Taming Cross

Cross doesn’t speak, and neither do I, and when a nurse comes in the room to check my temperature, she doesn’t ask him to move, so we don’t have to separate.

He’s lying on his left side with his right arm draped gently over me, his face buried in my hair, and it feels perfect, which is how I know I have to tell him now.

My voice trembles. “Cross—” I glance over at him and find his blue eyes rapt. “I need to tell you something else. Remember what I said back at that cottage?”

He nods. His face blurs from my tears, my voice cracks as I whisper, “I had sex with Jesus.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and before he can jump up or say something that hurts too much, I add: “He made me!”

Maybe that’s the worst part—the fact that I’ve been used like that—but I don’t think so. Jesus was a vile person, a violent killer, and regardless of how good he was to me for most of the time I was with him… “He forced me to marry him, and he forced me to have sex.”

I draw my knees up, pushing Cross away a little, and cover my face with my hand as I cry.

“Tell me about it.” Cross is holding onto me, and even though I swore I’d never tell anyone, I open up my mouth and let the words pour out.

“It was after we were…oh God, I can’t even say it. Married. A rumor got started. That he was g*y,” I say tearily. “He was upset and so…he forced me to have sex with him…in front of other people.” There were lots of them: a whole room. “And it wasn’t just once, it was…” I gasp, struggling to get air, and Cross pulls me to his chest, holding onto the back of my head like he’s afraid someone will come take me away. He leans me back against the pillows and presses his finger on the oxygen tubing as he looks into my eyes.

“Damnit, Merri—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I nod, just focus on breathing, and when I get myself together, Cross pulls me tight against him again. “Merri,” he whispers into my hair, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I don’t know,” I sob. “I guess I was…ashamed!”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He pulls away from me and looks into my eyes; his blue ones look like steel. “Nothing, Merri. You were a f**king— fracking victim. Nothing else.”

“But I’m ashamed of that!”

“What could you have done?” he asks me. “Were you bigger than Jesus? Could you have fought him?”

I shake my head; the tears are still pouring. “Things like this don’t happen to good people who live the life they should.”

He strokes my forehead, gently pushing my hair back. “If they happened to you, baby, then they definitely do.”

I avert my eyes to the blanket and voice one of my deepest, most difficult feelings about what happened. “I feel like it only happened for one night, and other men and women—other sex slaves—have it so much worse. How can I complain?”

He grips my shoulder. “Because what happened to you was horrible. That’s why.” He sighs, and I notice that his eyes are wet. “I hope when we get out of here you’ll go talk to a shrink.”

For some reason, the statement makes me laugh. “I’m not going by myself.”

He threads his fingers through mine. “Then I’ll go with you.”

I rake my gaze down his body, looking for a sign that he’s upset; disgusted. Searching myself for a feeling of regret. I’ve carried this secret for almost ten months, and every day, it’s strangled me. I’m shocked to find that now, I just feel warm.

“Are you sure you’re not…upset,” I whisper.

His dark brows arch. “About what you told me?”

Tears wet my eyes again; I nod, struggling to keep my gaze on him.

“Hell yes, I’m upset.” He takes my hand in his and looks into my eyes. “Merri, I’m upset for you.”

Tears drip down my face again, but I don’t bother trying to stop them this time. They feel good almost. And even though I’m still scared about what Cross might really think, I’m glad I told him. As if to demonstrate that I’m wrong—that he really doesn’t think I’m damaged or disgusting—he pulls me to his chest and lets me cry.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell me not to.

I’m not sure how long I go, but I know when I’m finished, I feel lighter. Tons lighter. With a shaky hand, I shift my body on the mattress, angling myself so I’m looking right at him. I look him over, from his handsome face down to the splint on his right ankle. I didn’t even notice that before.

“Are you okay?” I squeeze his fingers. “You hurt your foot?”

He nods. “It’s just a minor fracture.”

“What about your lungs and stuff?”

“Got a little fracked, but I’ve been discharged. I was better off than you…” He sounds hoarse. “I didn’t get there as fast as I wanted to.”

And I’m surprised—no, shocked—to see his eyes glitter with tears.

Reaching up with our joined hands, I stroke his neck. “You got there soon enough—on both counts.” And I can see in his sad eyes that he knows what I’m saying: I’m talking about Mexico, too. I pull him close to me. “You got there just in time. I promise.”

I’m surprised to find it doesn’t feel like I’m telling a lie. Tonight, at least, with Cross right here beside me, I feel like I’ll be okay.

I nuzzle his cheek and bring him down beside me on the bed. So I can kiss his hair and catch up on loving him.

EPILOGUE

We spend the night wrapped in each other. When the nurses come to check my temperature and blood pressure, they work around Cross. I like to think that they can tell how much we need this. When the sun comes up, shining brilliant pink on the windows of some of the buildings around ours, I’m lying between Cross’s legs, my back against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around my waist. His left hand rests under my casted one. He can’t hold it, of course, and I can barely move my fingers without pain, but I like our hands beside each other.

Yeah. It’s that kind of thing. Like a high school crush. But so much better.

We spend the morning just talking. We turn around so we’re facing each other, and in a low voice, so no monitors or cameras can hear me, I tell him more than I ever thought I would tell anyone about my time in Mexico. I cry sometimes, but Cross is always there with me, so it’s not half as hard as I’d imagined it would be.