BENTLEY Page 10

  There she is, looking the same as ever. Carefully pressed brown dress pants, pale pink blouse, thin gold chain around her neck. Hair in a soft bob that brushes her jawline. She steps in and gives me a quick hug, then looks around. “I see you already got yourself unpacked. Good. You can help me finish dinner. We’ll be eating soon .”

  With that, she spins on her heels and heads downstairs .

  * * *

  “D o you need more butter?” Mom asks Dad, holding the butter dish as he opens his steaming dinner roll .

  “Sure.” He cuts off a hunk and spreads it .

  No one has talked much during our meal except to pass food. The only real sounds have been silverware scraping on plates as we eat in silence. And it’s driving me crazy .

  I know they’re waiting for me to open up about what happened. I’m trying to wait it out, hoping that maybe they’ll let it go. That I can take a little more time before letting them down. Again .

  I focus on cutting the pork chop into bite-sized bits. The meal is good, as usual. Mom is one of those women who can pull everything off with style—she works all day as a financial advisor, then comes home and cooks for her family. But she also balances time for herself with friends and hobbies. I wish I had my shit together the way she does .

  Always felt like I could never quite live up to her .

  Not that Dad is a slacker. He’s an accountant (my parents met in college in math classes, from what I understand). He’s active in the community and local politics, and he takes continuing education classes .

  And then there’s me .

  Dad clears his throat and puts down his fork. “So, Samantha. What are you planning to do while you’re home ?”

  Here it comes. “Well, I’m…not quite sure yet,” I admit. “But I will figure it out, and soon. I promise not to be a drain on you guys .”

  “Are you going to re-enroll in school?” Mom asks .

  I stiffen. She’s asking if I’m going to go back to that campus. But he is still there. How can I walk around knowing that? I can feel that old panic in me .

  “Why are you really here?” she continues, eyeing me. “What happened in New York ?”

  “It wasn’t the right place for me,” I say lamely, attempting to neutralize the discussion .

  “But you said it was a stepping stone to helping you save up money. To transfer to NYU. That’s what you said,” she persists. “What changed? Did you get fired ?”

  “No,” I say. “I quit.” But my voice trembles, and I know she catches it .

  Her face falls. “Tell me it wasn’t the same kind of thing you ran into on campus .”

  I can’t help it. Everything I’ve been trying to suppress wells right up to the surface. And I know they can see it. I can’t seem to hide the truth from them. “I…made a mistake .”

  Dad frowns but doesn’t speak. He lets Mom grill me .

  “Tell me everything,” she insists .

  I don’t, of course. But I admit, part of me needs to unburden myself. I haven’t had anyone to talk to about everything that happened. So I tell her I developed feelings for my boss and it seemed like he had them for me too. Then he decided we’d be better off having just a work relationship. And I couldn’t deal with it .

  By the time I’m done, I’m wringing my napkin in my hands, and my parents are staring at me in confounded silence .

  Dad just blinks. “I…” He tosses his napkin on his plate and stands up. “I don’t even know what to say.” With those cold words, he exits the dining room .

  I bite my lower lip and will myself to not cry. I will stay strong .

  Mom shakes her head. I see the horror on her face. “So you fell for another older man. Again. You repeated the same mistakes you made at school. Is that what you’re telling me ?”

  “It’s not the same,” I protest. “It may look that way on the outside , but — ”

  “And yet, here you are, again.” I can see the emotions in her eyes, and it makes me ashamed. She’s disgusted with me. Horrified that I was once again lured in by an older man, at least in her eyes .

  I’m nothing more than a dumb little girl to my parents. Someone who can’t get her shit together .

  My heart feels like a frozen block in my chest. I’m so emotionally strained right now that I’m numb .

  Mom doesn’t stop. She starts telling me what I need to do to get myself back on track. I need to listen to them. Go back to school .

