Finding Alana by Meg Farrell Read Free Book Online Page B

that?”
    “Sit down. There’s a whole other story to tell you. I’ve only shared this with one other person: Ms. Irma. There’s a lot to absorb. You will want to sit for this.”
    I start telling her about my life with Kent. I tell her about Ethan, and I can’t help crying when I do. She holds my hand and gives gentle squeezes to keep me talking. It’s comforting.
    She wants to know, and I need her to, so I keep talking. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get around to telling her about that night. The night when I died. Kate cries. I cry. She holds me, and I hold her.
    “So when he touched your scar, something came back to you?” she asks.
    I nod. “Yeah. You could say that. I haven’t been with a man since it happened. Letting him touch me, let alone see it, it was all too much. I freaked.”
    “You need to tell him.”
    “Maybe.”
    Something occurs to her, and she asks, “So the nightmares?”
    “Yeah. They start when I wake up covered in blood. They are always the same. I run from the trailer, through the woods, and out on to the road. They always end with me in a truck begging a stranger for help. I never see his face though. It’s more like I feel him. I feel safe in the truck. So I think that’s when my mind relaxes and I wake up.”
    Kate thinks for a minute. “Have you ever considered counseling?”
    I shake my head. “Definitely not. You are only the second person in my life to know any of this.”
    “Thank you for trusting me, but with the freak out and the nightmares, maybe it’s time to talk to someone.”
    “I am. You. I actually feel much better now that you know.”
    “One of the girls on my team is a counselor who works with battered women. If you decide you need someone to talk to, I can give you her number. I’ll stay out of it, and she can be totally confidential about it.”
    “I really appreciate it. I’m not ready yet, but maybe one day.”
     
    We talk for a while longer, and finish off a few more beers. Then Kate and I wash the dishes. I change into jeans and a T-shirt to go meet up with Justin. As I’m getting ready, I get a text. “Everything okay? Are we still talking tonight?”
    I can’t help grinning while I text him back. “A little excited, are we? :) Yeah. Still on. Where?”
    His answer is nearly instant. “My place. 330 Vine. When?”
    It takes me a few minutes to answer. Do I really want to do this at his place? What could happen? I mean he’ll probably kick me out after I tell him how damaged I am. Nobody wants to deal with this type of baggage. I answer him, “ Thirty minutes. ”
    As I finish dressing, I think through the story and what I should or should not tell him. By the time I’m walking out the front door, I’ve decided the only way this thing can work is to tell him all of it.

5 - Shame
    The hardest part of telling Justin is going to be the shame. Unless someone has been through what I’ve been through, they don’t understand the shame and guilt of surviving. The drive to his house is faster than I thought it would be. I had to use the map function on my phone to find it. Turns out his house is in a neighborhood a few miles from ours. I pull in the driveway, and, just like Irma, he steps out onto the porch to greet me. Justin doesn’t stop on the porch, though; he comes to the car, and opens the door for me.
    I start to think he’s just chivalrous, but then he nearly pulls me from the car. His embrace is warm and snug. “Come inside, it’s freezing,” he says into the top of my head.
    Shaking my head, I mumble into his chest, “It’s not freezing where I am.”
    He laughs, releases me, and leads me up the steps to his house. I walk in like a kid exploring. I can’t help but look around like I’ve entered some museum display. It’s a tribute to post-frat, disorganized, modern American male living.
    Truly a study in how to survive with a sink full of dishes right up to the cabinet line and clothing piled in lines down the hallways