“No, you don’t.” Her face was one tight crunch like she was fighting against the very idea. “You look like me. We’re practically twins.”
“Just stop! I looked him up online, okay?” I pounded a fist against my chest. “I look like him.”
“No,” she gritted out. “You look likeme. Theo looks a lot more like him than you do and I don’t care. And neither does he. He knows that doesn’t mean anything.”
“That’s because Theo is…” I threw my hands out. “Theo. Nothing ruffles him. He just makes good choices. It’s what he does! But I’m bad, Mom. I’m a bad person just like my dad.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Her voice was thick with sympathy, and it made my skin crawl. “That is not true. Trevor didn’t care about anyone but himself. You are one of the most caring people I know. You hate to see people suffer.”
“Because I’m weak,” I spat.
“No.” Her eyes narrowed, determined. “Remember when we found out Cash was Ford’s kid and you organized that whole night to fill in all the blanks of everything they’d missed in each other’s lives? You spent hours and hours working to make it perfect. A bad person wouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah.” My jaw jutted. “Well. I just broke Cash’s heart, so I think I more than canceled out that one good deed.”
She shook her head. “I know how much you care about him. Even now I can see that. You’re probably keeping him at arm’s length because you think you need to protect him, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing to us too, isn’t it? But we don’t need protecting. Weneedto love you.”
Just then, the side-by-side came over the bridge. Ashton was driving, with my three blond-haired, blue-eyed half-siblings. Jane, Tristan, and Emily were each strapped safely in their seats. Because Ashton was a good dad. The best. The kind whose blood you wanted filling your veins until you burst open from his goodness.
But he wasn’t mine.
Not really. My dark hair and dark eyes were a stark reminder of that every day.
“I have to go,” I choked and broke into a run.
* * *
Itook a forty-five-minute-long steaming hot shower. Half of it I spent self-deprecating, the other half trying to scrub the self-inflicted cutting scars from my thighs. I hadn’t cut in over ten months, but those scars were always there, reminding me of my past.
You were under a lot of pressure. You’re different now.
I was. But I’d done that to myself. I couldn’t blame it on anyone else. I wouldn’t.Blaming others for your actions does nothing but perpetuate a cycle of bad behavior. And Charlie Dupree was a cycle breaker. Of that, I was determined.
The last time I ever cut, I looked down at what I was doing and it hit me. I needed help. But I couldn’t afford therapy. I was broke—and not sort of broke—broke as a freaking joke. Completely overwhelmed, I said a prayer, asking God to help me find a better way to deal with the pain of…everything.
Just like at the police station, I’d opened the TikTok app. And just like at the police station, Cash appeared on my screen. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. But that particular day, he was sitting on his balcony at Virginia Tech, a guitar in his lap. “I’m going to share a little of my songwriting process with y’all,” he’d said. “Right now, I’m working on a song called ‘Hard to Love You.’” There was this light in his eyes—bright, proud.
As soon as I heard it, I knew it was about me. About our Hawaii kiss. I’d been mesmerized—replayed it probably fifty times—all the while wondering how Cash was so…steady. So brave and sure. He’d grown up trying to earn the love of his dead-beat dad, only to find out at the age of thirteen that he wasn’t his dad at all. Ford was. It was heartbreaking, thrilling, and confusing all at the same time. But he’d rolled with it. He didn’t hate himself. Definitely didn’t self-harm. I’d always wondered how.
But as I watched him that day, I knew. Cash wrote music. He created. That was his outlet. The thing that filled all the holes nothing else could. He’d told me that when he was younger, but that day I got it.
So, I searched through the cracks of my car, searching for spare change. I didn’t have enough for an actual sheet music composition notebook. I got the cheapest regular notebook I could find at Walmart. Then I drew the lines for a music staff, using the straight edge of a gaming book that Lorne had left in the car. Then I set to work.
At first, my music was garbage. But I kept at it. Now, I had three actual music composition notebooks full of songs. Meaningless to the rest of the world, but to me? They were gold. Composing had healed me. At least enough to stop hurting myself. It gave me something to look forward to every day. A reason to live.
I turned off the shower, stepped onto the bath mat, and slowly wiped the water from my red-hot skin. I took my time dressing and combing out my hair. Somehow, I knew Cash was waiting in my bedroom. But I couldn’t hide in here forever. So, with shaking hands, I turned the knob.
But Cash wasn’t sitting on the end of my bed waiting for an explanation.
Aunt Peyton was.
I pulled the bathroom door shut behind me, afraid to meet her eye.
“Come have a seat.” She patted the mattress next to her.
I sat and turned to face her, legs criss cross, my heart trying to eject itself from my body.
“Charlie, I need to say something.” She gave my knee a gentle squeeze. “But before I do, I want to tell you how much I love you. And how happy I am that you called me when you decided it was time to come home.”
