A Controlled Descent

Finished this chapter a while back, but I've been too apprehensive to publish until now. After Chapter Seven, I knew what had to come next in order to be true. This is a chapter that centers aftercare and negotiation. If you don't find that sexy (I do) then it won't be for you. No hard feelings if not, but I hope that if you've come this far with Mackenzie that you'll be willing to come a little further.

I want to thank K., N., and P. for their encouragement as well as everyone moved to respond to the earlier chapters either in comments or by email. It's meant a lot to me.

- A.

_______________________________________________________

Jack looks me over, seeing more clearly than the x-ray machine at the airport.

"Have you eaten anything today?" From his tone, he already knows the answer.

"I had some airplane pretzels?"

"So that's a no. Alright, we'll start there," he says, stowing my bag just inside the front door as if he's already planning my departure.

"I'm not really hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry," he says in that Jack tone that brooks no disagreement.

"Yes Jack." I'll eat anything he wants if it means I can stay a little while. Anyway, I'm dead wrong and devour everything he puts in front of me. He also makes me drink two huge glasses of water and shakes out three Tylenol into my palm. It freaks me out that he can tell I have a headache, or maybe he just assumes I do based on the everything about me. Once he has me fed and watered, he steps into the next room to make a call. I catch just enough to remember it's Saturday night and that he looks dressed to go out. He's on the phone cancelling his plans because of me, and now I feel wretched all over again. Probably some beautiful young girl who does exactly what he wants without freaking out in restaurants. When he returns, I apologize and offer to leave.

"I feel better. I think I just needed to eat something. I can go."

Jack looks at the living room, realizing he'd been within earshot. "Do I get a say here?"

"Of course."

"Then you're not going anywhere, not tonight."

All my emotions gather on the mosh pit of my face. "Yes Jack."

He leads me upstairs, collecting my suitcase on the way. We pass the master suite on the way to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. It's really nice, but my heart sinks a little that I won't be sleeping with him. He flips on the lights and shows me where everything is.

"So what now?" I ask, bracing for an onslaught of questions about last night.

"So what now is you take a shower."

"I already showered this morning."

"Well this will be number two then," he says matter-of-factly. "I'll be upstairs when you're done,"

I don't really feel like taking a shower, so I figure I'll just wait a bit, change clothes, and Jack will be none the wiser. To maintain the illusion, I run the water and stand at the vanity staring at myself in the mirror until the glass fogs over. I've always been an insubordinate bitch. My father complains that if he told me to breathe I'd suffocate just to spite him. Is that how it's going to be with Jack? Do as he says when he's watching and as I please when alone. Why even come to him for help if I'm just going to undermine him at the first opportunity? Jack told me to shower, so why not just do it? I saw where defiance got me on Friday. Maybe it's time to give obedience a shot.

Despite my reticence, Jack turns out to be right yet again - a shower is exactly what I need. After its ordeal last night, my body is bone-tired and sore in ways I didn't know possible. The hot water feels wonderful, and I brace my hands against the wall to let the spray pound my shoulders and back. My emotions have been largely bottled up since I woke on the bathroom floor in Boston this morning, but out of nowhere I take a sharp, hitched breath as though surfacing after swimming too far down. A second passes, and then I begin to sob. I know there's no stopping it and don't think I would even if it were possible. Cautiously, I lower myself down to the tiles, hugging my arms around my legs and let nature take its course.

When my tears subside, I shut off the shower and wrap a towel around myself. I take forever moisturizing, combing my hair, and generally taking an inventory of all things Mackenzie. My vagina is battered, and after peeing I'm pretty sure that I have a urinary tract infection. No less than I deserve after fucking five men. UTIs terrify me after one turned into a kidney infection in college, and I have a standing prescription for nitrofurantoin that I sometimes take as a preventative. But it has been so long since I've had sex that I didn't think to take it to Boston. Well, ride the ride, take your chances.