  I blindly nod. Hell, I’ve been screwing everything up. Maybe I should take their advice. Let them tell me how to fix things. Be a good girl for once and stop this inane need to feel special .

  I help her clean up dishes and put away leftovers. Remain quiet. She isn’t as harsh now, but she’s still talking about what I should do. That maybe I should consider going to some church meetings and learn how to stop lusting the way I have been. To stop letting that dictate my life .

  Some small spark in me wants to cry out, “Why is it that there’s something wrong with me? Couldn’t it be the way people have treated me, instead?” But what’s the point? In the end, I let myself get where I am. That’s nobody’s fault but my own .

  Especially with Bentley. I walked into our situation with eyes open. Knowing it was only physical. Nothing more. But I had to go and develop feelings, and it changed us. But really, could we have continued that way, on the path we were on? I knew from the start it was likely going to end, if I’m honest with myself. It just ended faster than I thought it would .

  I go back up to my room and see I have a text message. Of course, my stupid heart skips about twelve beats, hoping it’s from Bentley. But it’s my old high school friend, Delilah. She and I were besties back then, but we somehow drifted apart .

  Girl!!!! she writes. Instantly I feel a small smile crease my face. She always did know how to make me feel wanted. I MISSED THE SHIT OUT OF YOU. NOW TELL ME WHEN WE ARE HANGING OUT .

  I laugh. I’m feeling a little too broken tonight—I just want to curl up and sleep. But tomorrow. Tomorrow, things will be different. You free later this week? I write back .

  For you? I’ll make time. Tell me when and where .

  We hammer out details to meet in two nights at a local dive bar. It’s the only thing that gives me something to look forward to as I spend the rest of the evening alone in my room .

  * * *

  I ’m not dealing well with life .

  The last week has been difficult, to say the least. Delilah’s baby is sick with flu, so I haven’t been able to see her as we planned. Instead, I’ve been hiding away, drowning in my depression. Feeling like a total failure. Every time I see my parents, they make sure to tell me what I need to be doing—getting re-enrolled. Finding a part-time job so I can be productive. Make something of myself .

  I know they’re trying to help, but the weight of the expectation just makes me feel worse. I can never possibly live up to the hopes they have for me .

  Hell, I don’t even feel like myself anymore. I’m struggling to find solid ground .

  I can’t even seem to muster the energy to get out of bed some days. Right now I’m curled up on my side, a pillow over my face to block out the light. I know I need to get out of bed. But why? So I can sleepwalk my way through whatever I need to do ?

  It isn’t even that I quit the best job I ever had. It’s that I’m reeling from Bentley’s rejection. From the fact that I let my walls down, let myself get attached to him. And despite what it seemed, despite the moments of vulnerability that seemed to come from him, it was all one-sided .

  I think that’s the part that is crushing me the most. My naivety. My stupidity. I was the one who led myself down this path .

  Maybe I really do have to be the one to pull myself out of it .

  I sit up and stare at the white wall ahead of me. I’ve been letting everyone else pull my own strings. My parents. My professor. Bentley. I’ve been trying so hard to be a good girl and please all of them .

  Constantly trying
to make everyone happy, trying to be enough, prove I’m worthy .

  And it never works .

  But that’s enough. I have to live on my own terms, or I’m just going to be a shell of myself. Nothing more than a vessel that lives for others .

  What kind of life is that ?

  Screw this. I’m not doing that anymore. No, I don’t know what I want. Not yet. But I do have to face down what’s paralyzed me .

  Starting with Professor Warren Archer .

  * * *

  I head downstairs, dressed and with my emotional armor on, ready to head to campus. Of course I’m nervous. But I’m not going to let that stop me .

  Mom and Dad are sitting at the dining room table .

  “Well, look who roused herself from bed,” Dad mumbles as he straightens the newspaper .

  I ignore him and head toward the front door .

  “Hey,” he says. “Where are you going ?”

