The Dixon Rule: Chapter 18

A fading nightmare

“ALL RIGHT, MAJESTIC EAGLES,” I ANNOUNCE. “LET’S RUN THROUGH THESE jumps one last time and then we’ll call it a day, okay?”

As Fatima and I count them in, the girls spring to action, giving it their all. Toe touches have been tough for some of them, particularly Chloe and Harper. They can get their legs up but not out, or vice versa.

“Why is my toe touch so low?” Chloe whines after she lands. Her forehead is shiny from exertion.

I walk over to her. “Because your legs aren’t far apart enough. The farther apart you can get them, the higher your touches will be. This is why we keep harping to you about stretching. Gotta get that flexibility started young.”

Fatima claps her hands. “Let’s do the tuck jumps.”

“Tuck jumps are so boring,” Harper grumbles.

“They’re great for the core,” I tell the group, patting my abdomen. “Tumblers—” I glance at Tatiana and Kerry, our strongest gymnasts. “You guys in particular need to practice your tuck jumps. The more core strength you can build, the stronger tumblers you’ll become.”

We work on the final set of jumps, and everyone is smiling and sweaty when we dismiss them. The girls stream toward the locker room while Fatima tails after them.

“You coming?” she calls over her shoulder.

“It’s my turn to put away the mats,” I call back.

“Cool. If I’m gone before you’re done, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The moment the gym is empty, my smile collapses like a cheap tent.

Keeping that smile plastered on my face all week is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I’ve been an emotional wreck since Percy hit me.

According to him, it was an accident. He claimed it was involuntary. That when I pushed him, his first instinct was to defend himself. Maybe that’s true. Probably not. Either way, I don’t want to make a big thing out of it. I don’t. I can’t.

I fucking can’t.

Tears well up, and I blink rapidly to disperse them. I quickly stack up the mats, eager to get home.

I pray the other counselors have already left for the day as I trudge toward the locker room. Fortunately, it’s empty, and since I usually change clothes at home, I grab my keys, sunglasses, and purse from my locker and hurry toward the door.

I falter midstep when my reflection in the wall of mirrors catches my attention. My gaze homes in on the ugly bruise around my left eye. An anguished sob gets caught in my throat, and I forcibly swallow it down. For a second, I can’t breathe. Suddenly I’m back there. That night. Completely stunned, reeling from the pain of Percy’s fist smashing into my face.

No one’s ever hit me before.

It doesn’t matter if it was an accident. It still fucking hurt. I told everyone at cheer camp that I accidentally caught Kenji’s elbow to the face during dance rehearsal. I told Shane, and Gigi when I saw her the other day, that the same thing happened at camp during a pyramid collapse.

I don’t know why I couldn’t just tell them the truth.

You do know why.

Yeah. I do. It’s for the same reason I didn’t call my dad the second it happened, even though every instinct in my body was ordering me to.

Every instinct except for one—fear. The moment Percy’s knuckles connected with my face, fight-or-flight kicked in, and the latter won in a landslide. I couldn’t do anything but run. Run from Percy, run from the embarrassment, run from the urge to call my father for help. Because Dad would’ve made me go to the police, and that was the last thing I wanted to do in that moment.

I still don’t. I refuse to make a big deal out of it. And the truth is, I did provoke him. I did try to shove him. So what’s the point of reporting it to the cops when, in all likelihood, it won’t go further than an uncomfortable interview?

I want to put this entire humiliating incident out of my mind. It’s over and done with. I’m not worried about Percy coming near me again. Although he’s been texting apologies all week, I’ve made it clear that I want nothing to do with him ever again. I’ve also kept every single one of his messages, screenshots of them saved in a folder on my phone.

My knees feel too wobbly to walk, so I sink onto the long wooden bench and scroll through those messages now.

The first one was sent less than five minutes after I stumbled into my condo that night and raced upstairs to ice my face.

When I don’t answer, his texts continue to stream in. They arrive daily, rife with excuses.

The last message is from me to him. In no uncertain terms, I spell out what’s what.

I followed through on the threat and blocked him. I don’t know whether he kept messaging after that. I can only assume he did. But on my end, it’s completely closed off.

Along with the screenshots, I’ve also been monitoring my bruise. I took pictures of it the first night, and every day since. I don’t know why. I don’t plan on pressing charges. I believe him when he says he didn’t mean to do it, yet I can’t erase the memory of his eyes. For one terrifying moment, those brown irises had been downright feral. Although perhaps that only backs up his defense, that it was an animalistic instinct to defend himself because he thought—

What? That you were a threat? You’re 5’1” and 110 pounds! What the hell were you going to do to him?

