She reached out, took my hand, squeezed.
“I never went back. I stayed at school and lied about going. My parents had been mailing him the payment for years, and I guess he kept cashing them even though I wasn’t going. He wasn’t about to raise any flags, obviously. I was about to graduate and I’d been making plans—I’d been accepted to a bunch of colleges and universities, but my plan was to move to Nashville and work and get a job as a honky-tonk gig player and write songs and all that. I’d been talking about it nonstop, because I was just so excited to get away. I figured once I could get away I could start over. Be someone else. Be a Lexie that hadn’t been raped every week for four years, and never told a soul. I could become someone else, somewhere else. And that was when Dad came up to my room while I was playing and told me I’d never make it, that I just wasn’t good enough.” Quick, sharp pause. “If he hadn’t died, I don’t think I’d ever have forgiven him for that. I still haven’t, really, but his dying changed things.”
“Goddamn,” I breathed.
“Yeah.” She huffed, a laugh that was sad and angry and bitter. “Raped by my music teacher, and my own dad killed my dream. That day, then and there, I gave up on music. Went to U-Conn. Gradually, I started reinventing myself. I was painfully shy, modest, introverted, hated myself and didn’t trust anyone. Halfway through freshman year, I just…I was sick of being that Lexie The Victim. I said fuck this, and decided to be the exact opposite. Threw away all my clothes, and went to thrift stores and bought all new clothes—short skirts, revealing tops, see-through stuff, booty shorts. Cut off old jeans and khakis, I stopped wearing a bra. Started just saying whatever went through my head. Started just being a bitch to people I didn’t like, or to anyone who pissed me off. It felt good. Like I was reclaiming myself. I was no longer a victim. I did what I wanted. Started drinking. Going to parties. It was at a party that I had voluntary sex for the first time. In a bathroom of a frat house, super drunk. But it was good. It felt good to do that voluntarily. I did it again at the next party. Then sober, and that was even better. Because every time I had sex, I was trying consciously to erase the memory of John David Henley. I couldn’t drink him away; I found that out real fast. But sex? Sex did the trick. The more I hooked up, the more I could replace memories of Henley with other guys. Guys I’d chosen to fuck.” She sighed slow, deep. “It became the new me. Bold, aggressive. Exhibitionist. I’d dance on tables, flash the whole party. The wild college girl stereotype. I’d do keg stands in miniskirts with no underwear on. I had no standards—as long as I was remotely physically attracted to the dude, I’d fuck him. My only rules were condom, every time, and I’d never blow a guy to completion. I gave plenty of BJs, but I’d never let them finish in my mouth…for obvious reasons. It became sort of my calling card, I think. I had a reputation, and guys knew things about me. I was the crazy slut who’d fuck anyone and give amazing BJs, but you couldn’t come in her mouth.”
That made me feel…uncomfortable. I’d always prided myself on not being jealous or possessive. But somehow, this was different. I said nothing, however.
“I chilled out a bit at Sarah Lawrence. I realized I didn’t like the slut label, and started campaigning against slut-shaming, women’s rights, equality, all that, as well as being a little less overall slutty. But only a little. I believed in all that women’s lib stuff, still do, but…I don’t know…it was misplaced passion. I’d created this whole persona, this Lexie who was one big spiky armored shell. All slutty and a show-off and a flasher and a skinny-dipper in public pools in broad daylight, someone who could outdrink football players, and all that. It was a persona, my armor against the world. And then, at some point, it just stopped being a persona and was just me. Because I’d forgotten how to be the other me, the quiet shy little victim girl who let her music teacher sexually abuse her for four years.” She laughed. “I don’t even think that Lexie exists anymore. Henley fucked it out of me.”
She turned on the chair and faced me. “So. There’s the story, the secret I could never tell. You are the only person, aside from Henley and me, who knows about it.”
I looked at her, love and compassion in my eyes, fighting for the right words. “Lex, I…I don’t know. I want to hunt down and kill that fucker, slowly. I want to get Crow to come with me, because that guy can be colder than fuckin’ ice. I want to hurt that motherfucker, and make the hurt last.”
“That won’t fix me,” she said.
“I know.” I sighed, rubbing my face. “It’s just how I feel at this moment. I want to kill that guy. I hate that that happened to you.”
“Not as much as I do.”
“Obviously.” I reached out, and she let me take her hand. “I know there’s nothing I can do to change that, or to fix you. I think…I think you should see a therapist. And I’m not joking. I have had therapy in the past and I know it can help.”
She reared back. “You have?”
I nodded. “Yep. In Dallas, between tours. My partying on tour was becoming a problem, and my lifestyle of taking advantage of groupies was, too. I don’t mean take advantage in a nefarious way, they were always throwing themselves at me, and I only