My attention turns to what to wear for Jack. I packed light for the wedding, so my wardrobe options are severely limited. I don't have anything casually cute and feel sure that just panties wouldn't be appreciated at the moment. Eventually, I settle on leggings and an oversized Lana Del Rey Ultraviolence t-shirt. Then I dither around the bedroom instead of going to Jack. It's not that I don't want to talk to him, I do, that's why I'm here. But for the first time all day my mind isn't being bombarded with images of what happened in Boston. I know this respite will be brief. Reality will coming crashing down soon enough, and I just want to enjoy the calm while I have it.

I know that's not up to me though and climb the stairs to the third floor where I find Jack with his feet up on a huge sectional couch, a copy of

the Atlantic

open on his lap. It's very on brand that he reads paper copies of magazines, and I find it endearing. On the coffee table is a huge bowl of popcorn, and the room smells like melted butter. A wall-mounted television is paused on the Miramax logo.

"There you are," he says, putting down his magazine. "How was the shower?"

"It was a good idea," I admit. "I feel much better."

I haven't moved from the doorway, and he pats the couch beside him. "Come sit."

Tentatively, I perch on the edge of the couch arms crossed, shoulders hunched, resigned to answer all of his difficult questions.

Instead, he says, "I know we have a lot to talk about, But I thought maybe that could wait until tomorrow after you've had a chance to rest. How do you feel about just watching a movie tonight. I made popcorn."

The man is a goddamn mind reader, and I could cry...again. "That sounds amazing."

"Good, well come on and get comfortable," he says reaching for the remote.

"Is it okay if I'm touching you?" I desperately want to curl up against him but am worried that's against the rules.

He smiles kindly. "That sounds nice. Why don't you grab that blanket off the chair."

I do, and we get cozy on the couch. I lean happily into Jack feeling like a small woodland animal who just made it back to the warm safety of its burrow. He presses play and puts an arm around me, popcorn bowl balanced in his lap. Against a backdrop of math equations, the names of the stars appear on screen one at a time: Robin Williams, Matt Damon, Ben Affleck. I realize we're about to watch

Good Will Hunting

even though I've never actually seen it. When I confess that to Jack, he hits pause so he can give me a scandalized look.

"How have you never seen

Good Will Hunting

? It's been on cable every day for the last twenty-five years."

"I didn't have a tv growing up," I say defensively.

"Never? Were your parents in a cult?"

"College professors."

"Ah, same thing," Jack says with a wry smile.

"They just didn't believe in television. It was a whole thing with them."

"But you do know what a movie is, right? Moving pictures that tell a story?" He is trying to look very serious but can't hide his amusement.

"I've seen lots of movies," I say, sounding like someone who has definitely done no such thing. "I mean I know what

Good Will Hunting

is about. I just never actually sat down and watched it."

"Well we are remedying that right now," he says hitting play again. "Have some popcorn."

I do just that, and it might ruin me for all other popcorn. Jack made it with a little truffle salt and grated Romano cheese on top. Fuck me, it's delicious. And the movie is good, too. I see why people love it. It's about this sad boy genius who is angry at the world and is squandering his potential by getting in fights all the time. An MIT professor makes him go to a psychiatrist played by Robin Williams who helps him come to terms with his anger. I get teary a bunch of times especially when Robin Williams gives Will this stern lecture on a park bench. Then he does this whole, "it's not your fault" thing near the end that makes me legit cry. I am happy when the movie has a hopeful ending even if a melancholy Elliot Smith song plays over the closing credits as Will drives away to go see about a girl, about letting himself be loved.

"What did you think?" Jack asks as the credits roll.

"Am I supposed to be Will?"

He looks at me appraisingly. "Is that how you see yourself?"

"Minus the genius part," I amend, realizing I've accidentally paid myself a compliment. Can't have that.

"Don't do that, Mackenzie. You're a very smart girl. I wouldn't have been interested in you if you weren't."

I try not to fixate on his use of the past tense. "Really?"

"Really. There's no challenge in dominating stupid."

That makes me smile. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

"And I have no idea if you're Will Hunting, but I like you asking the question."

"Why?" I ask, suddenly wary I've wandered into a trap.

"Because Will figures it out in the end."

"Oh," I say, realizing what he means. If I am Will Hunting, I'm still at the beginning of my movie. It's a depressing thought.

I must be making a long face, because he tells me to knock it off. "You realize that's about the most positive thing you've said about yourself since I've known you?"