The incredulous voice in my head is correct, of course. But I still silence it. I don’t want to dwell on this. I don’t want to think about Percy anymore or remember that surreal, foreign sensation of fear clamped around my windpipe.

I force myself to rise from the bench and leave the locker room. I can’t hide in here forever. I can’t hide in my apartment, either, which is what I’ve been doing for days, and as I head down the sidewalk away from the high school, I vow not to let what Percy did turn me into something I’m not. A coward and a shut-in. A basket case.

When my phone rings in my hand, I flinch instinctively. Luckily, Percy hasn’t found a way to contact me. But it is my dad calling, which is probably even worse. I’m expected to put on a brave face when I’m talking to Dad. Or maybe not expected; it’s not something he’s explicitly stated he requires of me. But falling apart in front of my father is not an option. I can’t remember the last time I cried in his presence or showed even a sliver of vulnerability.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says after I answer the call.

“Hey, good timing. I just got out of camp. I’m walking home.”

“Perfect. I wanted to touch base. Make sure the shower temperature is still to your liking.”

“Yep, it’s great.”

“How’s life? Everything good?”

“Everything’s great.”

“You sure?” Concern fills his voice. “That didn’t sound very convincing.”

Shit. I paste on a brighter tone, but I’m not the best liar, so I opt for a half-truth.

“Mostly great,” I amend. “Percy is still kind of bugging me.”

“The ex?”

“Yes. He can’t get the hint that I don’t want to get back together.”

Dad chuckles. “Well, I’d offer to beat him up for you, but I know you’re perfectly capable of handling him on your own.”

“You know it.” I laugh weakly. “Don’t worry. I already told him to fuck off.”

“That’s my girl.” Dad changes the subject. “Oh, about the Labor Day potluck—Larissa’s asking if you’ll make your potato and bacon salad.”

“Of course. I legit don’t know how to cook anything else.”

His laughter tickles my ear. “I still can’t believe your mother paid all that money for you to take those cooking classes a couple summers ago.”

“Major fail,” I agree.

The worst part of that was, the only reason I capitulated was because Mom implied that we’d be taking the class together. Like a sucker, I allowed myself to think she truly wanted to bond with me. Turned out she never intended for us to do it together. She signed me up because my grandmother, her mother, made a disparaging comment the previous Christmas about what a shame it was that I’m such a terrible cook, and Mom can’t look bad in front of her proper southern family. That’s unacceptable.

“I can’t wait to have you home,” Dad says gruffly.

A lump of emotion clogs my throat. “Me too.”

“All right, I gotta go, kiddo. Talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The tears threaten to spill over again. My dad has such faith in me. My whole life, he’s raved about how resilient I am. How there’s nobody else he’d rather have his back.

Going to the police about Percy would be so damn embarrassing. Dad knows everyone in law enforcement, so even if I wanted to hide that I was pressing charges, the news would eventually travel back to him. And then my mother would find out too, and knowing her, she’d say it was my fault for provoking Percy. Mom always scolds that I need to watch my temper.

At home, remembering my vow not to let Percy’s actions send me into hiding, I change out of my camp clothes and into a swimsuit. Shane and I are supposed to go over details for the competition, so I text him to meet at the pool instead of my apartment, then force myself to go outside and walk the path toward the swimming pool.

My pulse quickens the closer I get. I’ve avoided all the neighbors this week because of my face, but I assure myself it’s fine. If someone asks, I can feed them the same excuse I gave Shane and Gigi.

To my relief, the pool area is deserted when I arrive. I find a pair of loungers, get settled, and pull up the NUABC website on my phone. I need to reexamine my entire strategy. Kenji and I were going to perform the tango for our audition video, but with Shane’s height, I think we might have a better shot qualifying with a Latin dance.

I still can’t believe he agreed to be my partner. When Shane showed up the other day, I was still reeling over what happened with Percy, and suddenly someone was offering me a lifeline, a distraction. Sure, that someone was Shane Lindley, but I’d been looking forward to competing for a whole year, and now the opportunity was back in my grasp.

“Jesus Christ, Dixon,” Shane grumbles five minutes later. He’s lying on the chair beside mine, also scrolling through the website. Cursing, he lifts his head in dismay. “This is intense. What is this? The American Nine? Dixon! This says we have to do nine dances! Four ballroom and five Latin.”

“Relax. We’re not entered in that event.”

“How are we entered in anything if we haven’t even qualified?”

