Salvation (26 page)

His face twisted with effort and pleasure, and he grunted out a few wordless sounds before pushing hard against me in final, clumsy thrusts. Then he was coming too, and I was watching the pleasure, relief, emotion, and culmination wash over his face as he let go.

It was too much. Too good. It took everything out of me. I clung to him desperately as his body relaxed, and he lowered his weight onto mine, gasping against my neck.

“I love you,” I murmured with a scratchy voice. “Gideon, I love you so much.”

“Me too.” His voice was muffled because he was pressing little kisses onto my throat. “I love you too.”

After a minute, he lifted his head. “You came for real?”

I nodded, blushing for no good reason. At least my skin was so flushed already he probably wouldn’t notice. “Yeah. You know I’m not faking it anymore.”

He lowered his head again, and I felt him shake a few times, some sort of shuddering emotion.

But he was grinning when he raised his head. “What do you think? Maybe we should both call in sick today.”

***

A
couple of months later, I reached out to hold Gideon’s hand as we walked through the pleasant, airy living room of an apartment. The building was in the same neighborhood as my old apartment and his current one.

The floors were beautiful, wide-plank hardwood, and the updated kitchen connected to the living area, and there were big windows with lovely molding that looked out onto the cityscape.

“So you can see, the owners didn’t cut corners when they upgraded the kitchen. These are very good appliances.” The realtor opened the refrigerator and then the stove so we could see, and then she ran her hand over the dark granite counter.

“What do you think?” Gideon asked, watching my face, looking for any sign of dislike or resistance.

“It’s really nice,” I said, smiling at him. Then I turned to the realtor. “They did a good job.”

“I think so too. Come this way, and I’ll show you the bathroom.”

We walked through to the bathroom, which was also nicely updated, and into the one bedroom. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t at all a bad size for the asking price of the home. There was even a long balcony that could be entered from the bedroom or the living room.

The realtor said she’d let us talk and went out to the other room to give us some privacy.

“So what do you think?” Gideon asked, for about the fourth time in the twenty minutes we’d been in the apartment. “I know you don’t want something too modern-looking, but this has some nice historic details.” He ran his hand along the exposed brick of one of the bedroom walls.

“I like it. It’s not too modern, and it’s got a great floor plan.” I looked around, trying to imagine both his and my stuff in this bedroom. “It’s not very big.”

“No,” he agreed slowly. “But I think it’s as big as we can find for our budget.”

I’d grown up with a lot of money, so I was used to huge, spacious places. My old apartment had been almost twice as large as this. But the cottage was tiny, and I’d been fine there. I would be fine here too. “I do like it. Do you think all our stuff can fit?”

His mouth tilted up. “Well, you might have to purge a few of your shoes.”

I gasped in outrage and swatted him on the chest. “Fine. Then you can purge that horrible brown chair.”

He laughed, but then his face sobered. “Seriously, what do you think? We need to move quickly if we want it. At this price, it’s going to go fast.”

“It’s in our neighborhood,” I said, feeling a little nervous at making this step and excited at the same time. “And the closet is a really good size.”

“And it’s not over our budget.”

We’d been looking for a couple of weeks and the only things Gideon seemed to really care about were that I liked the place and we didn’t spend more than we could afford.

“I think it’s as good as we’re going to find,” I said at last. “I think this is it.”

He was scrutinizing my face. “So you want to go for it?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I think so.”

“We can always rent instead, if you don’t want to—”

“I do want to. It’s a good investment. I want to buy a place with you. Although...” I trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.

He tilted my head up. “Although what? If you have any hesitations, you need to tell me.”

I tried not to squirm. “I don’t have hesitations. I was just thinking that we’d only be able to stay here for a few years. I mean, if we’re going to have kids. I mean, not that we have to, but if...” I trailed off lamely.

He pulled me into a tight hug with a rough sound of feeling. “Christ, Diana. Hopefully, we’ll just be living here for a few years.”

