In Between the Lines

Chapter 19: The One Who Was Screwed

Dez's radio was set to a classic jazz station.

A voice like dripping molasses oozed through the speakers, the rich tenor layered by the slow pull of the strings. I leaned into the passenger seat, reveling in the tune as Nat King Cole softly crooned sweet nothings into my ears—

When I give my heart,

It will be completely,

Or I'll never give my heart . . .

Beside me, Dez was staring blankly towards his house. I wasn't sure he was even hearing the music. The champagne light of the early evening broke through the side window of the car, casting half of his face in shadow—which only made his expression harder to read.

When the song ended and slowly bled into the next, Dez shut off the radio, finally turning in his seat to face me. I was glad for the shadow that obscured his face—because I wasn't sure I would have been able to handle whatever twisted his expression as he said, "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't taken the extra few minutes in my car that day. If I'd just walked into my house when I'd gotten back instead of sitting in here like some idiot with nothing better to do than sulk." 

I bit down the urge to ask him what had been bothering him that day, what had caused him the need to seek refuge in his car the first place. "There was no way for you to know what was happening."

"Doesn't stop me from wondering if I could have stopped it anyway." He glanced at the door to his house before he faced me again. "I know we aren't related by blood or anything, but—that's my baby sister, Peacock. Hearing the things that jackass said to her . . . " Dez clenched his jaw, his breaths becoming a bit more jagged.

"First my team, and now Jeremy." He blew out a breath. "You must think the boys in this town are nothing but snakes."

"Maybe they are."

Dez nodded, his face like stone.

"But it's not just boys," I continued, "and it's not just this town. It's people—in any town, in any city. If there's anything I've learned from moving across the country, it's that bad people exist in just about every corner of the world."

"That's fucking depressing."

I agreed—and for another moment, neither of us said a thing.

But as I looked over at Dez, at the invisible weight somehow always pressed on those shoulders, I thought again of my earlier conversation with Lewis, his claims of Dez having gone through more than I could begin to understand. I didn't know why it took me this long to piece it together, but I realized—maybe I wasn't the only one here who was being haunted by my past.

So perhaps it was time I offered Dez a grain of truth.

"I get sad," I began, "thinking about how often these things happen. How often a woman might be targeted for her body. How often a man might put his hands on a woman without her permission—and vice versa. And sometimes those thoughts . . . they to lead to darker ones. Like the lengths people would go to just to get what they want. What they would do for what they think belongs to them."

Dez's chest was moving up and down slowly. Too slowly. Like he was holding onto his every breath.

He spoke through his teeth. "What happened to you."

I shook my head. "Nothing like that."

Not completely. But now wasn't the time for that conversation.