The Meaning of Okay

By Cortney Raymond

Kennedy Ellis puts up a good front, but she's definitely not okay. Years after suffering sexual assault, Kennedy's trauma still manifests itself in relentless nightmares and dizzying anguish. She deals with it all by furiously burying her secrets and shame and avoiding intimacy of any kind.
Rhys Curran moved to Texas to refocus on his career and start a new life not soured by his past. Soon after he meets Kennedy, his open mind and big heart unravel her ability to distance herself. As their friendship evolves, Kennedy's secrets begin to surface and she's forced to face each one. Will she ever be able to overcome her past—and will Rhys stick around if he finds out the truth beyond her story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986931234

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I loosen my grip on the key, move it to my left hand, and wipe my sweaty palm down my jeans before unlocking the door. I have to open it slowly, otherwise Magic and Bronx, my neighbor’s pit mixes, will run into the street and make me chase them around the neighborhood in 90-degree San Antonio weather. I crack the door and slip inside, crouching down to greet my neighbor’s intimidating but total sweetheart dogs. I’m taking care of them while their owners are in the Bahamas for the week. Pinned against the inside of the door by their excitement at having a visitor, I let them jump up and lick me.

Hi boys, you’re so sweet. I rub one’s belly while scratching the other behind his ear. I should get a dog, shouldn’t I? Then I’d have this every day.

I continue the conversation with only wagging tails and playful barks as responses. I’d get a big dog, definitely male. I’d name him Charlie or George so I could complain, Charlie hogged the bed last night or George ate all the food off my plate, and people would think I was talking about a man. I smile at the thought, silly as it is. After slobbery salutations, I walk to the back door and let them out, then head to the laundry room to check their food bowls.

Bronx? Mag? Here, boys. An unexpected but familiar voice calls from the living room.

I turn off the mud sink faucet and peep around the corner to see my neighbor, Mr. —, standing in the living room with luggage in his hand.

Oh hi, I thought you guys weren’t getting back until tomorrow.

Hey, Kennedy. He smiles and rolls his luggage over to the corner. The family is coming back tomorrow night. I had to come back today because of some emergency, all-hands meeting at work tomorrow morning. He holds up his briefcase.

Yikes, sorry. I’ll leave so you can get to it. I just let them out, and their bowls are full.

He smiles kindly and walks past me into the kitchen.

No. Stay, he says while pulling out a bottle of tequila from a cabinet near the fridge. I need to unwind first. Vacationing with toddlers is not really a vacation at all. Want a drink?

He grabs two small glasses from the dishwasher and fills one with liquor.

No thanks, I tell him. I’m not a fan of tequila, and you probably shouldn’t drink too much if you have to be up all night working.

Ignoring my recommendation of moderation, he offers me something else. How about some spiced rum?

Um. I linger in the kitchen doorway.

I insist, he says, grabbing a different bottle, filling the other glass, and holding it out. Not wanting to be rude, I accept it. All sense of normality evaporates when I grab the glass, but I try to shake off the tension growing in me by studying the family photos on his refrigerator.

Marie is so adorable. She looks exactly like my oldest niece when she was a baby, I say with growing discomfort at the fact that I’m still at his house. When I don’t get a response, I turn to see he’s left the kitchen. I take a sip of the rum and cough as the brown liquid burns my throat. My visits, which only started this week, have consisted of trips to the laundry room and back door and that’s it. Now, I’m having drinks alone with the husband? I should leave.

Moments later, Norah Jones is playing on a stereo in a room toward the back of the house. I can’t tell exactly where it’s coming from, but it fills the house. He reappears and, with the look of someone who has a brilliant idea, grabs me firmly by both wrists. As he pulls me down a dimly lit hallway, Norah gets louder but not any more soothing than when the song first began. Bewildered by his audacity, I begin to stutter.

Wh-what are you doing?

It’s okay, he says, in a tone I’m sure he uses on his two-year-old. Everything will be okay.

