Freed (2 page)

My eyes lose focus as I recall how I manipulated Greer to take our relationship to those dangerous, unchartered waters. How I thought that us sleeping together wouldn’t have the impact that it did because we had such an amazing friendship and connection. The naïveté of youth and inexperience. You think you’re invincible. You think that nothing can touch you. That nothing can throw you off course as long as you’re in control of your fate. The very things I fought to keep from happening … I turned right around and orchestrated.

I snap back to the present and try to sum it up without sounding like a crazy person. “I got it in my twisted head, Maggie, that somehow Greer and I could have that kind of relationship without it damaging either of us. I was so foolish. Instead of helping me cope with what was happening around me, it catapulted our relationship into a vicious cycle of suspicion and blame and hurt.” I release a shaky breath, and she squeezes my hand.

“Having to live day in and day out with a step-father who tried to rape me—watching my mother repeatedly put her needs and her love for
him
first—hearing my dad all but write me off as an inconsequential whore … it devastated and destroyed me. I reasoned that Greer and I sleeping together would lessen all that pain. And it did; I lost myself in the act. Problem was, doing that caused unforeseen ramifications and wreaked devastating heartbreak for us both. Instead of intensifying my feelings for him like it should have, it made me shut down while
his
feelings grew.” I pause, tears threatening to overwhelm me at the thought of how I had wounded him … ruined him. Do I have the power to help him heal? I need to do that for him as much as I need to do that for myself. All these years, I focused on how badly I was hurting Greer. What about how badly I’ve hurt myself? My head pounds with all the what-ifs and all the blame that threatens to overwhelm me. I know
I
was the cause of so much. But, am I a victim too? A victim of my own making? I hurt myself worse than my step-father, or Greer, or my parents
ever
had. That’s the kind of destructive power I hold over myself. Am I strong enough to say,
no more
? And, God, as weird as it sounds, I wonder if I’m strong enough to stand up to my own weaknesses.

“Y’all were so young, Denver. And maybe if you slept around with guys who didn’t love you, you would have been your only victim. But y’all chose to take it there, and you’re the only two who can help each other move forward. It’s time for you to take the bull by the horns, address how y’all hurt each other, and figure out where to go from here.”

“Is that all he told you?” I ask, finally making eye contact with her again.

She nods.

“I can’t believe he would tell you that anyway. You barely know each other.”

Laughing, she says, “Oh, I wasn’t taking no for an answer. I wish I’d been braver with you, but I can’t take you turning your back on me. I’ve had enough with waiting for you tell me, though, so I’m forcing the issue now. With Greer,” she shrugs, “I just
demanded
he tell me. Of course, I had to promise not to hold anything against you. You see—” she pauses to give me a big smile “—no matter what he did or you did, he’s still looking out for you.”

I nod with that assessment. Even though he is responsible for a lot of my pain, I know he wants to help me. I know he’d never give up on me.

“Are you gonna talk to him?” she presses.

Focusing my eyes on hers, I promise, “Yes, I will. I seem to have finally surrounded myself with people who want the best for me and who help me even know what that is. Thank you, Maggie.” My heart beats with joy as I think about all my new friends. Greer and I had been so thoughtless, wrapping ourselves in our damaged, little cocoon with only each other to feed on. Secrets, lies, and betrayal becoming our only other sustenance. No, that’s not fair. We managed to weave beautiful moments in there too. And even though the ugly is hideous, we’ve got some good to work with.

“I have a question for you?” she asks, sucking me, once more, back to the here and now.

“Yeah?”

“That night you told me about your reputation?” I nod. “You told me that you had friends with benefits—plural.” Her face bunches in consternation. “Why’d you say that if Greer was your only one?” She pauses before rushing out, “And why would you encourage others to think that as well?”

Blowing a breath, I admit something to her I’ve never admitted to anyone, even Greer. “Maggie, I did it to keep people away. Keep people from getting too close.” She just shakes her head at me, like she doesn’t get it. “When that rumor first started going around, I was sixteen years old. You know the kind of town I come from. Small town— everyone knows everyone’s business—judgmental, old-fashioned values. Anyway, I denied it till I was blue in the face, but no one believed me, probably because of the kind of reputation my mother has. When my protests didn’t get me anywhere, and the real bullying kicked in, I denied it with my fists. I got in a shitload of trouble at school and away from school. Finally, I just started to … embrace it. I figured if I couldn’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” I shrug and pinch my lips together for a second. “It worked. People left me alone and gave me a wide-berth. Only problem was … I started seeing myself in the same light because of how I felt, or didn’t feel, about sex with Greer, and what was going on at home with my mom and step-father.”

“So you perpetrated the rumors in order to become untouchable, and dug yourself a hole so deep no light could reach you?” Maggie muses. I can only nod. “And Greer didn’t try to help straighten those rumors out?”

“Well, yes and no. He was angry on my behalf and stood beside me, but he didn’t stand up and say, ‘Hey, I’m the only guy she’s ever been with!’ which makes sense now that I know he started them all, even though I still don’t get why.”

“The why, and the how, and the regret, is what you and Greer need to discuss,” she asserts.

“I know,” I agree with a whisper. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to go there yet.”

“You are. You have to be,” she states.

“I am?”

“You are. Well,” Maggie clears her throat, “I’ve gotta pee like a Russian race horse.” She smacks me on the arm and dashes for the bathroom.

