I had thought of what it would be like, when someone touched me that intimately, of being wanted that way, of my introduction to that kind of yearning. I wasn’t supposed to, but I did. It was always a dream.
This. This was a nightmare.
Paul. He was old enough to be my father. He had children of his own. He was a deacon.
And it was all for show. Because, not too deep down, he was like any other animal, and I had given him the occasion to take exactly what he wanted. He had every desire to hurt me, and I didn’t have the power to stop him. And after, I wouldn’t even be able to tell my parents, because I shouldn’t have been out in the world where he could get at me. I had gambled with myself and lost. I would never get back what he was going to take.
And he would have, if not for her.
Haydn.
I saw her there, in the shadows of the trees, before she said anything. She was so beautiful. I thought her an angel. A desperate hallucination.
“That doesn’t belong to you,” she said.
Paul stopped his drunken fumbling with his belt to look up at her.
I never mistook Haydn’s meaning to be that I didn’t belong to anyone. She meant, if I belonged to someone, it was to her. And I was fine with that.