It didn't stop my hands from shaking as I typed out the story. It didn't stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks, but I wasn't crying at all that I was losing. I felt relief at the possibility of living a different life even if it meant in the end I couldn't have him. The story I wrote was an insurance plan. I made sure it was very clear that I was of sound mind and body when I wrote it. I didn't want the facts being misconstrued or manipulated to fit my father's narrative.
I didn't feel the need to say goodbye to either of them before I left the house. I didn't need the opportunity to give them one last chance to be decent. Their track records prove that they're not capable.
I keep going back to the way he watched me when we made love. It's the only thing that's given me the strength to do all of this. I wasn't his toy or a plaything. In that moment, I was his entire world. I need him to know that he means the same to me.
I shove down the possibility that he could have been telling me the truth in that motel room. That he didn't want me. That he was just using me. That every interaction we shared from the time he took me on the beach until the day he pushed me away was because he felt something for me. If I find him and he wants me, I don't think I would ever be happier than in that moment. If he rejects me again, at least I'll know the truth.
What I know now that I struggled with in the past is that my value and self-worth isn't reliant on anyone else. I've created my own misery over the years by not standing up for myself. I'm no longer that woman. I can only hope that what he did was a tactic to get me to walk away because he wasn't strong enough to leave me. In hurting me, he was protecting me.
I grab a diet soda out of the gas station cooler before heading to the front. I've gotten used to wearing clothes again, which I hate. The adjustment was quicker than it should have been. But I don't think I'll ever get used to the itchiness of the wig on my head. I fight the urge to adjust it as my eyes scan the magazines on the rack as I wait for my turn in line.
I nearly drop my drink when I see the newspaper headline,Prestigious Texas University College Professor Found Dead in His Car from an Apparent Self-inflicted Gunshot Wound.Crime happens all over the place and on a slow news day, someone’s suicide has the possibility to make the front page. But it's the name Jason Crowley that makes me gasp—my former professor, the one I had an affair with.
Most people would be shocked or saddened with the news but I know better. I am surprised but the manner of death? Suicide? Never. Jason was not only too narcissistic and egotistical to hurt himself, but he was also stanch in his anti-gun beliefs. This has to be a sign, I realize, as I dip my hand into the plastic tub filled with Laffy Taffy.
I can't seem to wipe the smile off my face as I pay for my candy and my drink. This news is going to make the bus ride to Mission, Texas that much easier to deal with.
***
I don't hesitate the way I did the last time I was here but tugging on the office door is fruitless. It's locked. I rode the high the news of Jason's death gave me all the way from Austin, only to have it dashed away by a locked door. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peer through the glass and immediately take a step back.
There's no way. In what world do people have sex in the front office of a professional building? I cup my hands a second time and sure enough, Angel and Lauren are going at it. Most people would probably give them privacy but I'm no longer like most people. I do pull my eyes away, the glare of the sun making it impossible to see inside, but I lift my hand and knock, hoping the noise comes across just as irritated as I feel.
I turn my back to the door, unsure if they know that I can no longer see inside when the door eventually opens. There’s no evidence of the embarrassment I expect Lauren to feel from what I just witnessed. Her smile is small and mischievous and her cheeks are flushed red. If I was a woman that still made assumptions, I would say she didn’t come to greet me until after she had finished.
Angel is walking to the back, still zipping up his jeans as I enter.
“I figured you’d be tied up in an insane asylum by now,” Lauren says as she relocks the front door.
I have no idea what kind of business can be run successfully with customers unable to come inside during business hours but it’s none of my concern.
“The headlines are making you sound like a lunatic,” Lauren continues when I don’t speak.
“I have no doubt about that,” I say, internally wondering if my dad was still somehow able to spin the story in his favor.
I went into graphic detail about what happened the month that I was with Liam. All the experiences I described while at his house were true. The only lies I told were about the night that he took me. I lied and said that we had been dating for a while. That Liam was my boyfriend. I wasn’t dumb enough to give them his name because I’m hoping after everything settles down, we might have a chance at a normal life.
I explained that we like to play games, and that’s why I was seen being carried away from the beach. Another lie I told was that I wasn’t unconscious. I scoured the internet for footage of what happened that night and none existed that I could find where he drugged me. My lies are balanced on the hope that no such footage exists.
I explained that I was tired of being in the spotlight. I was exhausted at having to lead a life I never asked for. I went further to explain that I was under no legal obligation, regardless of who my father was, and who my father could be, to tell anyone goodbye.
As a parting shot to my parents, I also added that I was under no obligation to my father or his constituents to verify my safety or my whereabouts during the month that I was gone.
“Did anyone recognize you on your way in here?” Lauren asks, as she looks out the glass door to scan the streets.
“Why would anyone follow me?” I ask.
She turns around to face me, a mild look of annoyance on her face. “People are pissed at you, Raya.”
I shrug, unconcerned about anyone's feelings at this point. “It's not my fault they don't like the fact that I made choices they don't agree with.”
Lauren immediately shakes her head. “They're pissed about the energy, the money and the time spent looking for you. Colleges organized search parties. Every day, Americans spent hours and days with their eyes glued to the television, waiting for your safe return. People care about you.”
I shake my head, rejecting her words. “People like to be involved in the drama,” I say with a sigh. “It's more about them getting themselves in the spotlight than any true concern about anything else. People have gotten so used to putting every second of their lives on social media that they can't do something nice or grieve, feel happy or feel sad without telling the world about it. I'm over all of it. I want privacy. I want to make my own choices.”
“You don't regret what you've done?” she asks but I can't sense judgment in her tone.
“Not one bit,” I say without missing a beat. “My choices are my own. People being upset with them aren't my concern. I came here to ask for help,” I say unable to hide the irritation in my voice. “If I wanted a lecture, I would have stayed in Austin.”