"I guess," I say with a mopey shrug.

He rolls his eyes at me. "Alright, I think it's bedtime. Ready?"

I say no while stifling a yawn like a like a little kid who just wants to stay up with the grownups. It makes Jack smile, but he shoos me to my feet anyway. I help clean up, and he turns off the lights behind us. Downstairs at my bedroom door, he wishes me goodnight.

"I really can't sleep with you?" I ask. "I'll be good."

"I know you would but no. You're sleeping here."

"Okay," I say, giving him my biggest, saddest eyes.

"Nice try," he replies. "Now go brush your teeth, and I'll tuck you in."

I haven't been put to bed since I was a kid, and it's nice the way he fusses over me and makes sure I have everything I need.

"I'm sorry I messed up your evening," I say after he finishes arranging the covers around me.

"Don't worry about that, I'm just glad you came."

"Me too," I say through another yawn. It's been a hard twenty-four hours, and I feel it catching up to me now in a rush.

He brushes the hair away from my eyes. "Sleep in tomorrow if you can. You probably need it."

"I will," I say and drift off to Jack gently petting my hair.

◊◊◊

It's the middle of the afternoon when I wake. Because I'm a masochist, I reach for my phone. Aliyah has replied to my text and says she hopes my mom is alright, so I guess she bought my cover story for bailing out early. The only other text from anyone at the wedding is Trey Ward apologizing for "breaking my mom's hip" and wishing her a speedy recovery. Then he has the audacity to remind me that he'll be in DC next month. He's such a monumental prick, and I hate that his presumption makes me a little wet. I compose several crude replies but in the end say nothing.

It does make me wonder though which version of events will take root. History is written by the victors, so it's up to the men who fucked me in that hotel room to decide. Can they keep their mouths shut, or will the need to tell someone win out? I laugh for being naïve enough to even wonder. The only real question is how long will it take to get back to Aliyah? Her newly minted husband will never tell, but eventually someone will whisper the truth in her ear. Some fourth-hand account: the friend of a friend of a friend of one of the guys who gangbanged Mackenzie Teague the night before the wedding while her fiancé stood by and watched. I give it six months tops. Just enough time to move to Argentina and change my name.

A visit to the bathroom is a rude reminder of how bad my UTI is. Cranberry juice ain't fixing this mess. As I grimace my way through peeing, I try not to ponder why it turns me on that none of the men who used me are suffering the same way this morning.

I pad down to the kitchen where Jack is sitting in the sunshine reading the newspaper and listening to music - so old school cool that a girl could get spontaneously pregnant at the mere sight of him. He smiles over his shoulder at me and gestures to the fresh pot of coffee on the counter. Bless you my liege, I think pouring a huge cup. He says to help myself to anything in his enormous refrigerator, so I fix a bowl of fresh berries with yogurt, granola and a little honey. A song comes on I don't recognize. The man sings softly, begging to get what he wants. I stand there leaning against the counter transfixed until the song finishes with a line about it being the first time.

Why is everything in this house carefully curated to punch me in the feels?

There are two stacks of newspapers on the kitchen table - read and unread. I sit across from Jack and help myself to the front page of

the Post

from his read pile. Neither of us has spoken and neither of us does for a long while. It feels so peaceful. A picture book moment from a deeply romantic film. I lean back in my chair, rest my coffee against my chest, and gaze out the window at his garden. It has to end eventually - my story isn't a romance - but I won't be the first to break this elegant silence.

Jack finishes the book section and puts it aside with an air of finality that makes me nervous.

"Do you feel up to talking?" he asks.

"Not really," I admit. "But I know it's time."

"Here, or on the couch in the living room?"

"Here. The sunshine's nice."

That settled, Jack clears the kitchen table and refills his coffee. When he comes back to the table, he has a pen and a leatherbound notebook. He opens it to the first page and writes my name. Why does this suddenly feel like a deposition?

"I don't know where to begin."

"The morning after the steakhouse. Start there," he prompts.

