I wish I could forget him as well, but it’s impossible. Though it’s been nearly six months since my captor brought me home, I think about him every night as I drift off to sleep. Sometimes, I’m convinced I can feel him. Not next to me, but somewhere out there, reaching across the continents to torment me, his pull both magnetic and lethal, like the gravitational force of the sun.
I dream of him, too. Of the tender way he’d hold me when I cried and the brutal way he’d fuck me, of all the big and little things that make up the contradiction that is Peter. At times, I wake up from those dreams aroused and frustrated, but more often, I find my pillow soaked with tears and my arms wrapped around my blanket to stave off the agonizing loneliness that keeps me frozen inside.
I need to move on, I know. And I try. I go out with Marsha and the girls every weekend, and when a particularly attractive guy asks for my number, I give it out more often than not. But that’s where it ends for me. I can’t take the next step and actually agree to the date when they call or text me.
“Why even bother giving it out, then?” Marsha asked last week, when she learned that I did it yet again. “Why not just turn them down on the spot?”
I shrugged, not knowing what to say, and she let it drop, not wanting to stress me out. Like most of my acquaintances who’ve heard the FBI version of the Peter story, Marsha has been treating me like I’m made of crystal and might shatter at the slightest pressure. I think she—along with others at the hospital—thinks my ordeal was even worse than I disclosed. One time, when Mom was still in the hospital, I overheard two nurses talking about how I escaped a “sexual slavery ring” and am still dealing with the aftermath of being “forced into prostitution.”
It’s aggravating, but the only way to address those rumors would be to tell the truth, and I’m not about to do that.
Fortunately, my new coworkers don’t know anything more than my bandmates. Drs. Wendy and Bill Otterman, the married couple who own the small OB-GYN practice, were so impressed by my resume and academic credentials that they barely asked any questions about the nine-month gap in my work history. I told them I took a hiatus to travel around the world, and they hired me on the spot, with the caveat that I start immediately so they could take a long-awaited cruise to Alaska for their fortieth wedding anniversary.
I could’ve looked for better-paying, more prestigious opportunities, but I accepted the offer right away and started the next day. With Mom barely out of the hospital, I wanted something fairly low key, so I could still keep an eye on her and Dad. But what really cinched the deal for me was the office’s location—a fifteen-minute drive from my parents’ house and a short walk from my new apartment.
“Earth to Rory.” Simon waves his beer bottle in front of Rory’s face, interrupting his oration on the wonders of California. “Let’s just be real here. Sara, are you going to go on tour with us?”
I smile and shake my head. “No can do, sorry. Work won’t let me take off for so long.”
“See?” Simon triumphantly surveys his bandmates, as though he’s won a bet. “She’s not going. It’s not happening.”
“Oh, come on.” Phil grabs the beer from Simon and finishes it off in two gulps before motioning to the bartender to bring more. Turning to face me, he gives me the full dose of the famous Phil Hudson charm. “Sara, sweetheart...” His voice turns cajoling. “We all have work and other responsibilities, but opportunities like this come once in a lifetime. We’re catching fire, I can feel it, and we have to seize the day. You have to seize the day, because you know what happens tomorrow?”
I shake my head, grinning. I’ve heard versions of this lecture from him before, and he gets more creative each time. “No, what?”
“Exactly.” He wags his index finger, teacher style. “You don’t know, and neither does anyone else. Life is but a series of random events, one that seems to have a pattern but doesn’t. You may think you know what tomorrow will bring, but all it takes is a change in a single variable, and boom! Off you go in a totally different direction.”
“Like on a tour?” I say dryly, and both Rory and Simon laugh.
“A tour, yes—that would be a new variable,” Phil says, undeterred. “But it’s one that you would introduce. Most of the time, the new variable comes from where you least expect it, and then all your carefully laid plans go to shit.”