Nothing Happened
You’re sitting on the bare floor. Your hands are clasped, shoved between your thighs. You close your eyes, breathe in and out. Your mind is blocking it out. All of it. You pull your hands out, stare at them. They’re still shaking. Without warning, you start to cry. It’s loud, mournful, ugly. But you can’t stop. Because you’re hurt, angry and scared.
An hour earlier when you returned from work, you had supper early. You planned to go to bed early too, but old habits die hard. It’s half past nine. You’re feeling groggy. Signs of a cold, you suspect. When your phone rings, you groan. It’s Albert. You were supposed to help him with a project he has to submit in the morning. You tell him you’re not well, but you hear the disappointment in his voice. It’s urgent, he reminds you. You reconsider. You live in the same neighborhood. Of course you can come over for half an hour. It’s fine. You hang up. Al is the kindest person you know. He recommended you for the job you have now. He’s been a big brother and friend all wrapped in one. And in the ten years you’ve known him, he’s asked for nothing. This is the least you can do.
You change out of your pajamas and throw on a pair of jeans and t-shirt. When you knock on his door, it opens almost immediately. You tell him he’s going to have to pay for your services eventually. He shakes his head, says you’re growing horns. You get a bottle of water from the kitchen and settle into a chair. He hands you a printed copy of his proposal.
You scan the document, page after page. You note down your comments. Soon, he takes a seat beside you, holding out a box of cookies. Chocolate cookies. You dig in immediately, careful not to drop crumbs on the sofa. Maa Linda, Al’s wife, would be sure to sense that transgression all the way from her village.
You’re about halfway through the box before you realize he’s looking at you. What’s up, boss, you ask.
“I need to tell you something,” he says.
It sounds serious. You put the papers away. Did someone complain about you to him? Is he going to ask you to advise his son again? You’re not looking forward to telling a teenager to tone down his use of social media.
“I have feelings for you.”
In your mind, you curse. No. Not him. But all you do is stare at him in silence, lips pursed. You tell yourself not to panic. It’s just a confession. He’s not going to follow this up. He just wants you know.
“Okay,” you say. “Thanks for telling me.” You reach for the papers, your attempt to change the topic not so subtle.
But he’s still staring.
“What do you have to say about that?” he asks.
Your brain is still working overtime to maintain the poker face. No cause for alarm, the message board in your mind reads.
“Um … Thanks for telling me. We’re human. I understand. It happens.”
“I don’t want things to get weird.”
“It doesn’t have to. You’re just telling me so I know, right? If it ends here, it won’t be weird.”
You wait for him to move on to another topic. Work. His family. Anything.
“What do you have to say to me?”
Hope takes a dive. There is cause for alarm. It’s not going to end here. He doesn’t want to end it there.
“I don’t feel the same way.” There. Clear. Concise. This time, you know that you shouldn’t sugar coat your words, in order not to hurt. You don’t remind him that he’s a married man. Because then he thinks you’re saying no because he’s married.
“Really? You’ve never …?” His brows are raised. What does that mean? You shake your head with conviction. There can’t be any room for doubt. “You’ll always be like a big brother to me.”
Did you do something to make him feel this way, you ask. He says no, he might have misunderstood. He tells you about how his body reacts to seeing you. Your expression stays deadpan. You wait for it all to stop. You wait because you want to salvage this relationship. You’ve already lost one. You don’t have that many to spare.
So you’re emphatic with your position. He’ll respect that. You know he will. If you just hold on a little longer, this won’t be a big deal.
What is he doing?
His hand reaches out to brush cookie crumbs from your thigh. The part closer to your knee. Then higher and higher. he brushes away. And that’s when your blood starts to boil. You pull your chair back, away from him, out of his reach.
Please, stop, you think. There’s silence. You say nothing. He says nothing. You wait. You hope.
“Can you give me a hug?”
You clench your teeth. He’s not trying to go the opposite direction. He really thinks you’re that girl. They really are all the same. You get up to leave.
“Goodnight,” you say with a smile, so he doesn’t know you’re upset.
But he holds your hands, begs you to stay.
“Goodnight.” You repeat, trying to pull your hand out of his. He doesn’t let go. And that’s when the panic set in.
What if.. what if …
You start to consider your escape. There’s a bottle of water in your hand, you could spill that in his face and …
“I won’t let you go,” he says, pulling you to him.
There is no menace in his voice, but it doesn’t matter. You’re done giving him any more rope. So you push back with all you’ve got. Arms around you, he asks if you think you’re stronger than him. He’s joking, just wrestling with you, you hope. But then, you feel hands where they shouldn’t be. You scream. He lets you go, surprised. In a sprint you’re out.
The keys shake in your hand as you open your door. Adrenaline is coursing through your body. Fight-or-flight response is still active. What if ? You can hear the questions already; what were you doing in a married man’s house at night? It wouldn’t matter that you trusted him. Or that you never in a million years thought he would do anything like that. Your heart is pounding. Your hands are shaking. And then, the dam breaks.
When the tears stop, you start to think, what happens now? What can you do? If this was a stranger, that would be the end of it. But he’s not a stranger. You have to see him again. Talk to him. Work with him. There’s only one thing to do.
Your phone is ringing.
It’s him.
Breathe in. Breath out.
“Hello.”
“Goodnight,” he says. You grip the phone tighter to still your hands which start to shake at the sound of his voice. Of course all he says is goodnight. He too has decided to do pretend it didn’t happen.
“Goodnight.” You end the call while he’s still talking. Nothing happened. It’s the best way forward, the least resistant path. He’s not a stranger. You’ll have to meet with him again, talk to him. It can be done. But you’ll be careful now. Everything is tainted. No more teasing, or chatting. Every word or action will be misconstrued as an endorsement of his actions.
A part of you wishes you could tell him how betrayed you feel. How you thought he’d be the last person to ever tread this path. How angry you are at his assumptions, his assessment of what you would be willing to do. Then there’s that other part that wants to make everything go back to what it was. It tells you, maybe it was all an accident. Maybe you’re thinking too much. What if he was just joking around and you took things too personally? What if none of it happened the way you thing it did? The hands brushing your thighs, pulling down your bra … hands between your legs. You close your eyes, squeeze them tight, praying the memories fade into oblivion.
Breath in, breathe out.
