“Bianca!” Dad yelled behind us. “You better not get in that damn car! You better not leave this house! You hear me, you little whore!”
The ride to Wesley’s house passed in silence. Several times I saw him open his mouth like he wanted to speak, but he always shut it again. I was in too much shock to say anything. My head didn’t hurt that much. I just couldn’t wrap my head around what Dad had done. But worse was the embarrassment. Why? Why did Wesley have to see that? What did he think of me now? What did he think of Dad?
“That’s never happened before,” I said, breaking the silence when we pulled into the driveway of the almost-mansion. Wesley cut the engine and looked over at me. “Dad’s never hit me… or even yelled at me like that before.”
“All right.”
“I just want you to know that wasn’t normal for us,” I explained. “I don’t live in an abusive house or anything. I don’t want you to think my dad is some kind of psychopath.”
“I was under the impression that you didn’t care what people thought,” he said.
“About me. I don’t care what they think about me.” I didn’t know that was a lie until the words had left my mouth. “But my family and friends are different… My dad isn’t a psychopath. He’s just having a rough time right now.” I could feel the lump rising in my throat, and I tried to gulp it down. I needed to explain. He needed to know. “My mom just filed for a divorce, and… and he just can’t handle it.”
The lump wasn’t going away. It just kept growing. All of my worries and fears had been leading up to this moment, and I couldn’t fight them back anymore. I couldn’t keep them bottled up. Tears started gushing down my cheeks, and before I knew it I was sobbing.
How had this happened? It felt like a bad dream. My father was the sweetest, nicest man I knew. He was naive and fragile. This wasn’t him. Even though I’d heard his reasons for sobriety before-even though I knew, in the back of my head, that his drinking was dangerous-it still didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem possible.
I felt like my world was finally spinning out of control. And this time, I couldn’t deny it. I couldn’t ignore it. And I definitely couldn’t escape it.
Wesley didn’t say anything. He just sat with me in silence. I didn’t even realize he was holding my hand until after the tears had stopped. Once I’d caught my breath and wiped away the few salty drops from my eyes, he opened his door and walked around to open mine. He helped me out of the car-not that I needed it, but it was still nice-and led me up to the porch with his arm tight around me, like the way he’d guided me out of my house, keeping me close. As if he was afraid I might slip away in the darkness between his car and the front door.
Once we were inside, Wesley offered me a drink. I shook my head, and we went upstairs like we always did. I sat on the bed, and he sat down next to me. He wasn’t looking at me, but he seemed to be deep in thought. I couldn’t help wondering what horrible things were on his mind. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.
“Are you all right?” he asked, turning to face me finally. “Do you need an ice pack or anything?”
“No,” I said. My throat was sore from crying, and my words came out kind of croaky. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
He reached over and brushed the hair away from my face, his fingers barely grazing my temple. “Well,” he said quietly. “At least now I know.”
“Know what?”
“What you’re trying to escape from.”
I didn’t respond.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your father has a drinking problem?” he asked.
“Because it’s not my place to tell,” I said. “And it’ll pass. He’s just going through a hard time right now. He hasn’t had a drink in eighteen years. Just since the divorce papers came in… He’ll get better.”
“You should talk to him. When he’s sober, you should tell him that it’s getting out of hand.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “And make him think I’m against him, too? When my mom has just handed him the divorce papers?”
“You’re not against him, Bianca.”
“Tell me, Wesley, why don’t you talk to your parents?” I asked. He was being a hell of a hypocrite, wasn’t he? “Why don’t you tell them that you’re lonely? That you want them to come home? It’s because you don’t want to upset them, right? You don’t want them to blame you for their misery? If I tell Dad he has a problem, he’ll think I hate him. How can I hurt him more? He just lost everything.”
Wesley shook his head. “Not everything. He didn’t lose you,” he said. “At least not yet. If you don’t talk to him, he’ll just end up driving you away, and then he will be in far worse pain.”
“Maybe.”
Wesley’s fingers continued to rub soothingly against my temple. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Not at all.” Actually, the way he was massaging my skull felt pretty good. I sighed and leaned into his hand. “The things he said hurt way more,” I murmured.
I bit my lower lip. “You know,” I said to Wesley, “I’ve never been called a whore in my life, and today two different people have implied that I am. What’s funny is, I’m pretty sure they’re right.”
“That’s not funny,” Wesley muttered. “You’re not a whore, Bianca.”
“Then, what am I?” I demanded, feeling suddenly angry. I pushed his hand away from my head and stood up. “What am I? I’m screwing a guy who isn’t my boyfriend and lying about it to my friends… if they’re even my friends anymore. I don’t even think about it now, whether this is right or wrong! I’m a whore. Your grandma and my dad both think so, and they’re right.”
Wesley stood up, his face hard and serious. He grabbed me by the shoulders and held me firmly, forcing me to look up at him. “Listen to me,” he said. “You are not a whore. Are you listening, Bianca? What you are is an intelligent, sassy, sarcastic, cynical, neurotic, loyal, compassionate girl. That’s what you are, okay? You’re not a slut or a whore or anything remotely similar. Just because you have some secrets and some screwups… You’re just confused… like the rest of us.”