It Happens All the Time: A Novel

The moment Tyler was finished, he rolled off me and passed out with one of his long arms thrown across my body. I couldn’t look at him. All I could feel was the burning between my legs, the knots in my stomach, and the tears running down my cheeks. I felt paralyzed, as though the entire weight of him was still pinning me to the bed, pressing all the air from my lungs.

Loud music blasted out on the patio, punctuated by the occasional firework. I heard laughter and happy, shouting conversation—the world had gone on, continuing to spin on its axis, even as mine had slammed to a jarring, neck-snapping halt.

I didn’t know what to do. I was still drunk. Tyler had driven me to the party. How could I get home without him? That was all I could think to do. Get home. Climb in the shower. Scrub away the stain and smell of him from my skin. Never see him again.

I could feel his hot breath on my bare arm as he slept. Light snores escaped him as I forced myself to get out from under his touch, shifting oh so slowly, terrified of waking him. My head ached, my insides felt as though they’d been stirred with a hot poker. My body moved like it was full of heavy, wet sand.

When I finally managed to sit upright on the side of the bed, more tears filled my eyes and a sob seized my throat. I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound. Get away . . . don’t wake him were the only thoughts in my head. My chest heaved a few times as I swallowed back my revulsion and grief, and as soon as I could, I leaned over and grabbed my underwear, pulling it up as I stood. A warm, sticky liquid oozed between my thighs, and in response, I gagged.

I need to get to a bathroom. I grabbed my sandals from the floor and tiptoed as quietly as I could out of the room, closing the door behind me. I stumbled down the stairs, grasping the railing so I wouldn’t fall. The small powder room I’d been in with Gia was empty, so I locked myself inside it, turned on the light, and forced myself to clean up as best I could. I let loose a few hiccuping sobs as I finished, pulling up my panties again, flushing the toilet, and then stood in front of the mirror, not recognizing who I saw. My hair was a tangled mess and my eyes were smudged with mascara; black streaks ran down my cheeks. My bottom lip was swollen and had a cut, either from Tyler’s forceful kisses or from my teeth biting into it. The girl I’d been just an hour ago was gone; she’d been obliterated. I had no idea who I was now.

Oh my god, what am I going to tell Daniel? I thought. What will he think of me? What will he do? Will he believe that Tyler forced me to have sex, or will he think that I’m lying to assuage my guilt?

Shaking, I snatched several tissues from the box on the counter and cleaned my face up as best I could, then dampened and smoothed my hair, trying to put my fiancé out of my mind and focus on what to do next. I hadn’t brought my phone or a purse, since I didn’t want to worry about having to keep track of them at the party. I was trapped. I couldn’t call my parents and ask them to come get me. They’d ask too many questions. They’d want to talk to Tyler. There was no way I could tell them what he had done. I just needed to get home and climb into bed. I needed to sleep, to figure out a way to move forward as if this night never happened.

Find Mason and Gia, I thought. They can give you a ride. But then, just as I was about to open the door, a wave of nausea hit me with such intensity that I barely made it to the toilet, where I heaved until my throat burned and there was nothing left to come up. I slumped on the floor, resting my head against the wall, disgusted by the rancid stench of stomach acid and tequila. I tried to catch my breath, feeling just the tiniest bit less drunk.

A couple of minutes later, I managed to get up, rinse out my mouth with water, and head back out to the patio, where I saw Mason and Gia slow-dancing. The look of adoration on his face as he gazed at his wife stopped me in my tracks. That’s how Daniel looks at me, I thought, and a wave of sorrow rushed over me as I wondered if he would ever see me like that again. I hesitated, debating whether I could bear talking to them. But I had to. I didn’t have a choice. I walked over and touched Mason’s arm.

“Hey!” he said, smiling. “Where’d you two disappear to?”

“Tyler’s passed out upstairs,” I said, my chin trembling as I spoke. I ground my teeth together in order to get it to stop. “And I’m sick.”

