?" I asked, wrapping my arms around my legs and pulling them tight against my chest.

You looked at me, and I was afraid you would refuse to answer, but finally you said, "Afghanistan. I joined the British Army when I was very young, seventeen. One year and three months into active duty, a piece of artillery blew up just feet from me, and I ended up with some wounds from the shrapnel. I'm alive, so there's the plus side, but the guy that was standing beside me isn't."

I thought about Mom telling me you had PTSD. "Do you have nightmares?" Your eyes shot to mine. Maybe it was a rude question, and maybe if you couldn't see on my face that I needed the answer, you wouldn't have given it to me.

"Yes. All the time. But since moving here, going to Yale, becoming a counselor, it's been a little easier."

I pressed my head to the back of the passenger's seat and closed my eyes.

"Lena."

I opened them again.

"Please tell me what's happened."

I didn't move. From where I leaned against the seat, I couldn't see your face. I wanted to keep it that way. "I had sex with Jason tonight."

"Oh. Um." You cleared your throat, shifted in your seat. "Well, shouldn't that be something you're happy about?"

"I didn't want to."

You stopped shifting then. I peeked around the seat, and I saw the way your hands gripped your steering wheel. "What do you-"

"I said no." I leaned forward to meet your eye. I felt confident enough to now. Somehow, even though I'd known Jason over a year and had only spoken to you a handful of times, I felt safe here. I felt like I could say what I needed to.

Your eyes were wide. "Do you mean to say he...?" You couldn't even say it and I couldn't blame you.

I didn't answer. I held your eye, longer than I'd held it since the day we met, so you would know I meant yes. Yes, he did.

Your jaw hardened then and you reached forward, slamming the car into gear.

I rose up on my knees so I could lean forward between the seats. "What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna kill him," you said, but before you could touch the gas, I grabbed onto your arm, startling you enough to make you stop.

"Please, don't. I don't want anyone to know. I don't want you to do anything."

You looked outraged when your eyes met mine, and I could feel the way your arm tensed beneath my hands wrapped around it. "Lena, he has to pay for this."

I was already shaking my head. "No, John. Not tonight. Please."

I could tell you wanted to argue, but it wasn't up to you, was it? You held my eye for a long moment and then you sighed and put the car in park again.

"Are you...are you okay at least? Physically? Are you hurt?"

I let your arm go and looked away. I couldn't talk to you about the way I hurt, the way I ached sickeningly between my legs, how it felt like a knife when I moved, how Jason had left bruises.

"I just mean, would you like me to take you to hospital?"

When I looked up at you, I was surprised to see your hand stretched toward me, like maybe you were going to touch my face, my shoulder, my arm. But you pulled it back quick.

"No," I finally said. "No hospital."

A streetlight shined down on you through the windshield, and I couldn't look away from your gray-green eyes. I watched the way they went from pity to something more resigned. "I'm sorry," you said. "Really, I am."

I knew you were, so I pressed my head to the seat beside me and watched you, watched until the lights in the park were turned off, and you finally had to drive me back home.