Except he didn’t know.
Instead, Dad looked at his watch, then back at her. ‘Call that a run? You were barely gone fifteen minutes!’
She could have just opened her mouth and told him. Dad, I was raped. Why didn’t she? She knew he would have believed her. He would have rushed her to the hospital and called the police and stood beside her in court as she gave evidence. He would have advocated for her, protected her, done every last thing that was expected of him as a good father and then some. In the past, when she’d heard the stats of women failing to report sexual assault, she’d felt so frustrated. Tell someone, she’d thought. Make the bastard pay. Suddenly she understood. Perhaps these women had been through enough. Perhaps the murky cocktail of shame and horror and disgust that Rachel was feeling was the same one that muzzled them all?
And so, instead of telling her dad what had happened, she went to the kitchen and baked the most exquisite carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. And she ate and ate and ate until all the disgusting feelings were buried under the most exquisite, all-consuming sugar high.
Rachel was making pancakes. After last night with Darcy, it was exactly what she needed. She’d always found such comfort in making the batter, pouring that perfect creamy circle, watching it bubble up and then flipping it to see the golden yellow of the underside. Afterwards, she covered the stack in sugar and syrup and berries and ate until she thought she might burst. Then she decided to make a second batch. She was pouring the batter into the pan when she heard the knock on the door.
‘Rachel?’
It was Darcy. Not only did she recognise his voice, he’d also told her that he’d check in on her in the morning. Rachel should have known that a phone call was not his style.
‘Will you talk to me?’ he said through the door. ‘I don’t even have to come inside. Just open a window if you like!’
Rachel put down the jug of batter, walked to the door and opened it.
‘I’ve got pancakes on the stove,’ she said, returning to the kitchen. She was glad for the busywork, the excuse not to have to look him in the eye. He’d been so kind last night, so understanding, that it only made her humiliation more intense.
Darcy followed her, shutting the door behind him.
‘What’s all this?’ he said.
She flipped the pancakes. ‘I’m baking my feelings.’
Darcy sat on a stool. His movements were tentative, slow, as if he was worried about startling her. ‘Not a bad thing to do with your feelings, I guess.’
Rachel shrugged. She wasn’t so sure about that.
‘Listen, Rachel, I’m sorry about last night . . . I mean, if I’d known you weren’t feeling it, I wouldn’t have tried to –’
‘It’s not your fault. Really. It’s the classic case of it’s not you, it’s me.’
She stacked up the pancakes on a plate and covered them in berries and syrup. With Darcy here, she suddenly felt stuffed, so she pushed them in front of him. He picked up his cutlery, but made no move to eat.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she said, after several moments.
‘Sure.’
‘Why did you come back here today?’
He thought for a minute.
‘I came back because I was hoping you’d lain awake all night thinking about me and realised you couldn’t live without me.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Also I was hungry and fancied a pancake feast.’
Rachel tried to smile. ‘Something happened to me,’ she said. ‘When I was sixteen.’
Darcy’s expression changed.
‘I was out jogging. He jumped out of the bushes. Don’t . . . say anything. It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, really. But that’s the reason. That’s why I don’t date. That’s why . . . well, that’s what happened last night.’
Darcy closed his eyes. ‘Rachel, I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ She waved her hand with an airiness she didn’t feel.
‘And yet I imagine it’s not the kind of thing that ever really leaves you?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I manage. Perhaps not in the healthiest of ways, but I do.’
Darcy put down his cutlery. His undivided attention did something to her. For the first time ever, she felt the inclination to share more. ‘I don’t think you’ll be surprised to learn that food is my drug of choice. I eat my feelings, Darcy. I bake my feelings. I order my feelings at restaurants and cafes, and through Uber Eats.’