“That’s going to work out perfectly,” he says.
I can count on one hand how many times I felt like something in my life was going to work out perfectly. But he’s right about this. It’s perfect timing. A perfect gift.
“I’m going to school,” I say. “Very part-time. Like one class at a time. I want to get into social work. So, I’m taking some psychology classes, sociology.”
“You’re going to be a social worker?” he asks.
“Yeah. I mean, you and I both know, better than anybody, that it makes a huge difference when you have someone who actually cares. And if you could have a social worker who understands being on the other side of the table? I want to believe that I can make a difference.”
“Of course you can,” he says. “Of course you can make a difference. I think that’s a great idea. Maybe you should just go to school for now.”
“No. I have to work to be able to pay for it. I can qualify for some financial aid, but I have to be able to live and–”
“I’m serious when I say you can just stay with me. I’ll feed you.”
“I can’t do that, Dallas. That is the kindest, most generous offer anyone has ever made to me, but I cannot take advantage of you like that.”
“It’s not taking advantage of me.”
“I know you feel that way. But I would feeldifferently.”
“You’re the best, Sarah, but I don’t know that I’m willing to take your opinion into consideration here.”
I laugh. “I’m the best? What leads you to that conclusion?”
“My instincts,” he says.
“And your instincts are above reproach?”
“I’d say so.”
I look at him, my stomach tightening when his eyes meet mine. I’m going to be twenty-one in two weeks.
I’ve never been kissed. I’m glad that wasn’t part of my abuse. It was wrong and disgusting, and what he did felt like abuse. Felt like trauma. Maybe that’s a weird thing to be grateful for, but I’ve been to some therapy sessions where people talked about how their abusers manipulated their feelings – mental and physical – formed bonds with them. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to undo damage like that. Mine is hard enough.
I don’t count what happened to me as having sexual experience. What I had done to me was assault. It hurt. I didn’t want any of it. The problem is that it ended up categorizing sex and sexual contact as something distasteful and frightening. And so even though in many ways I don’t feel like I have true sexual experience, it did taint the idea of it for me.
Touch is frightening to me, first and foremost.
It’s complicated. I’m acutely aware of my experience, though, standing next to Dallas. Feeling this strange, hollow sensation in my body when he looks at me. Feeling compelled to move closer to him.
If maybe I’d met another man, if maybe I’d done this kind of thing before, I wouldn’t be feeling this now. Because there’s no way I can afford to bring attraction into myrelationship with him. He’s the single most important person in my life, and I just got him back.
He’s the only person in my life who cares about me, really. There are so many other people now who care about me by extension of him, and I can never, ever follow this tightening in my stomach down its natural path. I can never, ever let that grow into anything.
I’m horrified that I’m even thinking about it now.
I was young when he was taken away from me. But not so young I didn’t understand that I was beginning to think he was beautiful. That the love that I felt for him was beginning to turn into something all-encompassing. Something that wasn’t just family.
There wasn’t anything either of us could or would ever have done about it back then. We are adults now, though. And just allowing my thoughts to go there at all feels dangerous.
I start walking again, anything to put a little bit of distance between us. “Historically, I haven’t been the best. I feel like you should know that.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“I mean, people were mean to me in high school, but if I litigate that with any kind of honesty, my verdict is that I was the bitch. Because I never wanted anybody to befriend me so closely that they wanted to come to my house. I never wanted anyone to get so close to me that they might ask about my past. I’m over that. I’ve started overcompensating by telling the people around me that I was a foster kid, and an abuse victim right at the start. Even though I also hate wearing all that on my sleeve, the alternative has been that I live in a weird shame spiral I can’t seem to get out of, and then I can never get to know anyone. I graduated from high school having literallynever been invited to a party. Having never made friends with anyone. I moved out of my mom’s house before I turned eighteen. I moved out of Portland right after I graduated. I moved to Wilsonville, and had a difficult time there.”
“What did you do there?”
