Jesus. I hate getting these things.

There are two functions every year that I’m expected to make an appearance at. First is my father’s birthday, which is in June, and the second is their annual Christmas party. While my relationship with my parents is tenuous at best, arcticlike cold at its worst, I do try to accommodate these functions. My father, who is an investment advisor and a very good one at that, has an immense backlist of helpful business contacts, and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of at least that opportunity.

I’m surprised when I see a handwritten note at the bottom in black ink. I recognize my mom’s handwriting: Beck…we look forward to seeing you soon. Perhaps encourage Caroline to attend.

I bark out a laugh at the ludicrousness of that statement and tuck the stack of mail under my arm. I guarantee you that Caroline threw the card unopened into the trash the minute she saw the calligraphy and return address. She has no need of our father’s business pull and she sure as shit has no need for her parents. They failed her when she needed them the most and she’ll never forgive that.

Neither will I for that matter, but I’ll probably attend anyway. I’m sure Sela would be happy to go with me, and that will make it at least tolerable.

I unlock the condo door, my blood firing at the prospect of seeing her. It’s like I can feel her presence just on the other side, and my heart races as my body tightens all over. It’s a feeling I won’t ever get used to, and don’t ever want to anyway.

I push the door open, feel the utter silent stillness, and then my eyes immediately come to Sela as I see her sitting in an overstuffed white leather chair near the window. It normally doesn’t belong there but rather flanks one side of the black marble fireplace, and she clearly dragged it over there. Her bare feet are curled up underneath of her, and her head is resting on the back of the chair with her face tilted toward the enormous wall of windows. She’s staring out over the Bay, and in her right hand, she loosely holds a utility knife.

She doesn’t even turn to acknowledge me.

“Hey,” I say as I set the mail down on the table and drop my keys on top of it. As I shut the door, she turns to look at me and her face is a blank canvas. Normally I’m greeted with a soft smile. Often she’ll walk up to me, hips swaying before giving me a sweet kiss on my lower jaw.

Now she just looks at me impassively, not even surprised to see me standing there.

“Hey,” she says, her voice low with a morose tinge.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my eyes dropping to the utility knife.

She looks down at it, her thumb rubbing over the plastic handle. “Nothing,” she says vaguely. “I was getting ready to open up some of my boxes.”

Sela and I went to her apartment on Sunday and she packed up more of her stuff to move in. It was mostly the rest of her clothing, books, and a few framed photos of her family. Three boxes in all and they sat in the corner of the living room untouched.

Something about Sela sitting there, looking sadly out the window with a box cutter in her hand seems terrifying to me. She looks small and alone, and despite the bright light pouring in, seems to be filled with darkness.

I walk over to her, skirting the couch and coffee table. When I reach the chair, I squat down in front of her, placing my hands on her thighs. She stares down at me, her face revealing nothing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

A small smile comes to her face. She reaches her free hand out and touches the tips of her finger to my jaw before they fall away. “Nothing. Just sitting here enjoying the view.”

My head turns to look out at the dark bay waters sparkling with the rays of today’s unusually bright sun. I turn back to her. “You look sad,” I observe.

“Pensive,” she offers instead.

“About what?”

Sela shrugs. “Lots of things.”

“Not helpful,” I say with a small smile, and I’m heartened when she returns it.

“What are you doing home so early?” she asks, not sounding the least surprised and in a suave change of subjects. Or maybe it’s just that her voice sounds dull, matching the gray that seems to be emanating from her.

“Thought I’d come spend time with you,” I tell her, my thumbs stroking her legs through her denim jeans.

And suddenly, a little color comes back into the picture as she gives me a sweet smile, her head tilted to the side. She uncurls her legs, which dislodges my hands. I stand up, and she does the same, stepping into my body. She presses her cheek to my chest and wraps her arms tight around my waist.

“I’m glad,” she whispers.

I squeeze her affectionately, rubbing my hand into her lower back. “What do you want to do?”

She doesn’t hesitate a moment. Pulling back, she drops the utility knife to the hardwood floor where it clatters unceremoniously, and tucks her fingers underneath my belt buckle. Giving me a tug, she turns toward the hallway that leads to our bedroom.

“I want to fuck,” she says simply, and who am I to deny her?

I follow her back.

Chapter 21

Sela

I pull off my shirt the minute I step into our room, dropping it to the floor. Beck walks over to the dresser and takes off his watch, setting it on the polished top. He then pulls his own top off, a light gray cashmere V-neck sweater that hugs him in all the right places.

My stomach tightens marginally as his back is revealed to me and I take in the red phoenix on his shoulder. I know in my heart of hearts that Beck was not there that night. Going by simple math alone, he would have been eighteen and in his last year of prep school. JT is four years older, meaning he would have been twenty-two when he raped me. That alone doesn’t add up.

But more than that, I just know Beck would never have that in him. He would never hurt or violate a woman. He would never participate in a brutal gang rape. His violent reaction to JT that night he tried to drug that woman proves it, and besides…I just know it deep in my soul.

At least that’s what I tell myself every time I see that tattoo.

I normally will drop my gaze away, wait for him to turn that beautiful chest my way before I can look upon him again. The overwhelming sadness I’ve been feeling the last few days seems to compound as I look upon it. He toes his shoes off. Undoes his belt.

I stare at the phoenix, hating that there’s a part of Beck that I hate.

Hating it even more because I hate myself for what I’m doing to him.