"I knew. You always denied it, but I knew. I could tell by the way you looked at her." Brady gave me a stern look, a smile hiding beneath his scowl.
"Yeah, well, I was obsessed with her, not gonna lie. And that night, she had just broken up with that dick boyfriend of hers, and I just wanted to be there for her. We talked alone in one ofthe spare bedrooms for hours, and..." I paused, knowing what was coming next.
I felt sick again and sat up with my eyes wide open, hanging my head in shame. I could feel Brady's eyes on me. I could already tell he knew what I was about to say. Knowing him, he just needed to hear the truth from me to confirm what he already knew. I knew it wouldn't be easy, telling Brady I'd taken advantage of his sister, but it needed to be said. It needed to be out in the open so we could all begin to heal.
"Hitch," Brady warned, his voice deep, threatening, and low—very low.
"Brady, I'm sorry, man." I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through the panic.
"Fucking say it, Hitch. Tell me what you did," Brady demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"I took advantage of her being drunk," I finally admitted aloud, but I knew he wanted to hear it all. So I continued, digging my nails into the skin of my palms. "I fucked her, Brady, and I didn't—at the time—give two fucks how drunk she was, or how many times she asked me to stop. I wanted her.I fucking loved herand I'd been waiting for that moment for a long time. I was selfish and evil, but my drunken ass didn't care." I held my breath as the last words slipped from my mouth.
As I turned my head to look at Brady, his fist connected with my jaw, jerking my head back and making my eyes water instantly. He was on top of me before I knew it, and I laid there and took each punch because I knew I deserved them.
"You fuckingrapedher, Hitch!" he screamed, his fists pummeling into my face. “Fucking say it!”
I felt like I was going to puke. That word alone made my stomach turn, but deep down, I knew that's exactly what I'd done. It didn't matter how I tried to describe it; I had rapedFallon, plain and simple. And now I was finally facing the consequences.
“I raped her, Brady,” I whispered, so fucking ashamed of myself.
But I didn't try to defend myself or my actions. I let Brady unleash all his rage on me, the blows landing with a sickening thud. The taste of blood filled my mouth, mixing with the peppermint schnapps. Each punch was a reminder of the pain I'd inflicted on Fallon, the agony I'd caused. I deserved every single fucking one.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Brady pulled back, his chest heaving, his knuckles swollen and bloody, his face contorted with a mixture of fury and sorrow. He scrambled off me, his breaths ragged. He looked at me with a raw, primal hatred that mirrored my own self-loathing.
"Get out," he spat, his voice hoarse, "Get the fuck out of my house."
I didn't argue. I pushed myself up, my body aching, my face a mess. I didn't try to wipe the blood from my lip. I just nodded, got to my feet, and stumbled towards the door.
As I reached the threshold, I turned back to look at Brady. He was sitting on the floor, his back against me, staring into the flames in the fireplace. His face was a mask of grief, a reflection of the damage I had done; he looked defeated.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words barely audible.
I knew the apology was worthless, but I had to say it. He didn't respond. He didn't even look at me. I turned my back on him and the past and put my hand on the doorknob, fully prepared to walk out of his house and never see him or Fallon again. But what he said next stopped me, and I froze with my forehead pressed against the door while I tried to focus on my breathing.
"Foley raped her, Hitch," Brady whispered, his voice filled with pain.
Rage burned within me, turning my insides to a fucking inferno. I tried so hard to keep my composure, but I knew at any moment there was a high percentage that I was going to fucking explode. I turned back around to see Brady looking at me, tears running down his face as he grasped the alcohol bottle like it was his anchor—something to keep him grounded in the storm that was about to hit us hard.
We looked at each other square in the eyes, and I knew in my gut that he wasn't done spilling secrets. I re-entered the living room and sat beside him on the floor, the fire warming my back. I snatched the bottle out of his hand and chugged it, not worrying about the burn or the overload taste of peppermint.
Brady reached up to the end table and pulled down a picture frame, staring at a Christmas picture of him, Julian, and Fallon. I leaned in and looked over his shoulder, studying the image as hard as he was, trying to figure out what he was looking so intently at. I followed Brady's eyes and noticed he was staring at his sister, which made me feel guilty all over again, but I stared too—hard—and suddenly noticed something I hadn't realized before.
I looked at Brady, taking the frame out of his hand cautiously. He turned to look at me and the air between us felt suffocating. His eyes told a story—a secret—and I sat there staring back, waiting for him to speak the words I'd been waiting to hear. It didn't dawn on me until now, that both he and Fallon were keeping a huge secret. I had my suspicions especially recently, but I kept them to myself. I could tell Brady was ready to get the weight off his chest, but his hesitation spoke volumes.
I looked at the picture again, smiling at baby Julian who was nestled in Fallon's arms as her and Brady sat beside Santa, and the more I looked at her and him, I knew deep down that I was right. I just needed to hear Brady say it.
"I'm so sorry for what I did to Fallon," I said, meaning every word, though I wasn't sure if my apology would even be accepted.
"I know you are," he said softly, his voice cracking. "It still hurts to know that you hurt her just like he did."
Feeling the conversation moving along slowly, I spoke up again. "When did that happen?"
"About three years ago," he answered, his eyes dropping to the picture in my hand. "Hitch," Brady said, giving me a serious look as he tried to hold back his tears.
"Talk to me, brother," I urged him. "What is it?"
He sighed heavily, the words on the tip of his tongue. But before he spoke he took another sip of the alcohol, probably for courage to spill his deepest secret. But I couldn't fucking blame him. I too used alcohol to give me courage, even in my thirties. I was sure everyone did at some point in their lives. He passed me the bottle and I tipped it back, feeling the mint sting my split lip from his brutal punches, but the pain reminded me that I was alive, and I was fucking grateful.
