I Don't Forgive You

inside of me is a broken thing, which he recognized. I thought I’d been clever enough to hide it. I’ve fooled so many people, people like Mark. But this guy smelled it on me.
Me. Not anyone else there.

 5
Wrapped in the towel, I slip into Cole’s darkened room. By the glow of the night-light, I watch his small chest rise and fall. He’s flanked by a stuffed penguin and a pink giraffe, named, respectively, Penguin and Pink Giraffe. My little boy—who pretends to be a different animal baby every day, paints each of his fingernails a different color, and has an imaginary friend named Twizzle—chooses only the most literal names for his stuffed animals.
I bend down and inhale the dense tangle of his hair. It’s dark and thick like Mark’s, and I’m comforted by the familiar smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo.
Before I leave, I pull the blanket over Cole’s exposed shoulder, a symbolic act, since it will end up in a pile on the floor in the morning. Beside the pillow lies a dog-eared copy of Pinkalicious. Cole knows it by heart. I smile, picturing him pleading with Susan to read it to him one more time.
Back in my bedroom, I slip on an old Stanford Law T-shirt of Mark’s that falls to my knees. It makes me feel about as sexy as an extra on Little House on the Prairie, but it’s so worn it’s almost see-through in parts, and despite being washed a hundred times, it still smells like him and I need that comfort. I need to wear something that isn’t even a little sexy, that feels like a big hug.
Mark appears in the doorway, a mug of steaming liquid in hand. “Chamomile. Susan insisted.” He puts the mug on my bedside table. “She’s worried about you.”
“Susan’s very sweet.”
“So am I. Worried that is, not sweet.”
I smile. “You’re sweet.”
“What happened back there? You came rushing down the stairs…” His voice trails off.
I shrug and avert my eyes from the intensity of his gaze. I know what he wants. Not just a recounting of what happened but to peer inside my psyche and listen in on my inner voice. In short, access to my soul. But my feelings are on lockdown. It’s a vestigial skill, one I honed growing up in a household where I never knew which mother I would encounter—the sarcastic drunk or the silly flirt. Learning to pack up my emotions in a box that I could access later, in safety and privacy, was a tool I learned quite early.
Unlearning it is proving harder.
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Dragging it all out in our bedroom would be letting that man’s ugliness into my safe and private space. I just want to put the whole thing behind me, pretend it didn’t happen.
Mark sits down beside me.
“Allie, I want to understand what happened tonight.” His tone is gentle, his face neutral. I have to tell him something. I believe this is what marriage is, taking the leap of faith into the void and having faith your partner will catch you. I take a deep breath.
“I don’t want you to freak out or anything,” I say, my words directed at the curtainless window. “But that guy? At the party? He basically came into the bathroom when I was in it, and he, umm, I don’t know. Tried to kiss me?” My voice shakes as I speak, and I hate how tentative I sound, as if I am not exactly sure what happened, even though I am.
“He did what?” A hoarseness has crept into his voice.
“Please, please don’t overreact.” I place my hand atop Mark’s and squeeze. I don’t have the mental bandwidth for his feelings right now, only mine. “This guy was drunk and gross, and nothing happened—”
Mark bristles. “I don’t call that nothing. He put his hands on you?”
“You’re right. It’s not nothing.”
“Did he hurt you?” His eyes bore into me, unnerving me.
“No.” The word shoots out of my mouth before I realize that I am lying. I want to protect Mark from his own anger. It’s just a bruise, after all. It’ll heal in a week. “I’m fine,” I say. “It was just unsettling.”
It’s a lie. But I feel myself shutting down. I won’t be forced into exploring all the awfulness of it right this second. Not even for Mark.
“Unsettling? That’s illegal in the state of Maryland. Hell, it’s illegal in all fifty states. It’s called battery, and it’s against the law.” Mark stands up and runs his hands through his hair. “Do you know this guy’s name?”
“Rob something. I don’t know his last name.”
“Rob, huh? I’m going to go talk to him.”
“No, that’s not a good idea.”
He nods. “You’re right. We should just go straight to the police.”
The word police seizes me in my chest, making it hard to breathe. “No, no, no, Mark. Please, sit down.”
But he’s pacing back and forth, not listening to me. “Does Daisy know who this Rob guy is? Should I call her? No, it’s late.” He turns to me. “We can call Daisy in the morning. She’ll know his full name, and then we can go to the police.”
“No police, Mark. Stop saying the word police.” My voice comes out thin and strained. He halts his pacing.
“Why not?”
“What do you think they are going to do?”
“I don’t know. Investigate? Give this guy a warning?”
“You mean start interviewing every one of the people at that party? Our neighbors? The other parents? Is that what you want? We just moved here; I don’t want to become the subject of neighborhood gossip.” I don’t tell him that I know what it’s like to carry around that hot stone of shame in your body, that I have lived through that and have no desire to ever experience it again.
He stares up at the ceiling and then lets out a long, slow breath. “Fine. No police. But he shouldn’t get away with this.” Mark was an Eagle Scout when he was a teen. While