“Because you send in the application before the prelims. Kenji and I signed up for American Smooth Duo and American Rhythm Solo.”

He relaxes. “Oh, okay—” Then he pales. “Wait. What? That’s two events.”

“Yup.”

“We’re doing two dances?”

“Three, actually.”

He stares at me in appalled accusation.

“It’ll be okay. You’ve got this. The duo event is the tango and waltz. Solo is the cha cha.”

Shane looks sick. “Dixon.”

“What?”

“I will not, nor will I ever, perform a dance called the cha cha.”

“Okay.” I shrug. “You can call Lynsey and tell her we’re dropping out.”

“Fuck.”

I grin. “We’ll do the cha cha for the audition. I think you’ll take to it better.”

Shane glares at me.

“What’s going on here?” a throaty voice inquires.

We look up at Veronika’s approach. Our resident femme fatale is wearing a filmy, white cover-up over a very indecent leopard-print bikini, her unnaturally red hair loose around her shoulders.

She wags her finger mischievously. “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Is there romance in the air?”

“Oh my God, never. But we are entering a dance competition together.”

“No, we’re not,” Shane denies immediately. His expression is a warning.

I see how it is. He’s ashamed of our rhythmic connection.

“What?” I shrug at him. “They’re going to see us practicing anyway. We’ll be holding a lot of gym sessions.”

“Oooh, sounds kinky,” Veronika says.

I smother a laugh.

“Well, enjoy,” she chirps before wandering toward her usual chair and umbrella. It’s the one with a direct line of sight to the path, so she can see all the comings and goings of Meadow Hill.

“Anyway, back to this,” Shane grumbles, holding up his phone. “I’m not doing more than one dance.”

“We’re doing three, and this isn’t a negotiation.” I tip my head. “What’s the problem, Lindley? You don’t think you can hack it?”

“Oh, you know I can.”

“Exactly. Which is why we’re doing three dances. I’m going for a swim now. You can sulk in private.”

I dive into the deep end, enjoying the sensation of the cold water engulfing my body. For the first time in days, I feel confident again. Strong. It’s like everything with Percy never happened. Just a fading nightmare I never have to revisit. Soon the bruise will fade entirely, and there’ll be no remnants left of that horrible night.

A sense of calm washes over me as I swim laps. I zone out, focusing on propelling my body through the water, welcoming the burn in my muscles. When I stop to catch my breath in the shallow end, I notice a few more neighbors have arrived. I love summers in Meadow Hill. There’s a real sense of community here.

I backstroke toward the deep end, where I heave myself out of the water so I can say hi to Priya, who sits at a table with Marnie and Dave.

“It’s a college student,” Dave is saying.

“Who’s a college student?” I ask curiously, catching the tail end of their conversation. Water drips off my body as I approach the table. I glance over my shoulder. “Hey, Lindley, fetch me a towel?”

“Say please,” he calls out.

“No,” I call back.

Priya looks amused. “Wait, do we like him now?” She speaks a little too loudly.

“I knew it!” Shane, who’s strolling toward us with my towel, glowers at me. “I knew you instigated a shunning program.”

“I did not instigate a shunning program,” I lie.

“Did she?” Shane asks Priya.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” she answers smugly.

“Marnie?” he demands.

I glance at Marnie, winking. With a straight face, she says, “You’re imagining it, honey. Nobody is shunning you.”

“Stone-cold evil. All of you,” he accuses, then shoves the towel at me. “You don’t even deserve this towel.”

Dave snickers under his breath.

Marnie redirects the group back to the topic at hand. “The renter of Sweet Birch 1A arrived today,” she tells me.

Veronika saunters over in her white cover-up. “Are we talking about the Garrisons’ rental?”

Marnie nods. “We just saw him in the parking lot unloading some boxes. He’s going to be staying here the full six weeks. Handsome guy. Young.”

Veronika perks up. “How young?” she inquires. Because she’s Veronika and she’s gross.

“I don’t know, maybe mid to late twenties?” Marnie answers. “He said he’s a grad student at Briar.”

Guard shooting up, I tighten my grip on the towel. “Did you catch his name?”

Dave purses his lips. “Peter something?”

His wife lets out a laugh. “Honey. Peter? How can you forget his name? It was Percival.”

Shock slams into me. Oh my fucking God.

No.

Absolutely not.

“Percival?” I burst out, anger whipping inside me. “Are you sure that was his name?”

“Unlike this doofus”—Marnie points at her husband—“it’s not a name I’m likely to forget.”