"So the beginning beginning..." I say with a resigned nod, my mind drifting back to that awful morning. Waking up alone in my pee-stained sheets and the enveloping numbness that I thought was the new normal. I tell Jack everything: talking to a psychiatrist about my panic attack at the restaurant; the fear of a repeat episode that kept me largely housebound for two months; my gradual return to going out in public; the wedding invitation arriving in the mail. I tell him about how my sex drive completely evaporated after the panic attack and thinking maybe it was gone forever.

"So not even masturbation?"

"Nothing," I say. "Like it had never even been there at all."

"And how did that feel?"

"It was a relief," I admit.

"Good to have the monkey off your back?"

"Well the monkey is an asshole."

He nods as if that makes perfect sense to him. "But it didn't last."

"To put it mildly," I say and take a shivering breath. "I flew to Boston on Friday for a wedding. Aliyah. A girlfriend from college"

"Tell me what happened."

"Five guys fucked me in their suite," I say, ripping off the band aid.

Jack reacts as though I said I'd spent the evening playing checkers, which is to say not at all. What kind of life must he live to be that blasé about a gangbang? It's nice though knowing that there's likely nothing I can say that he hasn't heard before, so I tell him how Aliyah's fiancé, Nathan Crowder called me a whore. How no one came to my defense and how furious their hypocrisy made me. The way Trey Ward and I goaded each other. How I got down on my knees, taunting Trey to prove he was a man.

"Doesn't sound like a safe situation," Jack observes.

"It wasn't."

"Did they cross the line?"

I think about that and shake my head. "No."

"But part of you wishes they had," he says not as an accusation just a statement of fact. I hadn't even admitted that to myself but know he's right. His perceptiveness intimidates me.

I answer eventually but can't look him in the eye when I do. "Yeah."

"Tell me why."

"So they would feel bad about themselves."

"Misery loves company," Jack says plainly. "But there are easier ways to make people feel bad, Mackenzie."

"I'm not sure I know how to do easy."

A wry smile crosses Jack's face. Tell me something I don't know, it seems to say. "So what happened next."

"Everything?"

"Everything, Mackenzie."

I take a deep breath and does as he asks. It's slow going because much of that night is a blur to me now. My body knows the cumulative effect intimately, but my mind can't or won't remember the who and the what and the how long. Plus it's just not an easy story to tell in the cold light of day, not with Jack taking notes as I tell him one sordid detail after another. There's still no judgment on his face though, and if you were watching us from the backyard, you'd think we were discussing the weather. The only time his expression changes is when I tell him how Nathan threatened to kill me if I came near Aliyah again and something dark passes across Jack's eyes.

"Then I rang your doorbell," I say coming to the end of my tale of woe. "And now we're here."

"And now we're here," he echoes. "Thank you for entrusting me with that. It's quite a story. So how did that take you from wanting nothing to do with me to needing to belong to me?"

It's a really good question. "Yesterday was really hard."

"Harder than the actual event in some ways, I imagine."

"So much harder. Coming home, I had to sit in the airport for hours with nothing to do but live with it. I felt so messed up but just knew that if I could tell you that I wouldn't feel that way quite so much." As I am talking, I realize everything Jack did last night has been by design. Instead of the immediate interrogation I'd expected, he made me something to eat and sent me to take a long shower. We watched a movie, cuddled, and ate popcorn. He tucked me in and let me sleep as late as I needed and when I woke up we had coffee and read paper. He created space for me to decompress and feel human again. I hadn't known that was what I needed, but somehow Jack did. It's like a miracle. "You just make me feel better about being me."

"And that's what you want? To feel better about being you?"

It's such an odd question that at first I think he's being sarcastic. "Doesn't everyone?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

I don't know how to respond to that but think about it a lot in the weeks and months to come.

"I still don't know why I did what I did though. It feels like there's another me in here." I touch the side of my head. "Sometimes she just takes over, and all I can do is watch her wreck everything in her path. I thought maybe my panic attack had killed her, and I would just be numb forever. But obviously that was just wishful thinking. This is what I am, and I don't know how to control it."

"Do you even want to control it?"

That stumps me. "I don't know, but I think that's why I want to belong to you."

"Thank you for being honest," he says, putting down his pen. "How do you feel now?"

"Scared."

"Of?"

"Of you sending me away."

"Why would I do that, Mackenzie?"

"Because I'm more trouble than I'm worth."