“Oh no, mija,” Gia said. “You poor thing.” She sounded as drunk as I felt.

“I hate to ask, but is there any way you guys could take me home? I could call an Uber, but with the holiday and being out in the county, it might take forever . . .” Please, please, please. Don’t make me stay here any longer than I already have. Don’t make me call my parents.

“No worries. I’ll drive you,” Mason said. He looked down at his wife. “Do you want to stay, and I can come back?”

Gia shook her head. “Nah.” She swayed a bit, and her husband reached out to steady her. “I may have overestimated my ability to party like I used to.” She grinned. “I’ve had my fun. Let’s go home.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and rubbing my triceps to combat the chill in the air.

“Of course,” Mason said, but then he hesitated and looked upward, to the second story of the house. “Maybe we should take Ty home, too.”

“No!” I said, sharply. Both Mason and Gia gave me a strange look, so I quickly backtracked. “I mean, he’s really out of it. I tried to wake him up, but couldn’t. It’s probably better to just let him sleep it off and he can drive himself home in the morning.” How am I doing this? I wondered. How am I standing here, talking with them like my life wasn’t just destroyed?

“She’s right,” Gia said. “Tyler’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

Mason nodded, and the three of us made our way to the front of the house, where we climbed into their car. I sat next to the empty infant car seat in the back, curling my shoulders forward, trying to make myself as small as I possibly could. I couldn’t stop shivering.

“You okay back there?” Mason asked as he pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road.

“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice cracked, so I cleared my throat. “Don’t worry. I already threw up back at the house.”

Gia laughed, turning around to look at me. “Guess neither of us are party animals.”

“I guess not,” I said, trying to ignore the pain between my legs. Just get me home. Please. I just want to go home.

Mason glanced in the rearview mirror, making eye contact with me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure,” I said, fighting back a swell of tears. “Just not feeling well.” I couldn’t imagine telling them the truth. And what would I say, anyway? I was certain that they had seen the way Tyler and I were dancing, the way I’d kissed him and let him grind his hips on mine. They wouldn’t believe that what happened up in that bedroom was against my will. They’d chalk it up to a drunk girl regretting her decision to have sex. They’d call me a liar. A cheater. A slut. Maybe they’d be right.

“What’s your address?” Gia asked, and I recited it, watching as she punched it into the car’s GPS. I sat back, closing my eyes, trying not to think, focusing as much as I could on the vibration of the tires as they hit the road, a low buzz humming through me.

For the rest of the ride, Mason and Gia talked with each other up front, but I couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying. All I could think about was getting home. When the car stopped in front of my parents’ house, I practically leaped out of the backseat.

“G’night, mija!” Gia said, turning around again. “The four of us should do dinner together, soon!” She giggled, then burped. “Oh, wow. Sorry. That was gross.”

“That’s okay,” I said, forcing a smile as I opened my door to climb out. “Good night.”

Mason exited the car, too, and stood next to me, offering his arm for support, but I didn’t want him to touch me. I couldn’t imagine wanting anyone to touch me ever again.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a quick, jerky step back from his reach. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” he said, with a calm, assessing gaze. I could suddenly see him in work mode, treating injured victims in their houses or on the side of the road. “Let me walk you to the door, at least.” His low tone soothed me, and so I nodded, allowing him accompany me to the side of the house, to the door that led into the kitchen, where Tyler had surprised me back in December. Mason stood at least a couple of feet to my side, giving me the space I so desperately needed. Feeling his eyes still on me, I leaned down and lifted the realistic-looking but fake rock next to the stairs that held a spare key, taking it out and slipping it into the lock on the door. “Thanks,” I repeated. “I appreciate the ride.”

“Amber, wait,” Mason said.

I stopped what I was doing, freezing at the top of the steps, my heart thumping like a jackrabbit’s leg inside my chest. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t speak. I was too afraid of what might come out of my mouth. I was afraid I might start screaming and never stop.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Mason said. “Take a few ibuprofen and drink lots of water before you go to sleep. It’ll help.”

