Last Girl Ghosted(35)

But then I don’t know what I would say. I’m looking for my boyfriend, who disappeared with Mia? What can you tell me about her, about them? Weird. No one would answer that. I certainly wouldn’t.

Scrolling back through Mia’s essays, I find one about her struggles with addiction—pills. She doesn’t specify what, just that she was prescribed something for anxiety and took too much, found she couldn’t get through a day without it. Started getting more pills from a dealer, someone she thought was a friend.

The combination of whatever I was taking, it messed with my sleep, then my reality—until I didn’t know what was real, what I was dreaming. Maybe it was the best thing, though. It forced me to get help for all the things beneath the addiction.
Bailey mentioned this. You also told me that your ex had problems.

If there is one thing I know about addicts, it’s that they are prone to disappearing. This gives me a glimmer of hope. Maybe you didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. Maybe you’re not the man Bailey thinks you are. Maybe there are, in fact, more layers to your truth than I imagine.

It’s late when the doorbell rings. I startle from sleep, nearly knocking my laptop to the floor. I must have drifted off as I chased Mia Thorpe down the rabbit hole.

She invaded my dreams. I chased through the acreage of our property, branches hitting me in the face, stumbling, the way I chased after Robin that last night, following her because she knew the way, and my father was right behind us. He always had the advantage on that property. Robin loved it best. But he had been born in the house, grew up tromping though the woods. He knew it better than anyone. Its trails. The tunnels. The trees with all their hidey-holes. We never had a chance.

When I finally catch Mia, grab her by her bony hand, she turns on me, a ghoul with wild eyes and sharpened teeth. He’s mine, she hisses.

The doorbell rings again. Then I hear the sound of the key code being entered.

It’s after midnight. You have the code I remember. I never changed it.

Bailey’s words echo back: What if he’s not done with you?

I don’t know what scares me most—that you are or that you aren’t.

I walk to the door that leads to the foyer, peer around the frame. There’s someone there, coming through the outer door. Who is it? On my doorstep in the night?

But it’s not you.

It’s Jax. I step out into the hallway as she bursts into the space, her breath ragged, grabbing me into a tight embrace, then releasing me and heading in. She fills the senses with bright colors and the pleasant mingling of her perfume, her shampoo, something else like cinnamon that is just her.

In the living room, I see that she is crying, that her hair is coming loose from the scarf, that her dress is ripped at the collar. Jax doesn’t cry. Alarm rockets through me.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

I take her back into my arms and she clings to me.

“I hooked up with some guy,” she says.

“On Torch?”

She shakes her head. “Instagram,” she says. “He was a follower. We started talking.”

I take her red cashmere coat, her Louis Vuitton tote that cost more than a used car.

“He spammed me,” she says, sitting on the couch. She takes the scarf out of her hair and her dark tresses cascade around her shoulders. “About a week ago he followed me on Instagram, started liking all my posts, made some intelligent comments. He said he was a family therapist. It seemed like he was on the path, you know. And—he was hot. When he DM’d me, I gave him my number. We’ve been—talking.”

Talking is kind of a big deal. It’s not messaging. It’s not texting. Voice contact is for real.

“I met him tonight. We had dinner. It was nice. Then we went back to his place. And he got—aggressive.”

“Did he hurt you?” I say, touching her dress. I turn on the light, so I can see her skin. But she doesn’t look hurt. No marks or bruises. Her hands are shaking. She’s shivering a little. I put a blanket around her shoulders.

“I felt mauled, pushed. I told him I was gonna go. He tried to keep me from leaving his place.” She pauses, takes a breath, touches her shoulder. “He ripped my dress.”

I reach for her again. “Are you okay?”

She puts her head into her hands as I rub her back.

Then, “I’m okay.” She looks up, eyes filled with tears.

The volume and texture of Jax’s beauty cannot be captured with words—her glowing skin, glittering eyes, spectacular cheekbones. Her real name is Jasmine. She calls herself Jax because she would not be named after a Disney princess, but she has that kind of cartoonish prettiness, as if someone drew the perfect her.

“But I felt something you know. I thought he was a good guy. I thought that this was the real thing. But as soon as we got back to his place, he was on me.”

She wipes at her eyes angrily, pulls back her shoulders. “I—shouldn’t have gone back with him. I thought we were just going to have a drink.”

I put up a palm.

“Woah. Just because you go back to someone’s place doesn’t give him the right to expect more than you’re willing to give.”

We hear this a lot, women blaming themselves for being assaulted. I shouldn’t have gone back to his place, his hotel room, his car. The truth is a nice man, a good guy, never forces himself on you. When you want to leave, he lets you. He accepts whatever disappointment he might feel, treats your feelings with respect. He lets you set the pace. I remind her of this advice we have to give, often, to all different kinds of women. There are really good men out there; and they know how to behave. When a man tries to force himself on you, doesn’t let you change your mind, or leave—that’s assault.