“What’s on the menu?” Julian arched a brow, that same curious look I’d seen a hundred times on his sister.
“Coke, beer, water… or the best whiskey in town. Premium Scotch, naturally.” I shut the fridge and reached for the cabinet. “Want a glass?”
“Yeah. Pour it.”
“Ice?”
He shook his head. “Ruins the taste.”
“Good man.” I chuckled, setting the bottle and two tumblers on the desk.
I handed Julian his glass and dropped into the chair across from him. “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?” My fingers wouldn’t stay still, tapping against my knee as his stare pinned me. I wasn’t a psychologist. Hell, I could barely crack this man open.
Then a tired smile tugged at his mouth.
“I’ve been thinking on the drive over,” he said. “Sexual assault isn’t just an act. It’s the symptom of a sickness. It starts up here.” He tapped his temple. “The mindset. The rot in someone’s head.”
“My ex-wife…” I started, guilt clawing at my throat.
Julian lifted a hand. “What’s done is done. Abuse is an injustice that stains everything. It’s one of the ugliest pieces in this jigsaw world.”
“We can’t change what happened to us.”
“Us?” Julian placed his glass on the table. His lips tightened like thin ropes, whitening at the edges.
“Us.” I stared back at him, then repeated that binding word, “Us.”
“You?”
“Yes. I was forced into a situation when I was twelve.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Julian dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed.
“I had to say it on my own terms,” I told him, holding his stare. “Before now, I wasn’t ready.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, man,” Julian muttered, shifting in his chair.
I leaned forward, placing both elbows on my knees, and clasped my hands. “I was twelve the first time I had sex. It wasn’tsomething I did willingly. I was forced into it at a youth camp organized by a church. Two adults were involved.”
Julian frowned. “You didn’t have sex. You were abused.”
“Your sister said the same thing .”
“She never mentioned it to me,” Julian mused. “But it’s not her place to speak for you on this particular matter.”
“I trust her with my secrets. You know, she’s good at keeping them,” I admitted.
Julian smirked. “She’s a master of secrets. The things she got away with when we were kids.” His low, rumbling laugh filled the space, and I couldn’t help but join in. For a moment, humor cracked through the heaviness .
“I’ve been in therapy on and off for years,” I confessed. “For what happened and other things. Healing isn’t linear. The past is like a chronic pain. You never know when it’ll flare, but it’s always there, somewhere in the back of your mind.”
Julian’s expression sobered. “I get it. Right now, I’m at the bottom of an abyss, looking up for a light. Saph’s pulling me through it. She and our son are the only anchors I have left.”
“You’re wrong about that,” I refuted. “You’ve got Vera, and you’ve got me. We’re family. Our bond’s thicker than blood.”
Julian gave a faint nod. “I know. I do.” His jaw tightened. “But this nightmare is fucked. Talking to the police wasn’t just remembering. It was reliving it. Like the whole ordeal reached out and dragged me back inside it.”
“I get you, man. For me, it was the betrayal of trust—the abuse of power—and realizing how hypocritical the world really is.” I paused, then asked, “You know about the bystander effect? Bystander apathy?”