I almost laughed, thinking how neither of those things would come close to fixing what was wrong with me now. Still, I bobbed my head and then rushed inside, shutting and locking the door behind me, relieved to finally be alone. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and saw it was only ten thirty—my parents wouldn’t be home for at least a couple of hours. I wove my way down the hall and up the stairs, stripping off my dress and panties in the bathroom, turning the water in the shower on to run as hot as it could get. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the vanity drawer and took them to my clothes, cutting and snipping until there was only a handful of red and white fabric-confetti left. I wrapped all of it in toilet paper and shoved it to the bottom of the garbage can, then yanked back the shower curtain and climbed inside the tub, letting the scalding water hit my body for as long as I could stand it, watching my skin turn bright red. I turned the handle so the water would cool to a slightly more tolerable temperature, then grabbed the neon green mesh scrub from the hook on the tile wall and soaked it in foaming body wash, running it back and forth across my body as roughly as I could, trying to scour away every skin cell that Tyler had touched. Trying to erase what he had done.

It was only when I finished scrubbing that more tears finally came, body-racking cries that made me shake so violently I couldn’t continue to stand. I leaned my shoulder against the wall and slid downward, howling as I pulled my legs to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, setting my forehead on my bent knees. I rocked in place, sobbing, letting the hot water wash over me, trying to make it not be true, to find a way to make myself believe it didn’t happen. I tried not to feel the weight of him still on me, tried to expunge the memory of the violent, insistent jabbing of his hips. He’d used enough force to make me bleed. I hadn’t noticed it back in the bathroom at the house, but now, a narrow, red stream flowed from my body down the drain.

I stayed like this for as long as I could, keening and rocking until the water ran cold and I began to shiver, my teeth clacking. I felt numb, I felt empty. I was a shell, an abandoned chrysalis, a tomb lying in wait for the dead.

Once I was out of the tub and wrapped in a thick blue towel, I opened the door to let the steam out of the bathroom, then used my hand to wipe the condensation from the mirror. A stranger stared back at me.

I heard Tyler’s voice in my head: Your hair looks pretty like that, and another wave of nausea rolled through me. I looked down, and my eyes caught the gleam of the silver scissors I’d left on the edge of the counter. Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed them with one hand and a strip of my hair with the other. I held it away from my head and began to cut, one chunk after another, leaving haggard ends and uneven lengths in a bob that stopped near the bottoms of my ears.

When I finished, I stared at myself in the mirror, hoping that I would feel better, somehow, no longer looking like the girl who had flirted with her best friend when she was engaged to someone else; the girl who had been the one to kiss Tyler first, to let him grind his crotch against her and lead her upstairs to a room.

I knew what was going to happen. I couldn’t deny that. I’d encouraged him, purposely turned him on. I’d let myself get drunk; I’d wanted to lose control. And this was the result: a girl standing in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, a trickle of blood running down the inside of her leg. A girl who had changed her mind when it was already too late, and now, no matter what she did, would never be the same again.

•  •  •

That night, I didn’t sleep so much as surf along the edge of consciousness, startling awake with every distant firework boom, sitting up in my bed and turning on the light to make sure that I was still alone. What if Tyler woke up and decided to drive to my house? What if he came in my room and took what he wanted from me again? It was doubtful, I knew, but the fear cloaking my thoughts was relentless, driving roots deep into my brain, choking out any sense of security I had hoped being home would provide.

I heard my parents get home a little after midnight, but I stayed quiet when my mom opened the door and peeked in my room. I was too afraid to open my mouth. Too terrified of what she might make me do. She might make me say what Tyler did to me out loud. She might make me go to the hospital and call the police. Or worse, she might not believe me. She might blame me, like I did myself, for sending the wrong kind of message and leading him on. I couldn’t fathom doing any of those things. I just wanted to pretend it never happened. I just wanted to escape into the thick, black bliss of sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come. I lay in bed for hours, curled up as tightly as I could beneath my covers, pillows surrounding me. Through my window, I watched the moon drop lower and lower in the cloudless night sky, and the pale, lavender whisper of dawn begin to lighten it. I was scheduled to be at the gym at seven o’clock, but I knew there was no way I could get up, no possible way I could work, so around four, I grabbed my cell phone and left Harold a message, saying I was sick and wouldn’t be in. I couldn’t face my clients. I couldn’t face anyone. I turned my phone off and dropped it on the floor.

