As we were making our way to the car, I began to wonder what motivation Patrick had for going out of his way to take me home. I mean, yeah, he was a nice guy and I considered him a friend. But it wasn’t that long of a walk, and he never offered before. I let him help me into his Honda, which was small, yet new and clean, considering he was a college student, and I pondered whether he felt this little act of chivalry would score him brownie points with me. Oh hell. What if he thought this meant something more than it did?

Patrick said he didn’t need directions to my dorm, which didn’t arouse any cause for concern. But when he started taking a detour, I knew something was up.

“Where are we going?” I asked when he missed the turn that led us straight to the other side of campus.

“Shortcut,” he said. But it was all wrong. His voice was all wrong. His face was all wrong. And he wouldn’t look at me.

Looking back, I knew I should have never gotten in that car. And when he turned onto a tiny dirt road, miles away from campus, I should have taken the opportunity to jump out of the car, moving or not.

You hear about rape. You read about it. You see it in movies and on TV. But you never truly know the brutality of it until it happens to you. You may tell yourself that you would never be stupid enough to be put in that situation. You may vow to kick and scream and fight within an inch of your life. But even if you take kickboxing three times a week and drink nasty ass wheatgrass shots, nothing will make you strong enough to fight off an attacker who’s sick enough to violate you.

I bled from almost every orifice for nearly a week. I had hypothermia from being dumped outside in the cold afterward, my nearly lifeless body too weak to even move for several hours. Some hikers found me trying to crawl to the priority road the next morning. I was told they saved my life, immediately wrapping me in their own coats and calling for help. According to the doctors, I probably would have only survived another couple hours in my condition.

The rape kit showed that I suffered severe vaginal and anal tearing, as well as three broken ribs, a fractured femur, a shattered cheekbone, broken nose, broken wrist, and wounds that required more stitches than I could count. Patrick had hoped he killed me or beat me badly enough that I wouldn’t survive long enough to tell. Wrong, motherfucker. I told the police everything, from the make and model of his car, to his class schedule. The cocky bastard didn’t even bother threatening me. He knew for sure he’d shut me up for good.

Patrick Keller was found guilty of first-degree sexual assault and received the maximum sentence in prison. I didn’t expect him to make it that long, and vehemently prayed for some gang member to make him his bitch.

Regardless of the scars I bore from the attack, I busted my ass to finish out my sophomore year through online correspondence. My instructors gave me extra time to finish assignments and some even visited me at my parents’ home while I healed. I had a long road ahead of me, but luckily, the reconstructive surgeries to fix my mess of a face and body were all sponsored by a foundation for rape victims. I was grateful; my parents could hardly afford my medical bills, even with insurance. I couldn’t even leave the house, let alone get a job to help out.

By the fall, I had earned a scholarship at a school in New York and was looking forward to a fresh start. People thought I was crazy; no one bounced back from such a violent attack like that. No. They were left riddled with fear and hatred. They dropped out of school and shut out the world. They cried for hours, wondering what they had done to deserve such brutality.

I did none of those things. I had accepted what happened to me, and I chose to be better for it. Patrick may have broken my body, but he couldn’t break my spirit. He couldn’t. It didn’t belong to him. And to prove that, I was more determined than ever to grow stronger—mentally and physically. After moving to New York—something I was deemed certifiable for—I buried myself in schoolwork. I didn’t make friends. I didn’t need them. However, my roommate, Keyanna, had worn me down, and I had to admit—I kinda liked having a girlfriend.

Keyanna, or Key, was completely different from me in every way. Where I was tall, thin, pale, and blonde, she was short, curvy, mocha-skinned, and wore her dark, curly mane au natural. But that’s where the differences stopped. Key became my best friend. My sista from anotha mista, as she would say. And I grew to love her.

One night, after one too many shots of Fireball while watching old reruns of Fresh Prince, she asked me about my life back in Indiana. I frowned, not knowing what she meant by that. She had met my parents and siblings during a rare visit. I told her about my pathetic love life. Hell, she’d even seen baby pictures when I was once a cute, chubby kid. I couldn’t say I understood where she was coming from.

“What did you leave behind?” she asked me. “Or better yet, what were you running away from?”

And right there, in her twin-size bed, I sobbed as I regurgitated memories of the most horrific night of my life. She held me and smoothed my thin blonde hair over my head. She didn’t ask questions or interrupt me. If it weren’t for the trickles of moisture that had wet my scalp, I would have thought that awful story hadn’t affected her at all.

When I was all cried out and exhausted, she looked at me and smiled, but not out of happiness. It was the kind of smile someone gives you when they try to break some really bad news to you.

“You need to talk to someone,” she said.

“I just talked to you.”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. Pretty ringlets whipped at her damp cheeks. “You need to talk to someone that can help you through this. To help you make peace with what’s been done to you.”

I frowned. “I have made peace with it.”

She shook her head again. “No. You haven’t, Heidi. You keep people at arm’s length. You never go out. All you do is study. Outside of me, you have no connection to the outside world.” She grasped my shoulders, aligning her teary gaze with mine. “That fucker took something from you. I get that. But he didn’t take everything. Not the very best parts. Don’t let him have anything else.”

Those words did something to me. They woke me up. They made me see that I had let Patrick win. I thought picking up where I left off proved that he hadn’t completely ripped me to shreds, but in fact, I was letting this bastard dictate every freakin’ day of my life. I didn’t date; hell, I didn’t even look at guys. I stayed away from parties and social events. And I rarely went out after dark. He was winning. And I had let him.

That week, Key talked me into seeing someone at our campus crisis center. They had shrinks come in on three month rotations—part of a local hospital’s program for unlicensed doctors to gain more field experience. I figured, what the hell . . . what could it hurt? I wasn’t tied to the program. There wouldn’t be any note of this in my school records. And after three months, that doctor would be gone and someone new would come in. And honestly, I wanted to do this for Key. I couldn’t stand her worrying about me. She was my only friend, and I didn’t need her looking at me like I would wither away and die at any minute.

That’s how I met Dr. Tucker DuCane. Young, ambitious, smart. He really is a good doctor. But more than that, I can tell he’s a good man.

The first thing I noticed about him was his lips. They were the fullest lips I had ever seen on a Caucasian man. He later told me that he’s from Louisiana and his great grandmother was Creole. Explains that sexy, southern twang. Every word he spoke sounded like jazz.

After I got over the shock of those enviable lips, not to mention those gorgeous, blue eyes that shone with wisdom and sincerity, I realized something. I was attracted to him. Huh. Go figure.