I was 15. He was 26. I was madly in love with him. He was my father’s friend and fellow fire fighter. I had never had a boyfriend. He had a fiancé and his first born son was due in two months. That particular year, my dad had brought him along to our family ranch out in west Texas. It was November. It was freezing. After everyone else had fallen asleep, we took his truck up the mountain so we could ‘view the stars better’. He brought the beer. It wasn’t until three drinks deep that I leaned over and kissed him, the tip of my tongue pressed up against his. I was so young. I was drunk. I expected him to push me off and condescendingly explain that this was wrong, and I was just a kid. He didn’t. Instead, he cupped my tiny chin in his hand, gently pushed me down on the blanket so he was on top of me, and kissed me with more tongue. How quickly he removed my clothes and then his own is now just a blur of a memory. His hands, large and cold. My body, tiny and shivering. We merged the two. We had sex that night, his handsome face lingering a mere inch from mine, occasionally bending down to nibble at my collarbones and ear. It was painful for me but he enjoyed himself. After he was finished he rolled back over, panting and moaning still. I didn’t feel anything but a dull ache and the stinging of tears behind my eyes. He didn’t tell me he loved me, but instead, cried and begged me never to tell anyone, especially not my father. I complied because I had no other choice. I didn’t tell my family, nor a friend, future lovers, or a therapist. The ride home was silent. He got married the next month. His son was born the month after that. Today, my family and his had dinner together, and I couldn’t get out of going. It was the first time I’ve seen him in four years. He brought his lovely (and I’m sure angelic, no sarcasm) wife. He brought his son, his spitting image. I sat next to my brother and didn’t speak a word until his wife commented on how “gorgeous” I’ve gotten over the years. He shot me a look. I thanked her softly and excused myself to go to the restroom. When I came back, he was laughing at a joke my father said and my mother insisted I join the conversation. I stayed quiet. He seemed content. I still hate myself.