Taking advantage of my consternation, he tightens his grip on my wrists and shuffles us down the hall quickly. On the right, the hallway opens to what looks like an entertainment room. We pass a cherry red electric guitar sitting upright in its stand on the floor. I’m pretty sure I glimpse an amp in the corner, too. I wouldn’t have guessed he played any instruments, especially one connoting youth and recklessness. He seems way too proper for it. At least, he did before tonight. We stop just inside a dark room. He turns on the light to reveal it’s his bedroom. An old stereo—the source of Norah’s crooning—sits on top of a dresser on the opposite side of the bed. On the side closest to me is a crib.

He forces me down on the hard mattress and easily undoes my jeans, batting my hands away from my zipper. Reason with him, Kennedy. I grip my panties tightly.

You’re married, I remind him. You don’t want to cheat on your wife.

Without indicating he even heard me, he yanks my panties out of my grasp. Naked from the waist down, I ignore the urge to scratch my legs, as the old, pilled comforter is itchy against my skin. How am I supposed to defend myself against this man? The one who waves at me from his mailbox with that open smile. I cross my legs and squeeze them together as tightly as I can. No matter who he is, I can’t let him do this.

Stop, I say with as much authority as I can muster, even though I have no idea what to do or say to stop this.

He wedges his arm between my thighs and pries them apart with his elbow, exposing my bare vagina to his eager eyes. Inevitability blankets me, muffling the sounds around me, even muffling my thoughts.

No. Don’t, I say as he positions himself on top of me. I don’t want this. Don’t do this.

Feeble with despondency, I move my hands between us and push against his chest, trying unsuccessfully to get him off me.

Please. Please stop, I beg, no longer recognizing my own voice—weak and abasing. I never plead, but I’m pleading now.

He grabs my arms and pins them down. Silent and single-minded, he disregards my pleas and enters me. I turn away from his face, so close to mine, and try to block out what’s happening. Looking out the window, I focus on the lamppost across the street. Don’t look away from it. Don’t think about anything else. But I’m dry, so each thrust is too painful to ignore. He’s raping me raw.

Is it possible to make myself black out? Leave this situation and wake up after everything’s over? But if he’s capable of this, how far will he go to make sure no one finds out? An image flashes through my mind. It’s morning and my lifeless, half-naked body lies slightly contorted in the middle of the street for everyone to see. Fear forces me to face him and start shoving at his chest again, begging him to stop. He stops but only to get me on my stomach. As he’s turning me, I reach for anything I can get ahold of and end up ripping a button off the throw pillow on the bed. That’s all I can grab before the full weight of his body immobilizes me. I hear him chuckle as he examines the thread hanging out of the small, square pillow before dropping it on the floor. I’m quiet now, knowing he’s only going to stop when he finishes, which is mercifully soon after he’s turned me over.

The blanket of inevitability turns into a foggy reality, and I’m barely aware of what is happening, what just happened, and what is about to happen. Unsteady and speechless, I stand and gather my panties and jeans off the floor. As I step into my panties, I look up to find him standing in the doorway, blocking my exit. Without speaking a word, he makes it clear that I’m not going anywhere. It takes him three strides to stand directly in front of me. He pushes me back down on the bed. This time, I do nothing. There’s no point. Not anymore.

***

Kennedy. Kennedy. Paul tries to get my attention in the quiet restaurant.

Sorry. What were you saying?

Are you okay? You zone out a lot. I’m not that boring, am I? he asks, seeming more concerned than offended.

Yeah, I’m fine. I’m sorry. What did you say?

Just that you look beautiful tonight.

Oh, thank you. I blush and feel guilty for not hearing him the first time.

After dinner, we stumble into his tiny one-bedroom apartment and fall onto his mattress on the floor. My fingers tremble with excitement, trying to unbutton his shirt as he lifts mine off. Impatient for skin-on-skin contact, he yanks his button-down over his head and tosses it aside.

Paul is the hottest guy I’ve ever dated—tall, lean but muscular, ink-black hair, square jaw, and slightly cocky, azure eyes currently devouring the sight of me in my black lace bra. We met at a club and have virtually nothing in common except for this intense physical attraction. After a coffee date and a handful of obligatory dinner dates, we’re finally on his mattress, and I’m eager for what we’ve both wanted since we met.