And that was exactly what I wanted to hear.

When he pulled away, he said, “Even for a few years, this will be a good investment. So we should go for it?”

“Yeah. Let’s put an offer on it.”

“And you’re completely comfortable making this kind of commitment with me. To me.” He was peering closely at my face.

I smiled and shook my head. “Silly. I committed to you a long time ago.”

***

A
couple of months after that, we were moved into our new place, and I was happier than, just a year ago, I’d ever imagined I could possibly be again.

Not that I didn’t still have to work through things. We still couldn’t have sex with Gideon behind me, and I still occasionally had terrifying nightmares. And there were days when I felt hopeless, despairing, but they no longer overwhelmed me to the point where I thought that’s all there could be.

I was still seeing Dr. Jones, but only every other week now.

In April, his team at work had another cookout. I teased him unmercifully about his coworkers’ unnatural penchant for getting together with their families to grill burgers and play volleyball all the time (or at least twice a year), but I wasn’t at all unhappy to be coming this time.

Gideon was on fire that afternoon—charming the women, out-maneuvering the men, and generally being the center of attention, so naturally that no one found it obnoxious.

They loved him—these people he worked with. I could see it on their faces, even as they called each other names. I knew from the stories Gideon told that they argued and drove each other crazy sometimes, but it was obvious to me that they were like family. I’d been too caught up in anxiety at the last cookout to recognize it as clearly. They loved Gideon, and it made me strangely happy to see that they saw the same qualities in him that I’d seen myself. That other people saw too how incredible he was, how much he should be loved.

They didn’t treat me like a stranger this time, and I made more of an effort to try to get to know them. They teased me about being My Diana, and a few of them enthusiastically sang a “My Diana” song, made up of new lyrics to “My Sharona”—which they’d evidently come up with last year as a way to hassle Gideon.

I had to admit the lyrics were really clever, and I ended up laughing hysterically, partly at Gideon’s expression when they sang it.

I had a good time, and for some reason it felt to me like a symbol of the way things could change, the way
I
could change. I was on a little bit of a high when people started to gather up their stuff and go.

Gideon was standing a short distance away, chatting with a couple of kids. The kids loved him as much as the adults.

I walked over toward him quietly, trying to sneak up on him. But, when I reached out to try to gooch him, he whirled around and grabbed my hands before I could.

So we had a little wrestling match, with me trying to reach his sides and him holding me back from doing so. The kids squealed in delight, cheering for me rather than him, a fact that caused him to complain loudly, even as he was grabbing my arms.

I was trying not to laugh, so I could focus on coming out victorious, and then I had a brainstorm.

“Wait!” I gasped. “Gideon, wait. Wait a minute.” I grew still to emphasize the words.

He stopped immediately, his expression changing.

So I took that opportunity to gooch him good.

He roared in outraged while the kids and a couple of lingering adults roared in laughter. Then he stopped my gooching—which I’d more than earned—by wrapping his arms around me and holding me against him.

I fought the hold good-naturedly and ended up turned around, my back to him. Before any fear could trigger, he’d dropped his arms.

Feeling affectionate and appreciative, I turned back around and leaned against him. “I won,” I said, just to make sure he knew.

He grumbled, “You’ve heard of the boy who cried wolf, right?”

“What’s your point? I am not a boy, and you are not a wolf.”

Hiding a smile, he replied dryly, “I think, in this scenario, I wouldn’t be the wolf. I would be one of the townspeople who came out to—”

“Oh, just shut up. The point is I won.”

He laughed uninhibitedly and stroked a hand down my hair. “The point is you’re a little cheat.”

“I know better than that.” I smiled up at him, brimming with too much to hold in. “I know that I’m actually the light that shines on the dark—”

“Not when people are around!”

There were people milling about, but no one listening to us anymore. I giggled helplessly and pulled his head down so I could give him a little kiss.

We gazed at each other for a minute, standing right there in the middle of the others, who were putting up all their stuff and starting to their cars.

