—unless you let it.

Otherwise, you’ll never forget it.

Did it mean anything?

Caitlin wasn’t sure, but her dad never failed to drop his duct tape mid-project to run to the hardware store for the right part, even when short on money or time.

She could go back to LA in the morning, but it didn’t mean she should, and if she didn’t stay in Bloomington now, she never would. But she’d definitely never forget it.

Caitlin tipped back her last bit of wine. “Okay, Mary, I’ll stay. Now less talk, more drinking.”

*   *   *

They passed out next to each other and slept until checkout. No makeup, suitcase in tow, Caitlin followed Mary three blocks south of campus to a yellow and white cottage on Park Street. Rough concrete steps led from the sidewalk to a wide front porch shaded by a giant oak tree, probably older than the seventy-year-old house.

“Well, shit,” she said. “This is perfect.”

After Mary left, Caitlin ordered Thai. When the last spring roll was gone, she powered up her laptop, opened her writing app, and began typing.

Total word count after ten minutes: 752.

Telling the story of her rape proved harder than she’d imagined. Every time she started, the images came. Troy Woods, the rough pieces of discarded limestone, the dried blood on her thighs.

She tried a new sentence, found her hands shaking. She knew the caffeine in Thai iced tea could launch her heart rate into the stratosphere, but why the flop sweat? And the pressure against her chest? She pushed back from the table. Like the sweat and chest pressure, she recognized the overwhelming sound of blood rushing to her ears as one more symptom of a panic attack, and she wasn’t going to have one.

She dropped onto the couch, gasping for air. Still too much pressure. She rolled off, crawled past the coffee table, felt the cool planks of polished hardwood.

She sat back over her heels, closed her eyes, breathed in through her nose. She held the breath, then exhaled as slowly as possible, despite the rough pulses that came with uncontrollable shudders.

Again.

She rested her arms at her sides, inhaled, held a five count.

Again.

She’d yoga this away, drink this away. If necessary, get a hold of Scott Canton and smoke this away.

Again.

She finished an exhale, breathed normally, opened her eyes. Her pulse no longer banged in her temples.

“There’s a reason people go to therapists,” she said aloud. She laughed, answered herself in a parrot voice. “Bawwwwwk. Yeah, cause they talk to themselves.”

The advice she’d given to others, requested or not, seemed so obvious: If you’re smart enough to think the word “denial,” you’re smart enough to get help.

She shut her laptop, grabbed her cell phone, and scrolled through her unread emails, happy for the distraction. Most could wait, but one stuck out. The sender: Lakshmi Anjale.

Caitlin: