The room goes quiet. A swarm of questions flash over my friend’s face. It’s so much I have to look away.
“How didyousleep?” she finally asks.
Glancing at the clock for the first time since I woke up, I see it’s after ten. My stomach uncoils and I fill my lungs with air. I slept for eight hours.
“Good. I feel much better.” It’s the truth. “Tell John I’m sorry for calling so late.”
Kristen pads softly through the kitchen, settling her forearms on the island across from me. “John’s not upset, Han. He understands. We both do.”
There it is. The knowing. The concern. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth as I try to formulate a response. The “Thank-you” I offer up isn’t the opening she’d hoped for, but it’s not a denial either.
My friend nods once and pushes off the counter. After emptying her mug in the sink, she collects her purse. “I need to head home. John’s parents are coming over for lunch.” She rounds the island, stops beside me. “You sure you’re okay?”
I roll my eyes, making sure to smile so she knows I’m not serious. “I’m fine. I just needed a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”
She doesn’t move. After a long moment, she drops my gaze, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a business card.
“It’s…just…in case,” Kristen stammers as she slides it across the granite. I lean back like the card is on fire, folding my arms over my chest. “In case you decide you wanna talk to someone.”
I roll my lips, attention locked on the printed text:Miranda Ferguson, licensed professional counselor.
“She really helped me last year after my miscarriage,” she continues.
Funny how something as small and insignificant as a piece of card stock with black Times New Roman can feel so imposing—like every dark part of me is suddenly exposed.
A hand lands on my shoulder but my eyes are lost in the marble swirl of the counter top.
“Think about it, Hannah.”
My nose begins to burn and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek.
“I love you and I’m here for you.”
I cough past the lump that holds words hostage in my chest until I can finally whisper, “Love you, too.”
Kristen leaves. I don’t watch it happen, but I hear the front door open and close. Then the sound of her car’s engine in the driveway. All of it feeling a million miles behind me.
I stare at the card until my coffee goes cold. Until the tears I refuse to let fall are locked down for good.See? I’m in control here.
On a sharp sniff, I hop off the stool, swipe up the card, and march to the other side of the kitchen. I yank open the junk drawer and toss the card inside. It glares up at me from the mess of loose batteries and capless pens. My hand is frozen on the handle, unable to slam the drawer shut like I’d planned. Before I can question myself, I grab the card. The wood floor pounds beneath my feet as I stomp to the entryway for my purse.
I tell myself it’s so I don’t lose it. I’ll keep it for emergencies, but I probably won’tactuallyneed it. Maybe I can pass it on to someone whoreallyneeds it—someone who’s been through something truly traumatic.
Like a miscarriage. Or a sexual assault that lasted more than sixty seconds and involved something beyond a drunk creep who got too handsy. Because that’s all my experience was. Brief—over before it escalated to a point I’m certain I would have never recovered from.
I would never say it wasnothing. I know what happened to me wassomething. But I also know what itwasn’t.
I wasn’t raped.
I wasn’t drugged.
I wasn’t unconscious.
It could have been worse. Other women have been through worse.
Therapists are forthosewomen.
The women for whom help didn’t arrive in time. The women who suffer through more than a few sleepless nights. The women whose bruises last longer than forty-eight hours. The women who fear another man’s touch for months…years even.