  I spin and look at my parents. Really look at them. On the surface, they’re perfect. I have strived my whole life to be like them. But I know there is more than what I see. “I’m going to campus to face down something I should have a long time ago,” I say. “But before I do, you need to know something.” I steel my courage and continue. “I’m not you. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect, trying to please you both. But the truth is, I’m just a person. A regular person with emotions and flaws. I screw up. Everyone does.” I suck in a deep breath. “I’m tired of being ashamed of who I am and what I’ve done .”

  “No one is trying to shame you—” Mom starts .

  “And yet, you have been,” I interrupt. “You make me feel guilty about the mistakes I’ve made. Well, I’m done with that. I can’t hold on to that guilt anymore, because it’s keeping me from moving forward.” And that’s true. I have to let go of this crap with Bentley, too. I’m still heartbroken about how things ended, but I’m so, so tired. “I’m not going to re-enroll in that school. I have other plans for myself. And if you love me, you have to accept me as I am. Flaws and all .”

  Mom purses her lips. “You make it sound like we’re monsters.” I can hear the thread of vulnerability in her voice, despite the sharpness in her eyes .

  “You’re not monsters. But you have to let me be me,” I say. I step into the dining room and stand near them. “You don’t have to like it, but you have to accept it. If you want me in your lives .”

  Dad frowns. “That’s some pretty aggressive talk .”

  “Yes, it is,” I say with a nod. “I know. But I need to be aggressive now .”

  I can tell they’re not pleased with what I’m saying. But I’m shocked that neither of them is giving me too much hell. Maybe they respect me for standing up for myself, at least to some degree .

  “I’m going to take care of some things,” I finish, “and I’ll keep you posted.” With that, I leave the house .

  Walk down the street I grew up on, feeling different. Stronger. I refuse to give in to this sorrow. This agony of feeling like I’m never good enough. Screw that. I am…at least, for myself. And right now, that will have to be enough .

  Not too long afterwards, I’m stepping back onto the grounds of my old college for the first time since I ran away .

  I never considered the fact that my old prof wouldn’t be working on campus anymore. But when I get there and try to find his office, there isn’t one in sight. Wow. I sit on a bench in the commons and pull up my phone to see if I can search Google for any information on what happened .

  Apparently, one of the charges against him stuck—from a new fourth source, who had evidence of his inappropriate behaviors. Archer got cocky, felt untouchable after the other three were brushed off as rumors. He sent another girl emails about the things he wanted to do to her. She went right to the news with the evidence, and he was shit-canned immediately, just a couple of months ago .

  I’m sad it didn’t work that way before he targeted another person, but at least he isn’t teaching there anymore. I’m betting that asshole is going to have a hard time finding a teaching job at any college .

  I manage to find where he’s living, which is only about a mile from campus. I decide to take the stroll to his place. When I get there, I see it’s a run-down apartment building. Brick is crumbling from the façade, and the scrubby bushes out front are long dead. What a crappy place .

  The mailboxes inside tell me which apartment is his. I knock on his door. He may not be home, given it’s a Saturday afternoon, but maybe I’ll luck out. Admittedly, my fist shakes as I do so. I’m facing the man who set me on the path that changed my life .

  The door opens, and there is Warren Archer in the flesh. Looking older and wearier than I remember. He’s wearing a dirty T-shirt and stained sweatpants . “Yes ?”

  He doesn’t recognize me. I’m both embarrassed and relieved at the same time. “It’s Samantha Bridges . I …”

  His face drains of color. “Oh, God.” He goes to close the door, but I push it open .

  “No, you’re going to listen to me,” I say hotly. I don’t know where my strength came from, but I’m not leaving until this man has heard my voice. “Let me in, or I’m going to stand outside your door and shout it to you. I’m curious what your neighbors will think .”

  His eyes narrow as he looks at me with unveiled hatred, but he opens wide and lets me in .

  His apartment is a mess. Trash everywhere, pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers. It’s clear he hasn’t cleaned in ages. Probably since he got fired. “Say what you need to say,” he tells me, “then please leave .”