The throbbing between my thighs wouldn’t stop. Every time I rolled over or moved at all, a piercing spiral of pain shot through my pelvis. Somewhere around five a.m., the reality of the fact that Tyler hadn’t used a condom hit me, and while I was on the Pill, that wouldn’t protect me from whatever diseases he might carry. Before last night, I would never have fathomed thinking something so horrible about him. But everything I thought I knew about my friend no longer held true. There was something sinister and violent and dark inside him I’d never experienced before. In one instant, he had become a stranger to me, someone I never wanted to see again.

It’s all my fault, I thought. I called it a date. I wore that dress and no bra. I drank too much, I kissed him. I used his body like he was the pole and I was the stripper out on the patio. I let him take me upstairs to that bed. Maybe he was too drunk to hear me when I told him to stop. Maybe I didn’t say it loudly enough. Maybe I didn’t say it enough times.

Finally, around six, I drifted off into a restless sleep. But an hour later, my pounding head and empty, burning stomach woke me again. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow, and I wished that I had taken Mason’s advice. The last thing I wanted to do was get up, but I needed to hydrate or my headache would only intensify.

Slowly, I rolled out of bed and tried to stand, feeling like I had the worst sort of all-over body flu. My rib cage felt bruised, my joints creaked, and my muscles barely cooperated as I left my room and stepped into the hall, where my mom stood at the top of the stairs, about ten feet away from me, still dressed in her loose black pajama bottoms and one of my dad’s blue and green Seahawks jerseys.

“Amber!” she exclaimed, the sharpness in her voice assaulting my senses. “What happened to your hair?”

I didn’t move. I didn’t look at her. “I cut it.” Keep it together. Don’t say a word. Just act like everything is fine.

“I can see that,” she said, walking toward me. “But when? And why? You’ve always loved it long.”

I shrugged. “Last night, when I got home. I just . . . did it.” I stood still as she hugged me, keeping my eyes on the floor.

“Whew!” she said when she pulled back. “Had a little to drink, did you? It’s coming out your pores.”

I nodded, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m not going to work. I feel awful.”

“I bet,” she said. She paused, then reached up to push my hair back from my face, staring at me with an assessing look. “I like it,” she declared. “We need to clean up the ends, but it actually suits you. Probably easier to take care of, too.”

I nodded again. It was all I could manage.

She pursed her lips and tilted her head to one side. “Are you all right, honey? Did something happen? I didn’t think you’d get home earlier than us last night.”

“I just drank too much. I’ve never done that before.”

She kept looking at me, like she was trying to decide whether or not to believe what I said. “Okay,” she finally replied. “I’ll go make you some ginger tea and dry toast. It’ll help.”

My gut twisted at the thought of trying to put any kind of food in my mouth, but I nodded, if only to make her leave me alone. When she turned to walk away, part of me wanted to call out, to start crying and tell her everything. To ask her to wrap herself around me in my bed the way she used to when I was a little girl, back when the monsters in my imagination weren’t real. When they weren’t actually someone I loved, someone I thought I could trust.

And then, I couldn’t help myself. “Mom?”

“Yes?” she said, stopping her descent down the stairs to look back at me.

Tell her. Say it out loud. I opened my mouth, ready to convey the entire sordid story, but then, only two words came out. “Thank you,” I said, and she smiled.

“Of course, sweetie. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” I entered the bathroom, where I forced myself to drink handful after handful of water, ignoring the mirror, staring at the contents of the wastebasket next to the sink. Before I’d gone to bed, I’d shoved all the strands of my cut-off hair on top of the toilet-paper-wrapped, chopped-up dress and panties, and now it lay there looking like a messy, dark brown nest. The girl I used to be, sitting in the trash.

