“Not like this. I’m sorry, Mara, but I don’t think you can.”
“Why not? I told Hannah. She gets it. She can help me. I can help her. I told you. That’s all I need. You two are all I need—?it’s enough.”
Charlie’s lower lip trembles. “I get that, but that doesn’t change the fact that your parents have no idea that this happened. That he’s still out there, working with kids. You can’t get any closure because of that.”
“So Hannah can’t either?” I shoot back, and Charlie pales. “Owen’s going to walk away from all this like it’s nothing but a bad breakup story. She doesn’t get to move on?”
“That’s different. She tried. She told the truth. And she’s going to start seeing a therapist—?she’s trying to work through it.”
“So I’m a piece of shit because I just want to forget it and move on?”
Charlie’s eyes widen. “No. Of course not. I didn’t mean that at all.”
Tears run down my face, desperation in every single drop. Desperation and anger and exhaustion. So much exhaustion.
“Just tell the truth,” Charlie says softly. Too softly and it pisses me off. “That’s all you have to do, and I’ll help you.”
“Oh, because you’re so damn good at truth telling—?just ask your parents.”
The words are out before I can stop them. She visibly flinches. “I—”
“They’ve got a perfect daughter, don’t they? Their daughter would never go play on some Nashville stage behind their backs. Their daughter would never feel like a fucking stranger in her own body sometimes, would she?”
“Holy shit, Mara.”
I know I’m being an asshole, but I can’t stop, can’t seem to shut up. “Have your parents ever even asked why all your friends call you Charlie? Oh wait. I forgot. Of course they have. But you lie with loving care.”
She gapes at me, and one thick tear plummets down her cheek. She brushes it away before I can decide if it was really there or not.
“That’s not the same thing,” she whispers. “They already know I like girls. And I can come out to my parents about my own fucking body when I’m ready. I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Neither am I.”
“You’re hurting yourself. And who knows if that asshole—”
“I need some time,” I say without looking at her. I can’t stand to see the disappointment in her eyes, the anger, and I hate her a little for that, for taking away my safe place. For taking away this moment where I thought the confession would be enough. “Can you just leave me here?”
“Mara—”
“Please.”
“Shit. I know you’re upset and I don’t mean to pressure you. I just—”
“Fucking go!” A few festival-goers passing by startle at my scream, wide-eyed and whispering.
Charlie rears back as though I slapped her. The space between us grows thick with this need to do something, be something, change something. But eventually, Charlie does what I ask, leaving me on the stool with nothing but the too-gentle press of the evening breeze to calm me down.
Eventually, I stand up and find my way into the parking lot, half blind from silent tears. Our car is nowhere to be found, but I barely register its absence. I start walking, the movement distracting and welcome. But it feels as if the miles between here and wherever I end up will never be enough to silence the voice in my head.
Because there is no way to really move on. No song or empathetic friend or all the love I have for my brother will ever change that, and I was stupid stupid stupid to think that I could. There is no going back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
STUPID LITTLE BITCH.
Stupid little bitch.
Stupid little bitch.
