I’ve noticed she wears oversized clothing unless she’s dressed up for a formal affair or performance, obscuring her body.
“The wrong men can also be dangerous,” I say gently.
She chews her lower lip, gathering her words.
“I mean, yeah. I guess I didn’t realize he was flirting with me at first. I’d just turned seventeen and I was in this talent show, kinda like a smaller American Idol, and he was running it. I thought he meant it when he got all excited. He swore I had something amazing that the world had to see. I just...I didn’t realize he wasn’t talking about my voice, my music. When I look back on it now...”
“It looks different, doesn’t it?” I prompt softly.
“Y-yeah. It’s pretty fucking cringe.” She presses her lips together, her lashes lowering, trembling slightly. “I can’t believe I was flattered at first. This hot, powerful older guy thinks I’m talented and he’s acting like he could fall in love with me? And then he’d always ask me to do all this weird shit for him. Like, stuff that you could say was innocent, but not really...” She trails off and swallows visibly.
“Can you tell me what stuff?”
She gives me a glassy stare, horror in her eyes.
“Easterly. Whatever it is, it’s okay,” I venture.
“Like...like combing his hair for him. Like tying his tie. Putting his lip balm on and then asking me to touch his lips to check if it’s even,” she spits. Pure revulsion crawls down my spine. That’s definitely creepy, and from her grimace, she’s realizing just how disturbing it is, too.
Her face falls.
Sick.
I’m trying to keep my voice neutral, but it’s mighty hard when my gorge rises like a mountain stabbing at the sky.
“There’s a word for that, Natalia,” I whisper, using her real name.
“...yeah?”
“Grooming,” I say carefully. “And I don’t mean the hygiene kind. A man starts pushing boundaries of what you consider normal with small, innocent things at first. All so that compared to the last thing he asked you to do, the next isn’t that much weirder, and soon you forget just how incredibly weird, pushy, and creepy it is.”
“Yeah!” she agrees. “That’s it exactly. And then one day it’s like, I look back and think...how did I even get here? It feels like I started wading in the shallow end but somehow I got pulled into the deep, the middle of the lake, until I couldn’t see the shore.”
“That’s a great way to put it,” I agree, hating that she has to make up metaphors for the abuse she’s suffered. She’s so freaking young and sweet. I take a calculated risk by asking, “Easterly...did he ever touch you before you were eighteen?”
Her eyes flutter sadly.
“I dunno...does kissing count?”
“Most kinds of kissing, hell yes,” I say angrily. “Sorry. Is this too much for you?”
“A little...” Her eyes dart to the side. She rubs the back of her neck. “But I have to. I have to get it all out, Callie. Vance, he’d always kiss my cheek when we started out. Sometimes he’d get really close, like on the corner of my mouth, joking that he was just this 'big ol’ papa bear.' And he was usually rubbing my shoulders. Oh my God. Now that I say it, I can’t believe I ever thought it was anything but gross.”
I’m furious for her sake.
But this isn’t about my moral outrage. It’s all about her pain, using what she’s suffered productively to make sure this sicko never harms another living soul.
“He was trying to get you comfortable with being touched,” I say slowly. “Did it make you feel bad?”
“I didn’t feel good, even when I thought I was kinda starstruck with him. I told myself I liked it.” Her gaze abruptly locks on me again, so dark and vulnerable. “Doesn’t that mean it’s my fault? That I let him do that stuff?”
My eyes go to her fingers.
She’s clenching her cup so hard it’s shaking, threatening to spill.
I stand and gently pry the tea out of her fingers, set it on my desk, and then settle in to lean against my desk, watching her and folding my hands against my thighs.
“Get one thing straight,” I say firmly, but hopefully not harshly. “Nothing here is your fault, Easterly. Nothing. When a man with power over you pressures you into doing anything you’re not comfortable with, that’s wrong. Convincing yourself you wanted it is more like coping, it’s not really consent. You were under duress and it’s not your fault. I don’t blame you for anything. I’m not judging you at all.”
Easterly’s face crumples.
“...even if I’m judging myself? I was so shitting stupid!” she hisses.
“Even then. It’s natural to have regrets, but I promise you can work through them with time and good people there to lend an ear.” Holding out my hand, I try to smile. “You can tell me anything, Natalia.”