Taking Connor(63)

“So when was he abused?” Lexi continues, attitude still full throttle.

“When he was eleven. After his second open-heart surgery. It was a man his aunt, Connor’s mother, had been dating.”

My heart squeezes. I know Blake and Connor’s childhood was rough. While they lived with their grandmother who was very loving and nurturing, she was a bit of an enabler. Blake and Connor’s mothers, one a drunk, the other a drug addict, would both return home, and their mother would always let them even though she knew at some point they wouldn’t stay sober, and they’d run off without a word leaving their son’s behind. When they were there, Blake had mentioned there were men in and out of the house constantly, but he never mentioned any of them harming him in any way.

“He was still recovering at home . . . still on pain meds. Guy named Richard Malone,” she pauses and looks at me as if waiting for me to say or show some recognition of the name, but the name means nothing to me.

“Do you know anything about who Connor killed and why?”

I flick an embarrassed glance at Lexi. I should know this. I should know all of this. Blake was my husband, and this woman knows his deepest and darkest secret, not me—his wife. So not only have I been in the dark about my husband, she knows more about Connor, who I’m in love with and who lives with me, too.

“No.” It’s a simple answer, however ridiculous it is.

“Connor caught Malone . . .” her eyes drop to her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, “in the act.”

I can’t even swallow down the knot in my throat it’s so big. The tears won’t stop either. My poor, beautiful husband. Is this really true? How could he have never told me? How could he tell Roxy and not me?

“Connor was fifteen at the time. He fought with the guy, but Malone ran out. The guys didn’t tell anyone.”

“Why?”

Roxy looks at me, pity rich in her gaze and a little part of me hates her for it. She feels sorry for me because I don’t understand. “You’ll have to ask Connor that.”

“So this Malone never went to prison?”

“That’s who Connor killed.”

I’m devastated by this news, these dark revelations. But a new found pride and admiration grows inside of me for Connor and maybe it’s wrong to feel that way, to be proud of him for punishing this man that stole something so precious from a child, but I am. And I’m not one damn bit sorry for it.

“So you met Blake through this group?” Lexi asks after a long pause, where clearly no one knew what to say. I’m in shock, and I think Roxy has now decided to watch what she does or doesn’t say.

“Thirteen years ago,” Roxy explains. “Prom night,” she snorts, disdain tinting the sound. “I thought I was hot shit because the quarterback asked me out. Wasn’t so hot when he and two other players raped me.”

How does one respond to this? Saying sorry doesn’t seem like enough. I’d hug her if I could reach her from across the table. But Roxy doesn’t wait for me to respond.

“I never told anyone except my best friend, Miranda. For years, I walked around not wanting to look pretty. I wore sweats and got a job as a day shift waitress. One night, I don’t know why, Miranda picked me up telling me we were going to a movie. We ended up at the support group. She told me she was tired of watching me hide from my life. I was against it, but after she had refused to drive me home unless I went in, so I gave up.” She pauses and sips her coffee. “Listening to other people’s stories, what they went through, made me feel not so alone. I noticed Blake, even though he always led the group, never spoke. He never told his story. After a meeting one night, he asked me to stay and asked why I hadn’t told my story. I told him I wasn’t ready to share it with the group yet. I just wasn’t.

“What if you shared it with me? Right now?” he’d asked.

“If you share yours first,” I’d responded.

“That night we stayed two hours late, and he shared his horrible experience, then I shared mine,” Roxy states. “That night, your husband saved my life.”

Lexi finds my hand under the table and squeezes my leg. I find pride in Blake, helping this woman, but there’s hurt there, too. Why was it he could share this with her, but not me, his wife?

“The last time he saw me,” Roxy says, quietly, “he gave me Connor’s information and told me to write him. He said Connor needed as many friends as he could get, and I was a good friend.” She smiles as her gaze glosses over. “I came to the funeral, but having never met you I knew it wasn’t a good time to introduce myself. There were so many people there, you probably didn’t notice me.”

She’s right. I didn’t, which I find odd because Roxy is the kind of woman that stands out in a room. She’s too beautiful not to be recognized. But I was an emotional wreck, and I guess she slipped under my radar.

“I know . . .” she hesitates. “I know you may feel hurt that Blake didn’t share this with you. Rape and molestation are hard, and there’s a shame that buries itself inside of you. It never really leaves,” she explains with a sigh as she wipes under her eyes. “You feel . . . dirty, tainted. Unworthy. Of course, I know feeling those things are ridiculous. I’m not those things, but I still feel it, and I have to fight that negative thinking on a daily basis. I think Blake liked that you saw the good. Maybe your love fought all of those feelings inside of him. Maybe he was afraid if he told you it would somehow change or dim that. All I know is, Demi,” she pauses with a smile, “he loved you so much. I remember when he told me he’d been on a date with this amazing girl. You made him very happy.”