He’s moving inside me, and just as we get a good rhythm going, I feel a brief twinge between my legs. Instead of a wince, my entire body stiffens, and I break out in a cold sweat. Paul notices and stops immediately.

What’s wrong? he asks, worry etched on his face.

I want to reassure him everything’s fine and he can keep going, but my mouth is clamped shut as I grit my teeth. Oddly, I reassure myself instead. It’ll be over soon. After minutes without a response, he rolls off me but remains unexpectedly compassionate, though. Maybe I should take our relationship more seriously.

I’m sorry, baby, he whispers in my ear and holds me close.

It’s okay. I’m okay, I tell him once I can get my mouth to start working again.

Admittedly, I’m as confused as he is. I mean, what the hell was that? Paul runs his hand soothingly up and down my arm, and soon my body relaxes. With loose muscles and a quiet mind, I start drifting off to sleep, but as my lids close, the feel of my still-clammy hands evokes a not-so-distant memory of house keys in a sweaty palm. The fog lifts. Oh my God.

TEN YEARS LATER

CHAPTER 1

KENNEDY

My heart is pounding. I’m sweaty and a little nauseated.

I can’t, I say between breaths I can’t quite catch.

Come on. Don’t you dare stop, Dillon says between flawless burpees. We’re in his living room working out to Peloton videos.

I hate you, I huff out.

No, you don’t. Now, keep going. His phone chimes and he pauses the video.

Are you serious right now? We’re in the middle of a workout. I start jogging in place to keep my heart rate up.

You just said you couldn’t go on. He grabs his phone off the kitchen counter. I just want to see if it’s the woman from the other night. It’ll take two seconds. When he’s not running his company, Dillon is perfecting his body and sharing it with whichever woman catches his eye at the time. I wish I could be that free.

You don’t even remember her name. Why are you so eager to hear from her?

Because I want her to teach it to me, he says while wriggling his eyebrows.

I roll my eyes. Hurry up, please.

He sniggers at the text and shows me his phone. It’s from Marcus Chapman, one of his project assistants I met a while back.

Marcus: You think Kennedy is into me?

Oh my God. Why? I groan. We shared one laugh over kamikaze shots weeks ago. Can you handle that please? I ask.

By telling him yes? I’d love to. Dillon smirks.

Why would you do that to me? I ask while wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.

Because it’ll provide me some much-needed entertainment whenever you stop by the office.

Shouldn’t you be working at work, Mr. CEO?

I’m a great multitasker.

You’re an asshole.

I know. But maybe you should consider dating him. You might be able to smooth out the dorky edges. He tries so hard.

I’m not dating anyone to change them, I say.

If not Marcus, what about— he starts.

No. I cut him off. Whoever you’re about to recommend, the answer is no.

Even a therapist? he mumbles.

I flip him off. We still have twelve god-awful minutes left in the workout. Let’s just— I gesture impatiently toward the TV.

He’s irritatingly slow to walk back into the living room, pick up the remote, and press play. Ass.

Twelve minutes, a cooldown, and a shower later, Dillon and I are in his kitchen drinking water. He’s gulping, but I’m sipping so that I don’t have to stop and pee when I’m on the road.

Ready for your trip? he asks as water droplets run down the side of his face. His hair is still wet and several shades darker than its normal dirty blond.

I can’t wait, I say with too much enthusiasm for his liking judging by the look on his face.

You need a life, he says.

I have a life, I tell him.

A life with people.

I’ve got that, too.

Do you, though? he asks while arching an eyebrow. Ass. Hey, have you gone to your parents’ yet?

I sigh and wipe phantom sweat off my forehead. No. I’m going after this.

Dillon winces on my behalf. Good luck.

***

I ring the doorbell and try to calm my nerves. After all, I am genuinely happy to see them, I think. I just wish someone would tell that to my ever-tightening stomach. It’s early evening, and I let the breeze cool me down. My mom answers the door and gives me one of her patented squeezes.

