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His eyes searched mine again, and I hoped my face was in shadow—enough that he couldn’t see how flushed I was. Then he turned and walked back to his sedan.
As his door slammed, I went to the driver’s side of my Civic, legs trembling beneath me. I got back in and hit the locks. His car pulled back onto the highway, passed me, and kept on going. I sat still, watching the taillights shrink and pass out of sight as he drove away.
I needed to keep driving. But for a few moments I just sat there, one hand to my lips, and tried to stop shaking.
That’s not what I wanted. It’s not.
If only I could believe that.
Two
Monday mornings mean Dr. Ward or, as she insists I call her, Doreen.
I’ve tried therapy before, but Doreen is the first psychologist who’s made me feel like I might actually get somewhere. Everything about her and her office is comforting. Instead of a sternly neutral face and a crisp suit, she always wears a gentle expression and flowing, colorful knits. Instead of a cold, clinical office, she meets with clients in a room of her own bright, sunny house, filled with potted plants and the African sculpture she collects. Most importantly, instead of lecturing, she listens.
“I didn’t know whether I was safe. ” I sit on the cream-colored sofa, my bare feet tucked under me. Doreen asks patients to leave our shoes at the door; supposedly it’s to preserve her rugs, but really I think it gets us to let our guard down. “I could’ve been in danger, for all I knew. I didn’t know that he wasn’t going to hurt me. And I still fantasized about him . . . forcing me. ”
“He didn’t hurt you,” Doreen says calmly. “He helped you, and then he went on his way. ”
And he had an attitude about it. But that isn’t the point. “We were still out there alone in the dark. The danger was real, and I wanted him anyway. It’s like—like I wanted to get hurt. ”
Doreen raises an eyebrow. “Ever consider that you wanted him just because he was hot?”
I laugh despite myself.
She leans forward. “Let me tell you what I’m hearing here. You were in trouble. You were scared. A very attractive man helped you out. While he was doing that, you let yourself fantasize about him. That’s not abnormal. In fact, I’d say it’s the most normal thing in the world. ”
“What I fantasize about isn’t normal. ”
“Rape fantasies are among the most common sexual fantasies women have,” Doreen says, not for the first time. As ever, shame lashes me when she says the actual word. Rape. “Some men fantasize about being forced, too. That’s not the same as actually wanting to get raped. Not all fantasies are things we want in reality. ”
“I should know. ”
That’s my attempt at a joke. Doreen doesn’t crack a smile; she’s not so easily distracted. “One of the reasons you came to me was that you wanted to stop having this fantasy. I understand your reasons. But I don’t think the fantasy itself is your most significant problem. I think your main problem is the way you beat yourself up about it. ” Doreen sighs. “That, and the reason you’re fixated on the fantasy in the first place. ”
I can’t talk about my reasons—not again, not now. My mystery man looms too large in my mind. His shadow falls across everything I say and do today. “If I’m having that fantasy at times when I might really be in danger—about men who really could—who might—”
“We’ve talked about this. Sometimes you tie yourself up in knots about what could have happened, instead of just dealing with the facts. For a little while, let’s stick to the facts about last night. ” Doreen’s tone is kind but firm. “This guy changed your tire, and then he went on his way. That’s all. ”
Am I overthinking this? Maybe. With a sigh, I let it go—or try to.
• • •
After my hour with Doreen is up, I take my Civic to the shop, buy a new tire, and drive to the north side of town, up to a small town house with empty packing boxes stacked by the curb.
“Anybody home?” I call as I walk up the path to the front steps. “Because I feel the need to unpack something today. ”
Carmen appears at the screen door, a red bandana around her black hair and a broad smile on her face. She wears a T-shirt dress and rubber gloves; obviously I’m not the only one who wants to help out. “Are you a glutton for punishment?”
“No more than you are. Besides,” I say, gesturing to my cutoff shorts and heather gray T-shirt, “I’m dressed to work. ”