Part 8 (1/2)

THIRTEEN

I was in an ER examination room, waiting for them to take a look at my x-rays. The doctor was pretty sure I had broken at least one rib, but wanted to take a look and see how bad the damage was.

Max went to get an update on Krystal and came back about fifteen minutes later with the news that other than the contusion on her cheek, she was going to be fine. At least as far as injuries went. She would be released that night, and Max had promised the doctor she was going straight to a rehab center in Beverly Hills. He said the doctor knew right away that she had a problem. She'd been exhibiting early symptoms of withdrawal.

The next thing to worry about: my parents. Call them right away? Wait until morning?

Max said to wait until the morning. ”They'll be leaving tomorrow. Let them sleep.”

”They'll be p.i.s.sed.”

”Do you think they'll want to stay longer now?”

I sighed. ”I don't know. I don't want them to have to do that. Oh, G.o.d. We had a fight last night.” I told him all about it.

When I was finished filling him in he said, ”Call them.”

He was right. It was the right thing to do.

He handed me my phone and I called Grace.

”Oh my G.o.d!” she yelled, when I told her where I was and why.

”Grace. Calm down. I'm going to be fine. I just need you to go wake Mom and Dad. You guys can come down here.”

”Okay. Okay.” She was almost breathless.

”Grace?”

”Yeah?”

”I'm going to be fine. Make sure you tell them that.”

Sometimes I had to be the more controlled, mature one between us.

While we waited for them to arrive, I gave a statement to the police. I was nervous at first, but the pain killers were really starting to kick in. Plus, the officer who interviewed me looked really sympathetic to what had happened to me.

”Was there any s.e.xual contact with the a.s.sailant?” the officer asked.

Max looked at me and lowered his head, looking at the floor. He hadn't asked me that, and I guess he was feeling some guilt over it. I reached out and grabbed his wrist.

”No.”

Max let out a heavy sigh and squeezed my hand back.

”I think we have all we need for now,” the cop said. ”Do you have any questions for me?”

Max blurted: ”Where is he?”

”Being fixed up as best they can here. Then he's off to jail. There'll be an arraignment Monday morning, most likely.”

I said, ”Do I have to be there?”

”No, ma'am.”

I thought for a moment. ”What's going to happen to him?”

”Well,” the officer said, putting his pen back in his s.h.i.+rt pocket, ”the a.s.sault on you will carry a good bit of time. But the major thing is the kidnapping.”

”Kidnapping?”

”Yes, ma'am. When he took your roommate-what's her name... Ms. Sherman?”

I nodded.

”That was kidnapping,” the officer said. ”And that carries hefty time. It'll be years before he sees the outside of a prison again.”

”Good,” Max said.

And then an awkward moment happened. The cop recognized Max and gushed over his movies. Max was gracious about it, and the cop didn't go on too long, or ask for an autograph or anything else. He just shook Max's hand and said, ”If there's anything you or your girlfriend need, give me a call.” He gave Max his card, Max thanked him, and the cop was gone.

It was a disaster when my parents got there. In their minds, their worst nightmare had come true and their suspicions and fears about LA were confirmed.

My mom ran over to try to hug me, but I had to fend her off because it would have hurt. Dad kissed my forehead. Grace cried and hugged my legs.

”Tell me what happened,” Dad said.

I recounted the whole story for them, and they stood there in shock. Chris? The guy they thought would be and should be should be my future husband did this? my future husband did this?

Why, yes. Yes, he did.

”It's my fault,” Grace kept saying.

The whole sordid story came out. And I told my parents everything.

I also told them about Max, who had offered to leave the room for a little while so I could see my family without having to explain who he was right away. He said he'd be down in the hospital cafeteria and for me to text him when I wanted him to come back.

”Olivia,” Mom said, ”why haven't you been truthful with us?”

I rolled my eyes. ”You know why. Ninety percent of our conversations are about how I've made the wrong decision. About my major in college, about moving to LA, everything.”