And Gideon must have recognized what I’d been sensing all afternoon because I saw the feeling break on his face. The recognition—so sharp it was almost poignant—that we weren’t where we’d been a year ago, or six months ago, or even the day before.

He made a rough sound in his throat—the one he always made when he felt too much to rein in—and he pulled me into his arms, hugging me with all the intensity of his deep and generous soul.

I hugged him back, pressing my face into his shirt, smelling, feeling, loving Gideon the way he’d always loved me.

I knew then what I hadn’t known more than a year ago, when I’d been walking on a city sidewalk, thinking about my new boots. The world isn’t the one I used to think it was, where the hero rides in to save the day at the very last minute. It’s so much harder and deeper and uglier and more beautiful than that.

Because the truth is just this—sometimes no one can save us, but salvation might come anyway.

Every path of recovery after sexual assault is different, and it’s not a path I’ve walked myself. To write this book, I’ve listened to other women’s stories, tried to understand their experiences, and tried to feel with them as much as I could. Whenever possible, I used the language they used, so I could approach this story with as much love and authenticity as I’m capable of. So, without naming them here, I’d like to thank these women for sharing their stories. As I said when I wrote Nameless, anything that feels real about this book is thanks to these women, and anything that doesn’t is entirely my fault.

If you enjoyed Salvation, you might enjoy Bittersweet by the same author.

T
he grating sound of a ring tone woke Zoe from a tense, restless sleep.

She fumbled blindly on the coffee table, where she was sure she’d left her phone. Her head hurt, however, and she wasn’t yet fully awake, so it took about eight rings until she found it.

“Hello,” she mumbled, when she finally laid her hands on it.

“Zoe? Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Hey, Mom. Sorry. I’d fallen asleep.” Zoe forced herself to sit up from where she was stretched out on the couch. Her whole body ached, and she could still barely pry her eyes open. “What time is it?”

“It’s already three. Are you sure you’re all right?” Her mother’s voice was gentle, which was an obvious sign of how concerned she was.

Zoe hated feeling like people were pitying her—even someone she loved and trusted as much as her mother. So her tone was a little terse when she replied, “Yes, I already said I’m all right. I just need to wake up so I can feed Logan and get dressed before they come pick me up.”

“Sorry if I’m nagging. I just wish I could help. I don’t know how you’ve made it through this horrible, wretched year.”

Zoe didn’t know how she’d made it through this year either. “I know. But now I just have to make it through the funeral. And then maybe...” She trailed off, having no idea what was left to hope for after she buried her husband.

“Maybe what?”

Swallowing hard, Zoe finished, “Maybe I can breathe again.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. A silence Zoe recognized as her mom trying not to cry. The knowledge made Zoe’s eyes burn too, and a lump lodged hard in her throat.

But she’d cried so much and so often over the last eight months that she had no real tears remaining. She sat on the couch in sloppy sweats and a t-shirt and tried to take a full breath.

“Do you want me to come over now?” her mother asked at last.

“No. I’ve got to rush as it is. I’ll just see you at the church.” Zoe forced herself to stand up, although her stiff back protested the move. “Thanks, though.”

When she’d hung up, Zoe made her way into the bedroom.

The bedroom and the bathroom were the only individual rooms in the spacious loft apartment. She and Josh had bought the place almost three years ago, as a one-year anniversary present to themselves, after the Light Switch game had really taken off and they could afford it. They both had fallen in love with the historic hardwood floors, the exposed brick and ductwork, and the huge expanse of windows looking out onto the skyline.

They’d been thinking about selling it and buying a bigger place outside the city when Josh had been diagnosed with a malignant tumor in his brain. During the eight months of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy that followed, moving was the last thing on Zoe’s mind.

The bedroom was big and airy, and in the corner was a crib.

She heard Logan whimpering and was glad she wouldn’t have to wake him up in order to nurse him. He was six months old now. Taking care of an infant at the same time she watched her husband slowly die had almost broken Zoe.