An awakening
… that’s the last thing Ransom said to me before Maggie and Pete interrupted our most enlightening conversation. The implications float through my restless mind for the millionth time. Those words and the thought, “Will I have to call him
sir
?” have taken up a prolonged residence in my tortured psyche. Willing myself to pay attention to the professor droning on at his podium, I try to push those thoughts to the corners of my mind. It is the ultimate exercise in futility, as my dream this morning makes this dilemma all the more tangible. My instincts tell me my dream mirrors the reality of the arrangement Ransom has in mind. He will talk me through everything and analyze how I feel because Ransom doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. Ironically, thinking of how he makes me feel has me sweating more than thoughts of the acts themselves. Not an easy feat, considering those had me beyond turned on.

Submissive
. A word that I’m pretty sure I’d never even said aloud before a few nights ago. A word I would never have thought applied, much less appealed, to me. Oh, I’ll admit I read the books, looked up the terms, and became intrigued by that world, but it was more like a distant, unattainable,
yet entirely hot
, fantasy—it was safe to imagine thinking I would
never
have the situation presented to me. Does the fact that this concept turns me on mean that I am submissive? In the bedroom, I think it does, which is odd because I had always taken the lead with Greer. Outside the bedroom? I’m on the fence.

On the one hand, other than putting up the obligatory protests when Ransom orders me around—because A: it makes me hot to get under Ransom’s skin, and B—it’s what I thought I should do as an independent female—I like the idea of pleasing Ransom. Having the advantage of hindsight, I recognize that from the beginning. It fulfills some kind of deep-rooted desire that I hadn’t thought to analyze until we started naming things, and I fully understood that his control issues ran deeper than the Mississippi.

On the other hand, to give someone that kind of power, even reciprocal power as Ransom had explained it, scares the living shit out of me. To trust someone with all that I am, and willingly give them the power to destroy me? Sounds ludicrous for someone like me since I’ve never allowed anyone that close—not my parents, not my former, so-called friends, not Greer—no one, ever.

And if I had three hands, which would be real convenient for all the issues I have, I could put these thoughts into the extra one. The thought of trusting someone that much makes me feel light and carefree, two things I’ve never had the luxury of feeling. To have someone strong like Ransom taking care of me, protecting me, and helping me heal sounds like heaven. And what the fuck does that say about me? I fight a shiver and laugh at the thought of being grateful that my final psych paper is on co-dependency because this sounds like a textbook case to me. Except … the way Ransom explains it, it sounds like a mutually beneficial relationship—one that would build us up and make us stronger together, not destroy us.

Do I honestly think Ransom will destroy me? No, I do not. Because overshadowing all those worries is Ransom, and somehow, I know he has my best interests at heart. How is it that I trust him more than I’ve ever trusted anyone in my life, yet barely even know him? I obviously need more hands.

After we made some small talk with Maggie and Pete, Ransom was not thrilled when I announced that I would be heading back to the dorms, but I knew I needed to get out of there, get a clear head, and consider all he’d said. If he were completely unreasonable and simply out to get his own way, he would’ve ordered me to stay. He knows he could have easily had me complying, since he’s also figured out I yearn to please him. Instead, he asked me not to leave his apartment. Then he tried to argue with me, reminding me of my nightmares, but I reminded him that my nightmares were much better. Finally, he relented, making me promise I wouldn’t do anything stupid, and I hadn’t. Going to classes, working the horses, and talking with Maggie had kept me occupied physically.

And if all that weren’t enough, I have been obsessing over how to fix things with Greer. Even though we hurt each other terribly, I miss him. Miss him down to my core. Even though I had finally admitted to myself that I love him, I know I can never be with him like he’s always dreamt. Like I had once dreamt. My original take on our relationship—toxic—had certainly been proven. Figuring out where it had all gone terribly wrong, well, it’s kinda like the chicken and egg debate. No matter which one came first—my being fucked-up or him being deceitful and possessive—the end result is the same. We can’t be together.

“Wanna come back to my place and help me write my essay?” Austin asks, breaking into my thoughts. Since the professor is packing up his briefcase, I’m guessing class is over. I glance down at notes I don’t even recall writing.

I find his milk chocolate eyes searching mine, and hope they’re clear of all that mess I’d been thinking. I don’t want his questions right now. “You mean write your essay for you, don’t you?” I joke.

“No, seriously, I’m raring to write this essay on—” he squints at the board “—the symbolic representation of the color yellow in Gilman’s short story,” he says with a lopsided grin. “I mean, who the hell wouldn’t be?”

“Right?” I agree. “I’m totally stoked,” I feign excitement.

He fashions an invisible noose around his neck and pulls. “Kill me now,” he sighs, finally showing his lack of enthusiasm for the topic.

Cocking an eyebrow, I ask. “Did you even bother to read the story?”

“Yeah, man. Bitch’s got post-partum depression. Any fool could see that.”

Laughing at his spot-on, albeit rudely stated, interpretation, I agree, “Yeah, but they didn’t see it back then. Just chalked up all her mental distress to being female. You see how that could be a problem for her and other women, right?”

“I have to say that ninety-five percent of y’all’s problems are imagined, but in this case, those douchebags should’ve acknowledged that her problems were real, and then they could’ve helped her before she saw a woman coming through the wallpaper at her.”

“Umm, hmm,” I mumble absently. Ninety-five percent of “our” problems as being imagined is now taunting me instead of Ransom’s
awakening
.

“You OK?” Austin asks.

I focus my attention back on him, lean in, and kiss his cheek. “I will be. Thanks.”

He wrinkles his face up. “You can’t do that shit, Denver. Ransom’s already threatening to kick my ass because I get to hang with you and he doesn’t. When you gonna talk to him again anyway?”

“Soon,” I promise. “By the way, take out the douchebags and bitches talk, throw in your analysis of the use of the color yellow, and you’ve got yourself a paper.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” I promise, shrugging.