Priya eyes me in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s my ex.” I wrap the towel tighter around me, already backing away from their table. “I’m sorry, I have to go and figure out what the hell is going on.”

Shane chases after me as I hurry toward our chairs to throw on my clothes. I gather my stuff and leave the pool area, Shane on my tail as we step onto the main path.

“That can’t possibly be your ex moving into our building,” he says in amusement. “Can it?”

“Sure sounds like it,” I mutter, and I want to tell him it’s not even remotely funny. It’s the furthest thing from funny. But I can’t say a word because I already lied to him about how I got this bruise. “Do you know any other Percivals who are grad students at Briar?”

“No, but I’m sure there has to be another one.”

“Oh, fuck off, Shane. Come on.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me.”

Panic fills my throat and weakens my palms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just…”

I stop walking and bury my face in my hands for a moment, trying to calm myself. If Percy is actually in Meadow Hill, I don’t know what I’m going to do. What can I do?

Something else suddenly occurs to me, a reminder of what I said to Percy the night he hit me.

“Oh my God,” I groan into my palms. I lift my head and stare at Shane helplessly. “The last time I saw Percy, I told him you were my boyfriend.”

Shane’s amusement returns in the form of a loud laugh. “What? Why would you do that?”

“Because apparently this is a thing we do now, okay? We tell our exes that we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”

My hands are still shaking. I press them to my sides and hope Shane doesn’t notice. What game is Percy playing? He punches me and then moves into my apartment complex? I want to cry, but I put on a steely face and pretend I’m angry about the latter and not the former.

“Lindley,” I say in misery. “Before I go over to Sweet Birch to confront him, I need you to agree to be my boyfriend.”

He shrugs. “Sure, let’s go. I owe you one.”

“Not just for today. I’m talking about the entire time he’s here.”

“Didn’t Marnie say he’s renting the unit for six weeks?” Shane demands.

I bite my lip. “You said so yourself—you owe me one.”

“Dixon. I asked you to be my girlfriend for one night. You’re asking me to give up my whole summer.”

“Give up what? You already said you don’t want to sleep around, so it’s not like you’ll be bringing random women home all summer. Right?”

“Right, but—”

“And all you were planning to do this summer was take it easy. Being my fake boyfriend doesn’t change your plans at all. And it gives you more opportunities to make your ex jealous,” I finish, grasping at as many straws as I can.

“So you’re trying to make Percy jealous?”

“No, I want him to leave me alone!”

Shane’s forehead creases at my outburst. “Dixon…” he starts warily. “What exactly is going on?”

I feel the desperation rising again, gripping my throat in its talons. I can’t have Percy living here, but I also can’t have Shane knowing Percy is the reason for the bruise on my face. It’s so fucking mortifying.

I start walking again. Standing still is making me feel dizzy. Shane matches my stride, and I feel his gaze boring into the side of my face.

“I don’t want him here.” I hate how small my voice sounds. “I broke up with him and he can’t accept it. Please, Lindley, it’s only six weeks. Once he’s gone, we can tell everyone we broke up.”

“Wait, you want us to lie to people we know? Even Gigi and Ryder?”

“Just while Percy is here. I don’t want it getting back to him that we might be faking it.”

That’s a lie. The reason I don’t want to tell Gigi that Shane and I are faking it for Percy’s expense is because her first question is going to be why.

Why am I playing games instead of telling Percy to fuck off? Why am I putting on a charade instead of marching headfirst into battle?

And those whys require me to tell the truth.

That he hit me.

That I’m scared of having him around me.

That I’ve never felt more ashamed in my life.

My brain is a tangled jumble of thoughts. Some of them might be irrational. I recognize that. But I can’t do it. I can’t tell my friends that my ex-boyfriend hit me. I tried, damn it. I saw Gigi this week. I opened my mouth, fully prepared to confess that Percy gave me this black eye, but the words refused to come out. Instead, I fed her the lie.

“Gigi’s never gonna believe it,” Shane says wryly.

“Sure she will. Besides, she’s going to be distracted by the wedding and honeymoon.” I implore him. “Please? I’d feel better…safer…if he thinks I have a boyfriend.”

“Safer?” Shane echoes, wary again.

“I mean in the sense that he won’t show up at my door with breakfast and make me uncomfortable,” I say smoothly.

Speaking of uncomfortable, the devil himself suddenly appears on the path. Dressed in khakis and a white T-shirt, Percy’s arms are full of two cardboard boxes that have the words TEXTBOOKS written on them in black marker.

