I knew it was too good to be true.
47
Nora
I don’t remember the walk home. One moment I’m storming out of Jericho’s house, and the next I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at the wall, my hands gripping the counter so hard my knuckles have gone white.
The kettle whistles, startling me. I don’t remember putting it on.
I pour hot water over a tea bag and watch the color bleed out, staining the water amber. Like secrets spilling out, changing everything they touch, and in this case, my whole damn life.
My father’s face keeps flashing in my mind. The hospital room. The machines. The bruises that bloomed across his temple and cheekbone like violent watercolors. Everything that happened after: my mom rushing to the hospital and getting into an accident. And just like that, our family was no more.
All because some drunk couldn’t control his temper outside a bar.
Now here I am, falling for a man who did the same thing to someone else.
“Nora?” Grandma’s voice comes from the doorway. “You’re home early.”
I turn, trying to compose my face into something resembling normal. “Yeah.”
She studies me, head tilted. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” The lie feels thick on my tongue, even though I don’t know why I bother—the truth will be out for the whole town to know by the end of today.
“Child.” She crosses the kitchen, taking my hands in hers. “I’ve known you since you were nothing but a hiccup in your mother’s belly. Don’t tell me ‘nothing’ when I can see everything’s wrong.”
The tears come then, hot and sudden. She pulls me into her arms, and I let myself be held, feeling like a little girl again, lost and confused and hurting.
“He was in prison,” I finally manage, my voice muffled against her shoulder. “For beating someone. Nearly killing them.”
She stiffens slightly but doesn’t let go. “I see.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
She pulls back, looking at me with those eyes that always see too much. “Small towns, honey. People talk.”
“You knew?” I step away from her, betrayal fresh and sharp. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t my story to tell.” She sighs, reaching for my hand again. “And I don’t know the details, just whispers from an old frog from Little Hope. I figured he’d tell you when he was ready, and you’d tell me if you decided on doing so.”
“Well, he didn’t,” I say bitterly. “Dick did.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Did he? What’s he got to do with this?”
I explain about the meeting in the parking lot, the article, the mugshot. With each word, her frown deepens.
“That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Always stirring pots that aren’t his to stir.”
“That’s what you’re focusing on? Dick being Dick?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice. “Not the fact that Jericho nearly killed someone and hid it from me?”
“I’m not saying what he did was right—neither the violence nor keeping it from you,” she says carefully. “But there are always two sides to every story.”
“And what’s his side?” I demand, pacing the kitchen now. “What possible justification could there be for nearly beating someone to death?”
Grandma watches me, her face unreadable. “I don’t know. That’s why you should ask him.”
“I can’t even look at him right now.” My voice breaks. “Dad died because of someone’s violence. Mom died because she was rushing to the hospital to be with him. How could I possibly?—”