The house hasn’t changed at all since Spencer and I moved out. The dining room remains pristine and unused. The breakfast room with its yellow and green paint still houses my mom’s plants and collection of ceramic teapots, and the living room looks well lived in with its older, coffee-colored leather couches and fleece throw.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of the dining room going through the bottom cabinets that hold my great-grandmother’s silver, scrapbooks of elementary projects my brother and I made, and all our baby pictures.

There’s one of me in a onesie holding a doll, ecstatic that I’m wearing my mother’s snow boots. Another of my brother putting me inside an old, hard suitcase. My eyes land on me in a frilly dress, hair with bows in it, patent leather Sunday shoes, holding a big Easter basket. I’m smiling at the camera with chubby cheeks probably eager to stuff them with my new goodies. I look sweet. I look innocent. I look like a good girl.

This one. Can I take this one?

But it’s my favorite.

Daddy, you’ve said that about every picture I’ve picked out, I say.

But these are all we have of you where you’re that happy little girl we used to know. He flips to the back of the album to a picture of me hugging my third grade teacher, Ms. Bonkhee. After that, it was all doom and gloom Kennedy. Don’t-touch-me Kennedy.

I wasn’t that bad.

The entire family was scared to upset you.

I was a teenager at the time, I say, knowing full well that’s not the reason. Well, Daddy, I hate to take your favorite picture from you, but do you mind if I keep the Easter one?

As I hug my parents goodbye, my dad stops me before I walk out the door. Hey, what do you need the picture for, anyway?

Uh, it’s for an assignment.

For school? my mom asks, clearly confused.

Shit. No. From my therapist. I quickly turn my head and step out of the house, so I don’t have to see my dad express his disdain for the mental health topic. My topic.

CHAPTER 2

KENNEDY

The miles drag on, and the heat is just past the point of bearable. Trees that look about the same size as large bushes dot the hills in the distance like hunter green cotton balls on a diorama of the Texas Hill Country. The road is lined with cornflower blue and lilac wildflowers, and the sky, thank God, is clear. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for a while, and clouds obscuring the celestial bodies defeats the entire purpose.

Around hour four, the exhaustion hits me. I shouldn’t have stayed so long at Dillon’s. I should have skipped the workout altogether. Fort Davis is still an hour and a half away, and the McDonald Observatory is even farther than that. With nothing more interesting to do, I replay my conversation with Dillon. I may only have a handful of people, but I’ve got people, right? My brother, Dillon, Erin, my client Elisabeth, whom I had drinks with that one time after I delivered her newsletter. Anndddd the list stops there. But to be honest, even if I had more people, I’d still be going on this trip alone. I’m in constant hiding when I’m around people, and it’s exhausting. Forget about it, Kennedy. You’re supposed to be brimming with excitement. Focus on the now, my former therapist would say.

Finally reaching Fort Davis, I pass my hotel, watching it longingly as it shrinks in my rearview mirror. It’s a little after 8 p.m., so the hills in front of me are black and a little daunting with their narrow roads and lack of railings. I follow the winding road until I can see the dark outline of the observatory’s largest dome. By the time I park, my neck hurts, my back hurts, and I’m just sleepy enough to let the smallest things piss me off. I mean, okay, I get it. The darker the surroundings, the brighter the planets appear and the easier it is to see them, but it’s so dark up here I can barely see anything else. For all I know, there’s a psychopath hiding in the trees watching me right now. As I walk toward the entrance, I’m marginally appeased because I see strategically placed staff members with glowing red armbands handing out buttons and directing visitors to the amphitheater.

When I reach the outdoor auditorium, a good amount of people fill the seats closest to the makeshift stage. Families, mostly. I take a seat in the back at the end of the row so that I can get to the telescopes quickly. I don’t think I can tolerate waiting in line and listening to parents try to explain space to four year olds. The stone seats aren’t too cold because I’m in jeans, but after a six-and-a-half-hour drive—it took longer than it should have because I ended up having to stop and pee—they cannot be called comfortable. The observatory director is refreshingly entertaining, but I still don’t feel like sticking around for his constellation tour. So when he releases those