  My jaw is tight, and I wiggle it loose. All the words that have been boiling in me are dying to spill out. But they’re tangled together. I struggle to figure out where to start .

  So I stare at him. This man I fancied I had feelings for. He’s not as tall as I remember, not as commanding of a presence. “You’re a sad, pathetic man,” I start .

  He flinches. “If you just came to insult me, you can — ”

  “You’re going to listen to me,” I continue on. “Because your behavior fucked up my life. You abused your power to hurt me and other girls. You should feel ashamed of yourself. Do you know how many times in the last year I’ve wrestled with guilt? With shame?” I can’t stop myself. My voice rises. “And even worse, I was scared to tell anyone. Because I knew I’d be the target of their anger, not you. How fucked up is that ?”

  He just stands there, jaw jutted, not speaking .

  “I’m revolted I even let you touch me. What you did to me and those other girls is fucking wrong, and I hope you remember that. Because I’m eventually going to forget you and move forward, and you’ll never hurt me again.” As quickly as my anger came on, it vanishes. I’m staring at a man who has been punished for his transgressions—he’s alone, that much is evident by the state of his apartment. And he’s definitely unemployable .

  I head to the door and walk out. Each step makes me feel lighter. I did it. I faced down something that’s been bothering me and I conquered it. I didn’t cower .

  The walk back to my parents’ house is long, but I need the time alone. To think. Seeing Archer made me realize that what went on between he and I was nothing like what I felt for Bentley Strongwell .

  I truly cared for Bentley .

  May have even fallen in love with the man .

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t return the feelings for me, for whatever reason. I need to let him go for me to find peace. I need to let go of those romantic notions that haunt me late at night. The ones where he finds me and tells me that he was a fool to let me walk out that door .

  Bentley will never admit that. But maybe someday, that will be okay, and I won’t feel like I left part of my heart in his office that day .

  Bentley

  S ince the day Samantha quit, it’s like time stopped. The days crawl by at a snail’s pace. Business is going well—in fact, it’s never been better. We’ve explored a couple of English-speaking foreign markets and a
re ready to move ahead with tapping into those audiences .

  But I don’t care anymore. I feel dead inside. Nothing matters .

  Even people at work are noticing a difference. Kim asked me this morning if I was sick. Said I looked pale and run down. I told her she was fired for insubordination, and she rolled her eyes and told me good luck with running the company without her. She knows me too well .

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never been this hung up on a girl before. It was just sex—and not even a lot. Mostly domination and submission. Nothing more. No emotions, no strings .

  Bullshit. My brain won’t let me lie to myself .

  I don’t know how or when it happened, but at some point, I developed feelings for Samantha. And since I brought her to my penthouse, I can still see her there. I can’t even sleep in my damn bed because all I feel is her presence, the sweet way she curled up against me. How she rode me until I came .

  The office is even worse. Because the ghost of her is everywhere. On my desk. In the chair. Against the wall, begging for me with that husky voice that flipped me inside out .

  I knew better, but I let myself get caught up in whatever we were, and now I’m paying for it. If only I’d been smarter, had kept the wall up around me better. Not let her in, even a crack. Then we could have continued on. But no, she started pushing and I got freaked out, and I forced her away. I knew what I was doing, and I did it because it was the safest bet .

  And now here I am, listless, aimless .

  I strap on my running shoes. Haven’t taken any laps in a while. Maybe escaping into exercise will help me get her off my mind .

  I run. And I run. And I run. Miles go flying by. I get a stitch in my side but I don’t quit. I just need to run far enough to get into that headspace where I don’t feel anything anymore. But the truth is, since that night with Samantha, something cracked in me .

  And I’m petrified .

  I started to let her in. I let her see something I don’t show anyone. A piece of my past. Not even the media knows that I’m adopted. Or what happened to my birth mother. It’s been intentionally kept secret from the public at large .