Page 24 of The Lies We Tell

“Stay in the now,” I mutter.

I clean out the two large terra-cotta pots and put them upside down on the patio. The piece of wood that looked like a cutting from an old railway sleeper is harder to maneuver.

Once I’m confident it’s free of critters, I drag it to the pots and manhandle it until it is centered across them.

I sit on it, and it wobbles a little. But I realize it’s not going to tip or break. As I raise my head, the sun hits my face and the heat caresses my cheeks. It warms me from the outside in, reaching my bones and taking away the last of the chill that lingers.

“Here,” Hap says from over the fence.

I turn to look at him, and he’s holding a container with a small, bright yellow plant in it. “Can’t have a pretty spot like that to sit in and no flowers.”

The gesture brings tears to my eyes.

Chrysanthemums.

Flowers, like Pop would have given me.

Maybe he’s watching out for me.

“It’s beautiful, Hap, but I can’t take it from you.”

He grins and tips his head in the direction of his yard. “Hadn’t planted it yet. Don’t know why. Perhaps I was keeping it for someone who’d bring a little ray of sunshine to an otherwise lonely day.”

I take the plant from him because it would insult him otherwise. “Thank you, Hap. It’s beautiful.” I place it in front of the bench so we’ll be able to see it when we sit. “See how perfect it looks.”

“A rose amongst thorns,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the yard. “The rest is going to take a lot more effort.”

“I think I’ll save the rest of it for tomorrow.”

Hap smiles, as if he knows some magic secret. “Until tomorrow then, if I’m so blessed,” Hap says, before stepping back into his house.

Eventually, I do the same.

Home means something altogether different to me right now. It’s not the comforts of my own bed and the smells I’m used to. It’s a feeling of safety.

I look around and realize there are no personal touches here. No colorful cushions on the sofa, no artwork or photographs on the walls. There is a bookshelf with barely anything on it beyond a couple of miscellaneous cables and a manual for the microwave that’s creased and has a stain that looks like it came from a pizza.

Yet, despite how sparse it looks, it feels more like home than my own.

In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed from the exertion outside. Two large smudges grace my forehead. The scratches on my face are properly scabbed over, no longer red after I diligently applied ointment for the last two days.

Once in the shower, I let the hot water wash over me as my mind drifts from the scabs to the man who caused them.

What kind of freak suggests that you can make a good life with the person who abducted you?From his words and his actions, I realize he thought kidnapping me was a small blip on the way to us having a meaningful relationship.

And the shame I feel about that is overwhelming, even though it’s not my fault.

Bodies are meant to be mutually enjoyed, with boundaries of course.

I hate the idea that the man thought my body was meant to be his.

As steam swirls around me, I place my fingertips between my legs. My clit is hidden, my lips soft. I take a moment to appreciate how I escaped being raped.

I steal my hand away and wash up quickly.

There’s a life waiting for me in New York. It’s literally an hour away, yet it feels like a million miles and a billion hours. The idea of walking down my block, then pausing in the entryway to let myself in? That feels like the most impossible of moments.

How can I do that again after being abducted right outside my own home?