She was waiting for me in the same booth.  The waitress was nowhere to be seen.  Yvonne had an untouched drink in front of her, three fingers of an amber liquid.  After I sat down, she slid the glass across the table to me.  I didn’t have to smell it to know it was the Irish that she knew I liked.

She looked at me patiently while I took my first, long gulp.  Then she reached across the booth and took my hand in hers.

“Normally,” she began, “I’m supposed to give you the time to ‘find a safe space’ where you can talk about this, but this isn’t a normal situation and we don’t have that kind of time.  If you want my help with this—and believe me, you do—then you need to tell me everything that Olivia did to you.”

I did want her help.  But the shame was like a flood that I was barely holding back.  Not just what Olivia had done to me but also how I felt, both before and after.  I thought that if I opened myself to her even the slightest bit, I would lose it completely.

But I kept looking into her warm brown eyes, and even though I could feel the tears starting down my face, her concern and determination never wavered, never devolved into pity.  We faced each other as colleagues across the booth, but I submitted to her protection just as readily as when she had held me naked in her fist.

I told her almost everything.

I told her all the things that Olivia did and said when I was tiny, where she put me, what she made me do.  I told her about the unnatural erections and how I thought Olivia was somehow using my arousal for her magic.  The whiskey helped a lot.

Notably, I omitted any reference to the night I let Olivia give me a blow job, despite my clear misgivings that it was that very encounter that had made me vulnerable to the arcane words of transformation.

To her credit, Yvonne received my story with neither skepticism nor cheap disgust.  She just drew it out of me with an uncharacteristic lack of judgment.

At one point, after I had paused to blow my nose, I said, “You’re remarkably good at this.”

“Lots of practice,” she replied.  “I’ve done this about a half-dozen times.”

“With who?” I was baffled.

“My sister was the first, and the hardest.  Then my college roommate, my cousin, the girl in the apartment across the hall.”

“All these people told you they had been shrunk?” I was beginning to get angry, thinking she was making fun of me.

“No, they all told me they had been raped.”

The word felt like a dash of cold water to my face.  I was reflexively indignant in my response.

“I wasn’t raped,” I protested.

She gave me a tight smile and squeezed my hand.  “That’s a very common reaction,” she said, “but you can’t make excuses for her.”

“I was aroused the whole time,” I said.  “I had to jerk off afterwards.”

“It doesn’t matter.  Lots of rape victims experience arousal, even orgasms.   It doesn’t change what she did.”

My expression must have betrayed my conflicted reaction, because she pressed on.

“It doesn’t matter if you got a boner or if you came.  It doesn’t matter if you like to be dominated in bed.”  Where did that come from?  I tried to interrupt, but she continued her recital.  “It doesn’t matter if you found her attractive or even if you had consensual sex with her before.”  I kept my eyes on hers and hoped I didn’t give anything away.  “What does matter is that she forced you to have sex without your consent.  You didn’t consent, did you?”

“No!” I hoped my reply was sufficiently quick and genuine.

“Then she raped you, period.  I know it’s a hard truth to accept, but you can’t start healing until you do.”

I looked down at my glass and slowly exhaled.  My eyes itched and my throat was sore.  Another tear rolled down my face and I squeezed her hand.

“Yvonne,” I said, “it means everything to me that I am able to talk to you about this.  You’re a much better friend than I deserve.  No, let me finish.  You’re the only thing keeping me from going insane.”  I drained my glass and kept going.  “But I’m pretty sure I won’t start ‘healing’ until I can get away from Olivia.”

Yvonne slowly nodded, while I switched to drinking water.  We both knew it was hopeless to try to leave the firm, and neither of us saw much point in belaboring the fact.  She never made to get up, but I knew her day was almost over so I thanked her again and went home to uneasy dreams.

* * *

The rest of the week passed without major incident, just a sense of accumulating dread.  Yvonne checked in with me every morning, but we mostly avoided the topic that neither of us had anything helpful to say about.  I even resumed our pointless flirting, and she kindly held up her end.  My contact with Olivia was mostly restricted to email, and I successfully avoided Zorah.

Until Friday.  Olivia summoned me to her office around 3pm.  I immediately went to see Yvonne, who was scheduled to go home in less than an hour.  My face told the story before I could get the words out.

“Olivia just called me upstairs,” I said with a dry throat.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” she said.

“It could be hours,” I said warily.  “Go on home.”

She tilted her head admonishingly.  “If you didn’t want me to stay, why did you come in here?”

To protect me, I thought.  To kill the witch and make it all better.

“I don’t know,” I said feebly.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll email you when it’s over.”  I turned to leave.

“Tyler,” she called.

I stopped.

“Remember who you are,” she said.

I smiled and nodded at this, but it wasn’t until I was in the elevator that I began to tear up.  I waited in the hallway until I had recomposed myself before proceeding.

My bravado almost collapsed when I saw Zorah at her desk and she threw me a predatory smirk.  I forced a jaunty smile on my face and went into Olivia’s office.

“The Torres dep has finally been set,” said Olivia as I sat down.  “Next Wednesday.  He’ll be in town on other business, and as a mercy opposing counsel has agreed to let us depose him here.”

At least I don’t have to travel with her, I thought.  It was pretty obvious how she might have planned to save on the per diem.

“I need the following items by the end of business on Monday,” she continued, listing several documents and exhibits.  When she had finished, she concluded with a perfunctory “That’s it.”

I hesitated a fraction of a second, then stood up quickly and made for the door.  “Sure thing,” I said.

As I left her office, I came upon Yvonne engaged in a subdued conversation with Zorah, which came to an abrupt halt when I appeared.  They both looked surprised to see me.  I gave them both a broad smile and continued back to the elevator.

Back on my floor, I lurked near Yvonne’s office.  She arrived shortly thereafter, having taken the next elevator car.

“She didn’t do anything, did she?” asked Yvonne hopefully.

“No,” I said.  “She just wanted some stuff for the plaintiff’s dep next week.”

Yvonne grimaced sympathetically and gripped my upper arm.

“At least it’s gonna be here,” I said.  “I don’t have to go anywhere with her.”

“Thank goodness,” she replied, nodding.

“What were you and Zorah on about?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, I made up some bullshit about how I needed some help with the database.”

“Why?”

Yvonne paused to give me a weary look.  “I didn’t want her to try to get another look at you while you were small,” she explained.

“Oh,” I said.  “Thanks.”  Yvonne’s smile started to lift the chill in my chest.  Then another suspicion washed over me.

“Do you think she knows what you were up to?” I asked.

“No,” she said, perhaps too quickly.  She headed into her office and started packing to leave.

I watched her stretch into her coat and heft her bag, and I wondered if she still loved her husband.  Would she save him from Zorah?  Probably.

“Have a good weekend,” I said, turning back toward my office.

“You too,” she called.