Free Privacy Code (Shatterproof) by Jordan Burke Page A

entire week went by with no contact from Watts. I was beginning to resent him for it, but every time that feeling started to creep into my mind I pulled myself back. I had to remember that this is what he had promised.
    One meeting. No seconds. Possibly cutting off all communications.
    I had feared those things and now I was living them.
    Every day I woke up thinking about him, and all day every day I could feel his hands and mouth on me. He hadn’t left any bruises or scratches or anything like that, but he might as well have. It was as though the nerve endings in my skin were still responding to his touch and it wasn’t diminishing as each day passed.
    I went about my routine as best I could. I had no choice. To let thoughts, regrets, and longing for his return linger in my mind would only mean more damage to the life I had worked so hard to build.
    Watts had been a regular part of my life for six months. Now there was an enormous void there. Like a canyon. I just had to stop myself from standing on the edge of that canyon, shouting his name, and only getting unanswered echoes of my own voice in return.
    I’d been to that empty place so many times as a child and throughout my teen years. I had talked about abandonment too many times with therapists, exploring my feelings, identifying triggers, learning to cope…
    Cope . Right.
    I’ll admit it—I was rude to most of them. I was a bitch, actually. I made no effort to hide my disdain for the whole process of sitting in a quiet room and telling all my problems to a perfect stranger who, for some reason, felt the need to display their four or five diplomas on the wall.
    I didn’t buy into the idea when I was nine or ten. I didn’t buy into it when I was in my early teens. And by the time I was eighteen, there was nothing anyone could have said to me that would have convinced me that these people held the key to my happiness. They hadn’t lived my life.
    Like I said, at the time I was a total bitch to them.
    I was also old enough by then to know that I didn’t have to accept being abandoned. Yes, it was a fact of my life. But, emotionally, did I have to accept it? Hell no, I didn’t.
    I had just entered legal adulthood when I had the epiphany. I knew if I was going to forge a path in life, I would have to do it myself.
    I could choose to live differently.
    That’s when I decided that I would be my own person. Define my own rules. Let in who I wanted to let in, and lock out those who I didn’t want anywhere near me. No social worker, judge, or anyone else had the power to tell me how to live.
    I did. Just me. No one else.
    And I gradually, over the course of maybe two or three years, learned that being a bitter, angry bitch to everyone got me exactly nowhere, and earned me exactly zero respect.
    So I shaped up my attitude and started the life I wanted, the life I felt I deserved, and the life I knew I could give myself.
     
    . . . . .
     
    While I was away from Watts, Tara helped fill the void in terms of time, but no one would fill it in terms of space.
    Well, except for Winnie, who I managed to visit two evenings in a row. When I got there the second night, the manager of the shelter, Meg, said she was surprised to see me again and asked if I was back to see Winnie.
    “The one and only,” I said.
    Meg took off her reading glasses. “Why don’t you think about adopting her?”
    The subject had never come up before. As far as Meg was concerned, I was just a volunteer and she probably thought if I had any interest in adoption, I would have brought it up myself.
    “I wish I could,” I said, “but I live in a small apartment. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”
    Meg nodded and said, “If only everyone put the animals first.”
    I agreed and went to get Winnie.
     
    . . . . .
     
    Tara and I had lunch together twice during the week. I took her to my usual spot on the Mall, where she seemed to enjoy the scenery. She said she had always eaten in the basement break room,