Middle Rage

Oma -- Part 15

Those boys who knew how to get away with it grew up all around me; high school and then college friends who got raped on dates (You went willingly to his dorm room/car/park to make out? You were drunk at a party and he walked you home? That sounds like a case of miscommunication. Did he buy you dinner? Was it late at night? You were wearing a crop top? You smiled at him? You were afraid to say no? You were afraid to say no more than once? You just lay there? Where are your bruises? Why didn't you scream? Why didn't you overpower him and run away? Why didn't you get a rape kit right away? Could it be you only regret it after the fact? Are you sure you accurately recall who it was? Maybe something happened, but not with the boy you've accused? Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding.) And of those girls, only two went to the campus police, who in turn, did not report their rapes to actual police (This is an internal matter, this is a disciplinary issue. You would not want to destroy both your lives over an accusation that cannot be verified by anyone else. This is not a prosecutable case. This will damage the school's reputation. This will reflect poorly on both of you. We'd prefer it if you let us handle it internally. We will have a disciplinary meeting. We will sort this out, but be aware that you may also be penalized for breaking school rules if that's what the committee finds.)

My phone chimes, loud in my earpiece, and I gasp, stumbling out of my pace. Dan. My stupid iPhone X only gives me the options of ANSWER, REMIND ME, or SEND TO MESSAGE, but no button to end the call, and the line trills. I rip the earpiece out.

Without it in place, I hear someone coming up fast behind me. I whirl around.

"Why didn't you answer?" Dan grins, out of breath. He's dressed halfway between lounge lizard and sports fanatic, with mesh basketball pants and a Raiders sweatshirt, his phone idly in one hand, the small green phone button still lit.

"I told you not to call me. Ever."

Old Me would've backed away, smiled, deflected, both of us laughing at how he's clearly tried to scare me with this rush tactic. I step too close into his body space, leading with my forehead, angry and snarling. He puts his hands up in mock surrender.

"Relax. Just delete it off your phone. He'll never see."

"You don't know shit about what he sees."

A shimmer of anger behind his eyes. I have not relaxed, as instructed. I have not been charmed by his games. I try to smile now, weak and wobbly. Not because I am afraid, although I am, but because I need him to relax, to not overthink me, to not suspect what I am going to do to him. I pass off a breathless laugh as if I've belatedly remembered my place.

"Look, I'm asking you nicely," I plead. "You'll ruin my marriage."

There, give him all the power, all the leverage. I am at his mercy! Some part of him, I suspect, would quite enjoy the ego boost of ruining someone else's marriage. But I can hardly blame him for having evil intent, considering my plans for the rest of his life.

"Hey, I don't want to hurt anybody." He lifts his arms like I am holding him hostage. "I just needed to see you. You run by my house every day, and you don't answer my calls. I mean, did I read this whole thing wrong, or what?"

He transforms into a small boy, disappointed at opening the last Christmas present and not finding The One Thing He Hoped For.

My response has been programmed into me since I was old enough to understand I am female: I led him on. I am playing hard to get. I am being deceptive.

"No, I just... I don't know." I reach halfheartedly out, not touching him. A gesture of comfort. Inside, I'm ice water. I don't jog by his house. The closest I get is the main street two blocks from him. How did he find me? Shit, shit, shit. "OK, look, I'll get another phone. I want to talk to you, too."

He glances up at me from his downcast expression, hopeful. I want to punch him right in his fucking pouty mouth.

"You really came here to talk to me?" I ask, trying to reel him back in.

I am leading him on. I want him to keep coming on to me. I am being deceptive. My stomach squeezes too hard and I swallow back curdled milk acid with hints of Hazelnut nondairy creamer.

"Well, you know, I gotta get some exercise." Dan's face goes completely pink and he sniffs, looking around as if worried someone might catch him in this moment of vulnerability. His eyes dart to mine, hold for a moment, and he smiles shyly. "And yeah, to see you. So hey," he adds, a little louder, posture going professional in a way that makes me sure someone has spotted us. "I gotta go. But it was nice seeing you. Call me, K?"

Who's seen us?

I force myself not to turn and look as Dan backs up and walks away. A guilty glance will ruin us. So I wave goodbye, and by the time it's safe to casually surveil the area for whatever, or whoever spooked him, Dan is gone.