Love flows through my veins and gives me strength that I wouldn’t have found otherwise.
“My parents had a huge fight and my dad hurt my mom. I tried helping her and she wasn’t… she didn’t like it and asked me to leave.”
Carol and Xavier stare at me with shocked expressions. More tears brim in her eyes and she presses her hand against her chest.
It’s Xavier who asks, “When you say fight you mean your father physically?—”
I give him a shaky nod.
He presses his lips together in silence.
“That’s why Heath got involved that night. My father attacked me and he was in my room and saw it happened. In order to protect me, he hit him. It wasn’t his fault. It is mine.” I clasp my hands together in my lap in desperation. “Please don’tbe mad at Heath, he was just trying to protect me. My dad called the police and he pressed charges against Heath.”
“Your father attacked you?” Carol asks with a shuddering whisper.
“Yes, but I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“How can you be fine?” Tears fall down her eyes.
“It’s okay.”
“It is not.” She protests, looking miserable as if the thought of me getting hurt aches her.
“It happens…” I murmur.
She starts weeping and her husband wraps his arm around her.
Guilt climbs around my heart like a vine, its branches tightening at the fact that I’m the reason behind her tears.
“How long has this been happening?” she asks.
“A few months.”
“Did Heath know?”
“Not until that night. I didn’t want him to know about it. I knew he’d get into trouble because of me.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t regret it. He likes you a lot,” his mother assures me.
“But I don’t want him to get hurt,” I say.
The front door opens and a few moments later Heath appears.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
His gaze locks on me.
30
HEATH
Hope is sittingwith my parents in the living room — a sight that shoots instant worry through my system.
In seconds, I cross the room and stand beside Hope. My gaze searches every inch of her face and drowns in the depth of her eyes—that look calm but tension is streaming through her muscles. She is sitting straight and her fingers are fidgeting with each other, which is always a sign that she is spiraling.
“Rose, are you okay?” I ask her softly, cupping her chin and tilting it up. “Did something happen? Did they do something? Tell me.”
Anger makes my skin hot, and my head fills with dangerous thoughts. I don’t spare a single look at my parents knowing it’d lose it.
