The Date Before She Was Sexually Assaulted. Then She Dated Me.
By: Greyson Ferguson
Tags: Dating, Life, Sex, Sexual Assault, Love

The Date Before She Was Sexually Assaulted. Then She Dated Me.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

A block away from home, I saw her red Jeep pull into my drive. Only her golden locks caught more light from the street lamp than the SUV’s reflective metal.

Not sure if she ran ahead of schedule or I ran behind, I tugged at the dog’s leash, doing my best to speed up our walk. The winter ice made it difficult.

My leg vibrated. A call from the girl I’d met on a dating app only earlier in the day. She cut through much of the formality. She wanted to hang out, and she wanted to hang out at my house.

Gloved hands prevented me from answering the phone. I waved, but even if she looked in my direction she likely wouldn’t have seen me. The black of a Michigan January night swallowed me away from view. There were no street lamps to highlight my hair.

Less than a block away I called out, pulling her own attention away from the Jeep she began retreating to. Thankfully, the dog broke the awkwardness before it had a chance to frost our introductions. Dogs are good at that.

I led her inside, my dog now more attentive to her than to me. I took the dog’s collar, my date’s coat, and asked if she’s like a drink. The dog wanted water. She wanted tequila.

As my dog lapped greedily at her bowl I mixed the tequila drink. It all felt too easy. It all felt too odd. A pretty blonde, sitting on my sofa. Why should I question it? Because, deep down, it felt off. Eventually, I’d discover what.

I offered my date her mixed drink. I sat with my neat scotch. In the years since college, I’d moved past sugar. Sugar didn’t play nice with my brain. It didn’t play nice with the day after either. Still in college, she hadn’t come to the same conclusion yet.

It didn’t take long for introductory drinks to transition into bedroom antics. The dog slid under the bed, her favorite sleeping spot, joined with whatever denim and cotton and lace we flung aside.

But then it happened.

My body on top of hers, shroud in a room as dark as the world outside, I stopped, ears searching for a sound I did not know for sure I’d heard.

It happened again.

A sniffle.

“Are you okay?” I asked. A knife of a question, it cut away whatever protection she’d put up, and the tears flowed.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated several times, hands wiping at tears. An apology more of fear than anything else. Fear of judgment. Fear of rebuke. “Keep going.”

I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. But not of rebuke or fear. Of concern. I slid to her side, yet my arm remained around her chest. “It’s okay. You can talk to me.”

The tears came heavier. A sob. A snorting back of a runny nose. More apologies. “You’ll think I’m stupid,” she finally said.

I said what I could to assure her I wouldn’t. I’d just met this woman, but it didn’t take knowing her to understand a pain shredded inside of her. “You can talk to me.”

Between sniffs and sobs, she let out, “last week I was sexually assaulted.”

She pushed her head into my shoulder, yet despite this, my chest went cold. My hands went numb. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? Whatever had happened left this woman cracked and broken. So I did the only thing I could think of. I held her.

I think I told her I’m sorry. I’m sure I did, but I knew whatever apologies I gave for the actions of another wouldn’t take away her pain. So I just held her. Held her until the sobs softened and the sniffles stopped. Held her until she fell asleep. I remained awake, thinking of something I should do. But nothing had prepared me for that moment. Maybe holding her was the only thing I could do.

The next morning she once again tried to apologize. I wouldn’t have it. So instead, she hugged me. It was a long hug. The kind received from the departure or arrival of a close friend.

After she left I had time to reflect. I wondered if I should have done something differently. I wondered why she seemed so eager to come over, and yet so terrified at the same time.

We continued to talk after that night. We continued to hang out. I asked her as such. She said she didn’t fully understand why either. But that, at least part of her, hoped having an encounter she initiated would help right her mental ship. Would help put things behind her. To erase what had happened before. It didn’t. At least not like that. She did say she messaged me on the dating app because I looked like someone who she’d be comfortable with. Who would accept her if she had to put to words what had taken place the week prior? That part, at the very least, proved accurate.

I still wished I could have done more. To this day I’m not sure what I could have done. I couldn’t imagine the mindset of trying to cope. Perhaps just holding her wasn’t enough. Or maybe, at that moment and at that time, it was the only thing she needed.