I halt. Our eyes lock, and there’s no mistaking the flash of guilt in his. This is the first time I’ve seen him since the night at Della’s, and while being in his proximity again triggers a jolt of deep disgust, I also feel a twinge of fear. And that’s what pisses me off the most.

I refuse to be afraid of this asshole.

I stalk forward, not mincing words. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing—”

“This isn’t a game,” he interrupts quietly. “You knew I was looking for housing, Diana.”

“And you had to move here?”

My hands are trembling again, this time with rage. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

“It was either that or spend weeks at that fleabag motel on the outskirts of town. I can’t afford to stay at the inn on Main Street for six weeks. This is the best option until my new townhouse becomes available in September.”

It sounds on the up-and-up, but I don’t buy it.

I notice his gaze is fixed on my face. On the fading bruise that he inflicted.

Shane is only a few feet away, so I know Percy won’t dream of bringing up what happened the other night, but he does lower his voice and ask, “Are you okay?”

I ignore the question. “You know what? I don’t care about your reasoning for why you’re here. It doesn’t change a damn thing between us. My last text to you made it clear where I stand.”

Wincing, he has the decency to appear shamefaced again.

“Oh, and while we’re here.” I beckon Shane closer, then take his hand and, very blatantly, intertwine our fingers. “This is my boyfriend, Shane.”

Shane doesn’t go in for a handshake. He nods and says, “Nice to meet you, bro.”

Percy tightens his lips for a second. “Nice to meet you too. If you’ll excuse me…” He lifts the boxes slightly. “I have to finish unpacking.”

As he walks past us, I turn to stare at his retreating back. His shoulders are stiffer than boards. As if he’s the aggrieved party.

“You all right?” Shane asks gruffly. He’s still holding my hand, almost like he knows I need the support, otherwise I’ll keel over.

No, I’m not all right, I want to say.

The need to tell someone what happened is almost suffocating. I want to tell Shane. And Gigi. And my dad. Yet I can’t summon the words. They’re like a frightened animal cowering in the corner, and no matter how hard I try to coax them out, they refuse. They’re stuck.

The confession burns in my throat, and then, for one panicky second, constricts it entirely. No air gets in, and suddenly I can’t breathe. This has happened more than once this week.

“I’m fine,” I manage to say. Miraculously, my voice sounds completely normal.

Shane seems oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside me as we walk to Red Birch, climbing the stairs to the second floor. “When do you want to start rehearsing?”

“For what?” I’m too distracted by my racing heart to focus on what he’s asking.

“The competition?” he prompts, chuckling. “And when are we filming this audition?”

“Right. Sorry. We don’t have to send the video until the end of August, but we should hit the ground running. How about rehearsal on Saturday? I’m only working breakfast and lunch shifts this weekend, so I’m free both evenings.”

“Sounds good. Text me.”

We part ways in the hall, and I practically dive into the solace of my apartment, where I can hyperventilate to my heart’s content.

“Oh my God, Skip,” I moan at my fish. “What the hell is happening?”

Breathing hard, I collapse onto the couch and fight the onslaught of sensation. The contents of my stomach threaten to come up. I really feel like I might throw up. I take a deep breath, then another, until the twisting, churning queasiness starts to dissipate. But my heart is still beating too fast for comfort. It can’t be healthy for a heart to pound this hard.

Why does this keep happening?

You’re having anxiety attacks.

No, damn it. I can’t be.

I never feel anxiety. Even before a cheer competition, the nerves come in the form of giddy excitement. Fear isn’t something I feel often, and when I do, it’s entirely justified. Like that time Gigi and I were walking down a dark alley in Boston and heard a car backfire. I genuinely thought it was a gunshot, and the resulting jolt of adrenaline injected into my bloodstream had been intense.

Or when Dad’s next door neighbor’s dog got loose during the Labor Day potluck last summer. The huge Doberman went tearing toward a group of children, and for a second, my heart was in my throat because I truly thought he was going to maul them. Turned out the dog was great with kids. All he did was steal their ball and then make them chase him while the kids shrieked with laughter.

Both those incidents elicited fear, and it made sense. I thought there was danger. But I’m not in any danger right now. There’s no reason for even a twinge of panic.

I sit on the couch, breathing in and out, willing my pulse to slow.

Eventually, the anxiety fades, but the unhappiness remains tight in my chest. I can’t let this keep happening. I am not a weak person. I am not afraid of anything, especially not a pathetic, insecure man like Percy Forsythe.

Starting right now, I need to find a way to let this go.