“What kind of memories?”
“Small things. Snapshots,” I said. “They play in my head like a movie. Times when I screwed up. Fell short. Memories of the things my dad used to say to me.”
He scooted closer. “What do you mean?”
I shook my head. There was no way I’d dive into that with him. The last thing I needed was Jasper thinking I was a complete basket case.
He cupped my shoulders, his large hands warm and soothing. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I obeyed. The compassion bleeding for him only made it harder to hold back tears.
“Vincent is okay. But you’re clearly not. You faded away for a minute, and when you came back, you were shaking and crying. Please let me in.”
I took in his warm eyes, his easy smile. He wouldn’t understand. And I didn’t want to sound like that girl.
The broken girl
The self-conscious girl.
I’d worked hard to leave her behind. To grow into a version of myself that could manage all the challenges life threw at me. Yet here I was, breaking down when my baby had a fever.
“It’s okay.” He pulled me into his arms, folding me against his warm, broad chest. “Just try to breathe.”
“My family,” I said, the words escaping me without my permission. “Growing up…”
“It’s okay. I’m not judging. I want to help.”
“My dad. He’s not a kind person. He’d pick one of us girls, mostly me, to use as his scapegoat.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why he did it, but he would berate me for being chubby. He’d police what I ate for dinner, rail against me when I did anything wrong. Or when I didn’t get an A on every test. He’d yell at me after basketball games. It didn’t matter what I’d doneright. He’d always remind me of the ways I should have done better.”
The warmth of his arms made me feel safe in a way I didn’t think I ever had.
So the words continued to pour out of me. “It didn’t matter. None of us were safe. After he came home from work, we’d sit at the dinner table and wait to see who he’d target that day. Sometimes it was my mom. But she’d usually throw one of us under the bus to divert his attention.”
My body trembled as I spoke, but Jasper just held me tighter, keeping me grounded. “If his steak was overcooked, she’d pivot and tell him I’d forgotten my violin at school or that I’d gotten a math problem wrong. Then he’d turn on me.”
He let out a long breath. “That sounds horrible.”
“It was normal to us. I didn’t realize it wasn’t until I was an adult. Most of the time I’m fine, but sometimes, when I fall short, the memories and shame come back. Thoughts I banished decades ago resurface, and suddenly I feel inadequate and unlovable.”
As he squeezed me tighter, I realized his T-shirt was damp with my tears. “None of that was your fault,” he said firmly. “You were perfect. You are perfect. Kids make mistakes and screw up. Parents should not weaponize childhood against their own children.”
The tears wouldn’t stop, so I closed my eyes and rested my head on his chest.
“That’s abuse.” His words were low but firm.
I bristled, shaking my head.
“Evie,” he said, tipping my chin up with two fingers. “That is abuse. And what you’re experiencing? This is PTSD.”
My chest tightened painfully. No. Not possible. These emotions were overly dramatic. Silly, even. I hadn’t been to war. My dad had never hit me.
He stroked my hair, and rather than pull away, I gave him more of my weight. The gesture was intimate and protective and deeply comforting.
“No. Negative thoughts just took over and ran amok,” I explained. “Sometimes I get pulled into this vortex in my mind. Memories crash and overlap, taking over my thoughts, and then my body joins in, like I’m eight again and being screamed at on the way home from my father’s boss’s pool party in the Hamptons because, according to him, I looked like a whale in my purple swimsuit. I was fat and it embarrassed him, and he was so sure that would hurt his career.”
