The Other Girl
Escaping from him and who I once was
Article by Katie Rowley, art by Emmaline Hawley
Content Warning: Assault, violence
The steam on the window dissipates enough to reveal him leaning against the passenger side door. I pull on my shirt and crawl out of his backseat; it’s awkward. My hand grips the warm metal door handle. The warmth reminds me of being a little kid, sitting in the backseat and being so close to home that I’d impatiently grip the door handle, waiting for the right moment to yank it, jump out of the car and rush into my house. I’d clench the handle for so long that my body would heat up.This is not the case now; I have not been grabbing this handle for long enough. I am not one of the girls who has held onto this exact handle, praying that they could pull open the door and escape from him. I am not one of them. I pull the door open and swing my body toward the open air. I step out of his car, feeling fresh air and a light breeze of relief. His car was so hot. I wish it was windy. Windy enough to drown out his voice. I used to long to hear his voice. I tried so hard to capture it in the fleeting memories of two word conversations I had with him. I longed for conversations with him, to hear him compliment me, or talk about things he loved. Now, I long for the wind to pick up. I’m tired of his compliments and his senseless droning on. I want to drown out his voice.
He offers to take me back to my car. I answer silently, opening his passenger door and sliding into the seat, trying not to wince. The seat burns the underside of my thighs. I reach for the seatbelt and turn to face him. I expect him to be staring at me, but he’s not. His head is down, and I follow his glance to his phone screen, where he’s in the middle of returning a text. I don’t look long enough to read the name, nor do I want to. I already know who it’s from. Her. His girlfriend. I know that I have just done a horrible thing. He sends the text and I follow his hands with my eyes. He sets his phone into the mount attached to his air vent. He looks at me and we make eye contact- His eyes are a burnt sienna. I am sure that when the sun shines on him just right, his eyes turn to honey filled with microcosms of details. I want to see his eyes in the sun. They look nice and soft and understanding. I can’t imagine these eyes belonging to the same boy who ignored the word “no” when it was being screamed at him by my best friend in the back of the Papa John’s where he worked. But one thing I’ve learned this year is that boys are good at keeping girls’ eyes shut.
He breaks eye contact and pushes the key into the ignition. He places his hand on my left thigh, squeezes, and then quickly removes it. The pressure from his hand feels safe at first; it keeps me in the seat, protecting me from any sudden movements. It’s quick absence reminds me that he is not here to protect me. He grabs the clutch and thrusts the car into reverse. He’s careful, I don’t feel like I’m being jammed into the seat as he backs up. I don’t feel inertia working as he shifts back into drive. I’m comfortable for a minute. I could get used to this, I think to myself. I like being driven around by him. He navigates out of the parking lot and his hand is back on my thigh. Its presence reminds me of all the things he’s done with that hand. All the girls he’s controlled and hurt. This is the hand he will hold her hand with. She won’t even suspect that it has been on my thigh.
His car is so hot. His hand is still on me. We’ve been sitting in awkward silence for minutes. He keeps trying to make conversation, this time it’s about the song that’s playing. I don’t want to answer him; I want to get back to my car and never speak to him again. He keeps glancing over at me. I keep looking at anything but him. His car is relatively clean. He has two or three kendamas on the passenger side floor, they are tucked neatly in the top left corner. I hadn’t noticed them earlier. He’s so good at packing up his things and hiding them away. There’s no dirt in the floor mats or piled up gas station receipts. I wonder if maybe he cleaned his car for me. But I know that I am not that important to him.
He breaks the silence again, this time asking me if I want to hang out again. I force out a laugh and reply with the answer that he wants to hear. I’m not sure why I responded, but now that I’ve answered one of his questions, he won’t stop asking them. He asks if I had a good time. I think about all the other girls he’s asked that same question to. I respond with a yes and look down at his hand, still on my thigh. I haven’t tanned a lot this summer, but his hand is still a stark contrast against my skin. He is so pale. His fingernails are clean and cut short. His entire hand looks clean and soft. It spans the entire width of my lower thigh, his fingers spread apart over my skin. It exerts power over me. It is trapping me in his seat. I am unable to move. Unable to wiggle my leg out from under him.
I look up, breaking the spell. His hand isn’t trapping me, I could jump out of this car if I pleased, if I was in danger, but I’m not. I look at him for the first time this car ride. His left hand is gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles are turning white. All of his strength is going to this hand, trying to keep the car straight while the other one rests on me. His fingers are long and skinny and I can imagine my own fingers intertwining with them. His sweatshirt is pushed up his arm. His arm is also pale, veins visible. I could reach out and pinch one, cutting off the blood supply. He notices my gaze and turns his head to look at me. His features aren’t very distinct if you aren’t staring at him hard. I am though. He has clear skin. His lips are usually thin but right now they are swollen. A fleshy pink that stands out against his skin. Something about his face looks young and boyish, like he couldn’t have done anything wrong. He reminds me of innocence but nothing about him, or what he has done, or what we have done is innocent. He laughs. It’s quiet and I know he isn’t laughing at me. His words break through his laugh. He wants to know what I’m thinking about. I answer with a shrug and a few mumbled words that add up to, “I don’t really know.” He laughs again then turns his head back to the road.
We are stopped at a light. Silence fills the car. I consider making conversation with him, but I don’t want to open up to him or give him a reason to actually like me. I don’t want him to know me. I am also aware that he is going to find some way to fill the silence, whether it’s turning up the music or asking another one of his questions. I’m right; he goes for the latter. He wants to know that I won’t tell anyone about us. My stomach drops when he says that word. I wish “us” was never a thing. I reassure him, letting him know I’ll never speak about this or him or us. He lets out a sigh of relief and squeezes my thigh once again, reminding “us” that he is still in control.
He finally turns onto the street of the Thai place where we met earlier for lunch. I try to mask my relief; I know that I am close to freedom. He pulls into the parking lot and stops his car right by mine. I am ready to jump out of the car and leave him behind, but I hesitate. My hand slowly creeps toward the door handle, preemptively gripping it like I am a child again, waiting to run into safety. We sit in silence. I am ready to pull open the door when he starts to laugh, like earlier, it is soft and quiet. I start to laugh along with him. I wonder if he is as uncomfortable as I am. I shift my body toward the door, preparing to step out, but I still can’t leave. I don’t know if it is due to the lack of a proper goodbye or not wanting to let go.
A year ago, I would have died to be in this car with this boy. I would fall asleep at night imagining he was with me, imagining he knew who I was. A year ago, I would not have felt guilty. I would have felt overjoyed at the fact that he wanted to talk to me. All the things he has done and the fact that he has a girlfriend would not have been a problem. A year ago, I would not have gotten out of the car. I would not have let him go.
Really, I do not want to let go of this girl. This girl who believed in unconditional love. This girl who could never imagine getting hurt by people who say “I love you.” This girl who was innocent. I don’t want her to drive away in this car with this boy. I want to grab her hand and pull her out. I want to still be her. But she is intertwined with him. The boy she thought she could change. The boy who she thought would be different with her. The boy who will hurt her.
I shift back toward him. I will not let him hurt me. He leans in to say goodbye. One last time, I lean in too. Saying goodbye to him and the me that is so connected with him, or the idea of him.
I pull open the door handle, step out of his car, and watch the two of them drive away.