“Hey,” Ethan said, sharp and loud.
This time Naomi had to curl her hand around his wrist to keep him from stepping forward. Lobster Shorts wasn’t worth a confrontation. He was just another man in a long line of men who expected her to respond to their degrading come-ons like they were Hallmark Valentines.
The amount of time she spent batting them away was overwhelmingly tedious. Both she and Ethan had better things to do.
Naomi moved her club soda to the other side of her body. With the way this guy was swaying, she didn’t want to risk it.
She kept her hand on Ethan and dialed up her charm. No way in hell was she letting this dude ruin her night.
“Well, when you put it that way, I—”
But the guy was tired of waiting. “Come on. Don’t be a bitch. Everyone’s already seen them.” The sound of his voice, the vicious twist of his mouth into a sneer—it all hit, dead center, against a barely scabbed wound.
Naomi hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d left herself open. That in order to organize all these conversations about love and intimacy and religion, she’d had to poke holes in the shield of her apathy. She’d had to believe the words she delivered in her lectures. Had to invite hope and all the danger that came with it.
Now, those same holes were expanding without her permission, blasted open by a comment that should have been innocuous, and water was rushing in. Up to her knees, her elbows, her collarbones, her mouth. Each second that he stood there, smirking at her, was a death sentence.
The memory hit her so hard, she staggered against the bar.
Naomi had been propositioned and catcalled and leered at so many times since then. But you never forget your first time.
She was back in the hallways of Jackson High School. It was that stupid fucking email, hitting her like kryptonite when she was already down. The straps of her backpack dug into her shoulders as Clint Marshall from her calc class showed her naked pictures she’d sent to her boyfriend on his cell phone, asking for a glimpse of the real thing. “Come on, Hannah. Everyone’s already seen them.”
She tried to pull in air, but it wouldn’t come. Each breath was a battle.
No. No. No.
Just like in high school, the urge to cry burned the back of her throat. She forced it down, tasting bile. No matter how hard she tried to slam the door on the memory, she couldn’t. Her therapist’s voice rang in her ears. “This is trauma,” she’d said the first time Naomi had recounted the memory.
He was still talking, this guy in the bar. His eyes vicious and wild with intoxication.
“Come on, slut. How much for a quick peek?”
“That’s enough,” Ethan said, breaking the hold she had on his wrist and stepping between her and the guy. “You need to leave. Now.”
Her arms were cold even though the bar was sweltering. She wanted to sit down or run away. Wanted both, but her legs wouldn’t listen. All her clever retorts died on her tongue.
Her harasser looked down his nose at Ethan and broke out in a wild grin. “Is that a challenge?”
“It’s a promise,” Ethan said, so quiet Naomi wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.
Then he whistled through his teeth until the bartender scurried over.
Ethan flicked his gaze toward Naomi, whose legs were now threatening full mutiny. The bartender nodded minutely, obviously picking up on the charged air.
“Let’s go,” Ethan said to Lobster Shorts, walking toward the exit without looking back.
The guy returned his focus to Naomi for a moment, obviously deliberating between targets. But even through an alcoholic stupor, he must have been able to see that the fight had gone out of her. It wasn’t as much fun without resistance. He followed Ethan.
As soon as he was out the door, Naomi let herself drop to a bar stool. The bartender pulled out a bowl of pretzels and dropped them in front of her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no idea where that guy came from.” He poured her a fizzing Coke. “The sugar helps.”
Naomi downed most of the drink in a few gulps, her hand shaking around the cold glass. Around her, the mixer kept running, people too preoccupied to notice her meltdown.
Thank God.
Naomi shoved pretzels into her mouth and chewed mechanically.They tasted like cardboard. She hadn’t lost control like that in years. And never so publicly.
How could she have let this happen? A single email? A run-of-the-mill drunk guy?