I finally allow my mind to go there, to try and process what the hell happened: the whys, the what-fors, the answers for some reason I know I’ll never find. I reach down out of habit to twist my bracelet, my small form of comfort amidst this maelstrom and touch bare skin. I look down to my wrist, thoughts warring when I find my favorite piece of jewelry gone.

The anxiety returns as my mind tries to recall if I had it on last night. If I lost it during everything that happened. I urge my mind to fire, to break through the fuzzy memories, but the furthest I can recall is waking up bound and blindfolded.

I start to get up, want to look for it, needing that reminder of my family—my boys—to hold on to right now, but I stop when my eyes catch a glimpse of the faint red lines ringing my wrists. I pull them in close to my chest and rub them, my mind losing focus on what I was going to do. After a moment lost in thought, I hold them out and stare at them again. The funny thing is I know that when the marks fade, I’ll still feel them—somehow, someway—because what was done to me will be etched in my soul forever.

The question is, is it a nightmare or a memory?

I think of a kidnapper I trusted in some inexplicable, screwed-up way, who tried to protect me, praised me, showed me an unexpected and sporadic tenderness. How does someone wrap their head around that? Kidnapping, drugging, and restraints are in no way consensual, so how did he make me feel like it was my choice?

My thoughts flicker to Marco, the person who said nothing but whose presence owned the room with his mere silence. His cold demeanor and lack of tactility from his place at the end of the bed such a stark contrast to my kidnapper’s. The mysterious man who sat there watching without so much as a word, but who took something from me I’ve never given anybody else.

And then I think of Anderson. The sob catches in my throat as I focus on the betrayal and infidelity until the guilt wreaks havoc in my psyche. I scramble off the bed to the dresser where my cell phone lies and grab it like a life line, not understanding why this wasn’t my first thought when I woke up. There are ten texts from him asking if I’m alright, to call him back, that he’s going into more meetings. My hands grip it tightly, knuckles turning white as the tears return and course down my cheeks. I welcome the feeling, the shedding of emotions that weigh heavy.

Do I tell him? Do I go home and act like this never happened? Carry on life as usual all the while I’m reeling inside with … what? What exactly am I feeling?

Relieved.

Confused.

Sated.

“Oh God,” I whisper my mantra into the room. Memories stain my mind and unease reigns in my soul. One hand grips my phone—the platinum of my wedding ring clicking against it—while the other lifts involuntarily to cover my lips. I sag onto the bed and succumb to the onslaught of emotions I’m not quite sure how to handle.

I wasn’t harmed. I was put back in my hotel room. Is anyone going to really believe I was abducted, raped, and released physically uninjured? I blow out a breath, my fingers on my lips now beginning to tremble. I’m in a foreign country. Alone. I’ve just washed all traces of them from me without thought. If I went to the authorities, would they really believe me?

Indecision wars as time passes, the discomfort with each movement a subtle reminder of everything. Shadows shift across the room as the day wages on.

I cry when my cell rings. The sound seems so foreign in my echo chamber of thoughts. I fumble the phone momentarily, my hand sore from unconsciously gripping it all this time, and look down to see who’s calling.

Anderson.

I stare wide-eyed at his picture on the screen for what seems like forever but is really only two rings. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the ringtone as I swallow over the lump in my throat. I know it’s only seconds that pass, but it feels like hours that I stare at the screen. Indecision wars. And then once I choose to answer, I can’t get the phone to my ear quick enough.

“Hello?” I’m already sobbing the words out, breath hitching, desperation echoing in my voice.

“Lil? Lil, what’s wrong?” And it’s his voice—concern, comfort, everything—that undoes me. Unravels me. Hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath fast enough, can’t speak, because I’m overwhelmed by the truths I’m finally ready to face. To accept.

This man is my everything.

He has been for so long, how in the hell could I think of wanting anyone else? Sure sex might be a little boring sometimes, it might be predictable or scheduled to minimize the off chance of being interrupted by the boys, but is that really on him? Is the rut we’ve fallen into all his fault?

I’ve become complacent. I’ve taken his place beside me for granted. Aren’t I just as much to blame for this as he is? Haven’t I stopped putting our marriage first just as he has too?

“Lil, answer me! You’re scaring the shit out of me!” The urgency and fear in his voice comes through the connection loud and clear, jolting me from my thoughts. I can visualize him pacing in front of his desk, one hand on the phone, the other shoving through his hair.

“I’m okay,” I manage. “I’m okay.” I suck in a breath and will myself to calm down because I can’t answer the questions he’s going to ask, and the more composed I am, the less insistent he’ll be for a response.

“What’s going on?” His voice softens some but concern is still prominent.

“I just—I just miss you.” I hiccup the words, biting my knuckles to prevent another sob from falling out as the die is cast.

I can’t tell him.

I know I’m sealing my fate to Hell by lying, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t shatter that innate male instinct he has to protect me. I’m okay. I’m unharmed. The damage done to me is far less than what it would do to him. He would never look at me the same. His empathy—one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place—would lead him to coddle and handle me with kid gloves. The fact that everything happened—he’d look at it as a failure as a man, as a husband to protect me—would gnaw at him until he self-destructed.

Do I destroy the man I love to assuage my own guilt?

“Hun, you okay? Why are you crying?”

His words break through my thoughts. The tone of his voice almost shatters my resolve. The confession is on my tongue, but I close my eyes and force a swallow. Internalize my own pain to prevent his.

“Nothing. I just got sick and … and I can’t wait to come home. I miss you, the boys … home.” I press my thumb over the speaker on the phone so he can’t hear the telling sound of my hitching breath.

“Are you sure, Lil? You don’t sound good.” I’m silent. I don’t trust my voice just yet. “I’m flying out there.”

“No!” The words are out of my mouth, his declaration causing mine. A desperate plea. My epiphany so simple yet so daunting all at the same time. He can’t come see me because I need today and the next to compose myself, to absorb everything that happened, heal some of the physical marks, figure how to cope with the emotional reminders. To allow me the time to accept this experience has changed me and figure out the words to tell him I need a little more out of our sex life: experimenting, dominance, variation. To be able to express our marriage or him being enough for me isn’t the problem, no, but my need for him to give me something more in the bedroom is.

The answer I need to figure out though is, will that admission hurt him as much as me telling him about the rape? Blindside him when he thought we were happy and I’m far from it? Make him feel inadequate?

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to change my flight to tomorrow sometime and come home early.” I unfist my hands gripping the comforter and hold my breath waiting for his response.

“Lil, I don’t like—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I stumble over the words, but I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure him or me. “I’ve already looked at flights … I was just picking up the phone to call you and tell you.”

One lie upon another.

What a tangled web we weave.

“Lil …” His voice trails off, the unasked question falling into its silence.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and wait for the questions, the inkling that he knows what happened—guilt screaming loud like my own personal tell-tale heart.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have told work to go to Hell. I should be there with you, taking care of you.” I can hear the regret, the evidence that he’s beating himself up over choosing his career over us. My God, I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he really knew what happened.

“Ander—”

“Lil …” He blows out a long breath. “We need to … we’ll talk when you get home, okay? Text me your flight info when you change it and … get some rest, okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnects but I hold the phone to my ear for I don’t know how long, my decision warring against my rationality. And the only thing that breaks the endless spiral of guilt is when the words float through my mind like a distant memory.

Ora sei libero.

I can hear his voice say them, feel his breath heat my lips, but can’t remember anything else he said. I lower the phone from my ear and type the words in. My hands shake and I misspell them a few times but finally Google gives me the answer I am looking for.

I blink my eyes a couple of times and shake my head in what has to be misunderstanding of the words, their meaning.