I Don't Forgive You

nickname for Dustin, ever since he found Dustin lurking in our driveway the weekend we moved in, supposedly looking for his lost drone.
I force out a half-hearted laugh, trying to let Mark know that I appreciate his attempt to cheer me up. But inside, I am still reeling from what happened at the party.
We trudge along the path to the back door and enter the back of the house through the mudroom, a narrow room lined with deep cubbies that promised an organized life straight off a Pinterest board. It might have been the single biggest reason we bought this house.
When Mark flicks on the light, our sitter, Susan, pops up from the sofa in front of the TV, where a Law and Order spinoff is on. She’s clutching her knitting in one hand, and her jangly Scotty-dog earrings swing from her ears.
“Oh, goodness, you startled me.” She puts a hand to her heart. An elfish sixty-something retiree, Susan lives in the neighborhood with her West Highland terrier, Marnie. She’s more than just a babysitter—she watches Cole after school until I get home from work and has become like an auntie to him. She knows how to talk to little boys. Her last job was sitting for the rambunctious Zoni triplets who live around the corner.
“Sorry, Susan,” Mark says with a bit too much cheer. His warmth toward others always seems to rise in direct proportion to how upset he is. I remember a trip to Florida one winter when the hotel screwed up our reservations. The more the situation worsened, the politer Mark became.
The heat of the kitchen hits me as soon as I walk in, which means Susan has been baking. Every time she babysits, she bakes something with Cole and then cleans the kitchen top to bottom, leaving it spiffier than before. Cole relishes these kitchen episodes—his favorite TV show is The Great British Bake Off.
“You’re home early.” Susan fixes me with her bright blue eyes.
“I know. Headache.” The lie slides right out. It’s not like I’m going to tell my babysitter that a guy I was flirting with tried to have sex with me at the neighborhood social. The scent of cinnamon hangs in the air, as well as something else I cannot put my finger on.
“Smells wonderful in here,” Mark says, coming up behind me. He wraps me in his arms. “Doesn’t it smell good, Allie?”
“Pumpkin bread.” Susan gestures with a knitting needle toward two brown loaves on the kitchen counter. “Cole said he’d never tried it, so I thought, oh heck, why not?” Susan turns to me. “Do you need a cup of tea, Allie? Chamomile is good for a headache.”
Her concern touches me. A part of me does want to let her mother me—no one else is doing it—but what I really want is a shower, the kind that’s so hot it feels like it’s taking off the top layer of skin.
“I think a shower and bed will do the trick,” I say, disentangling myself from Mark. If not for Susan, I might strip out of this skirt and leave it in a puddle right here in the kitchen. My hip throbs where it met the hard sink. I’m sure there will be an ugly bruise.
Mark pulls out his wallet and lays a stack of twenties on the counter. Susan stands there smiling, clucking in a sympathetic manner and making no move to gather her things. I have the feeling that babysitting Cole is something of a highlight in her life. This might be unfair, but she comes off like a walking warning of what happens to a woman who dedicates her entire life to others.
When I finally get upstairs to my bathroom, I strip down and examine the pale purple bruise on my hip.
As I wait for the water to warm up, my greatest hits of unwanted touchings come rushing through my mind. The shift manager at the restaurant where I worked during art school, who would find me bent over doing some menial task and make comments like, That’s how I like to see you, ass in the air.
The first photographer I worked for, the one who reeked of clove cigarettes and always found a reason to follow me into the supply room, breathing down my neck, accidentally grinding against me.
That man in a parking lot in Chicago who reached out and squeezed both my breasts as my arms hung useless by my side, laden with grocery bags. Stunned, I did nothing.
In fact, I didn’t do anything about any of those incidents.
But at some point, I thought it would end. Navigating lecherous men is so commonplace as to be almost a rite of passage. But this, this was different.
I was a grown woman, married, a mother. I was Mark Ross’s wife. I lived in Bethesda, Maryland, for Chrissakes.
Didn’t any of those things offer me protection?
The wine guy, this Rob, lives in the same community, and we were at a neighborhood social event. Anger stirs within me. There’s no way he could have thought this was acceptable behavior.
I climb into the shower. Under the warm water, I replay the night like a movie. I see myself in the dining room, the hamburger bun fiasco, in the kitchen, flirting, and then bam, Rob is in the bathroom with me, slamming me into the sink.
And that awful moment, when my body reacted despite me, when my back arched in response to his touch.
I shudder.
It’s not your fault.
You didn’t want this to happen.
I scrub hard with a washcloth, trying to scrape away the invisible grime his skin left on mine.
I shut off the water and lean my head against the cold tile, letting a wave of nausea wash over me. I feel tiny and insignificant, reduced by this stranger. I know it’s not my fault, yet I feel a sickening dread. A tiny, ugly truth blooms in the swampiest corner of my soul. This rotten, little weed, begging for attention, wants me to know that