I washed my face over the sink, then decided to take another hot shower, hoping it might actually make me feel clean. But when I took off the long T-shirt I wore and looked down at my body, I gasped. The evidence was everywhere—fingerprint bruises around my breasts and waist, fat smudges of purple on my rib cage and inner thighs, blood-crusted, half-moon indentations on the palms of my hands. I couldn’t risk my mother walking in on me and seeing any of it. Hurriedly, I pulled the T-shirt back on and raced into my bedroom, where I changed into an oversize, gray WSU sweatshirt and black leggings. Once I was back in bed, a few tears snuck out of the corners of my eyes and rolled down the side of my face into my hair. About five minutes later, my mom brought in a tray with the hot tea and toast she had promised, and again, as I had last night, I pretended to be asleep. She stroked my hair again, setting the back of her hand against my forehead, like she was checking to see if I had a temperature, and the tenderness of her touch brought more tears to my eyes.

“Just rest, my sweet girl,” she whispered before she left the room, and I realized that she knew I was awake.

I thought I might cry more. I thought I might lie there, thoughts spinning as they had last night, but the sheer weight of my fatigue won out and I finally slept, soundly enough that I had no dreams. I woke several hours later to a knock on my bedroom door, to my name being spoken as it opened.

“Amber?” Tyler said, and my entire body seized up. My muscles froze, and a sharp rock in my throat blocked me from taking a breath. What is he doing here? Who let him in? My parents, of course. They didn’t know better. I hadn’t told them what he’d done.

“Are you okay?” he asked, coming in and closing the door behind him. “I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t there.”

I sat up, pressing my back against the padded headboard of my bed. Did he expect me to stay there and cuddle with him? The skin beneath his eyes was dark, and it appeared as though he hadn’t changed or showered. He was frowning, like he was sad. For a flash, I felt myself soften, accustomed to comforting him. But then, a new kind of muscle memory set in: his weight on me, the way he had gored himself inside me, and I instantly felt like a cornered animal, wild and willing to do anything to find escape.

“Get out,” I whispered.

“Amber . . .” he said, taking a couple of steps toward me.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and that’s when I managed to find my voice. “Get out!” I screamed, with enough intensity that my entire body vibrated and the muscles in my throat felt singed. I kicked at him with both legs, as hard as I could, hard enough to push him onto the floor, fighting the way I should have fought last night. Instead, I’d let him hurt me. I’d let him win. “Get the fuck out!”

“Jesus, Amber,” he said as he struggled to right himself.

“Get out!” I screamed again, and I kept on screaming it. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” Just those two words, the only ones I could think to say.

He stood up, his green eyes wide. Then, both my parents appeared in my doorway, their breathing labored after they’d clearly dashed up the stairs.

“What the hell is going on here?” my father demanded.

“Make him leave!” I said, barely able to speak. “Make him go!”

“What?” my mother said, her eyes darting back and forth between Tyler and me, confusion shrouding her face. “Tyler . . . ?”

Tyler didn’t speak; instead, he simply turned around, pushed past both my parents, and strode out of the room.

My parents stood still for a minute, shocked, I supposed, by what had just occurred. “Honey, what happened?” my mom asked, coming over to sit down with me. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly, making me cry all over again.

“Did you two have a fight?” my dad asked.

I sobbed harder, unable to speak. I felt the mattress sag as my father sat down on the other side of me, putting his strong arms around me, too. “It’s okay, baby,” he said, and I could hear the tears in his own voice. “We’ve got you. Everything’s going to be fine.”

They held me like that for I don’t know how long, until my eyes were swollen shut and my body felt like it had been drained of all my blood. I was so spent, I could barely move; I could barely draw a breath.

“Tell us,” my mother said, her voice trembling. “Please.”

And then, finally, I lifted my head and looked at my parents, and somehow found the strength to speak the truth.