“Okay.” I nod and take another bite as Andrews retreats, and I’m left with a seething Owen.
Silence descends.
Awkward, fucking silence.
“Does he know about the hard drive?” Owen finally asks.
“No. Unless you have told him. But he can be trusted.”
“I’m not even sure I trust you at this moment,” he says, and I recoil back in my chair as though his words are a physical punch. They hurt, like being stabbed in the fucking chest.
“Wow. Okay.” I throw my fork onto the plate, the sound of metal on ceramic breaking the silence that builds between us. I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for the explosion that I know is about to come.
“What the fuck, Lucy!”
“And there it is,” I mutter to myself, a small smile tugging at my mouth at how predictable he is.
“Shut up.”
“I don’t know why you’re angry at me. I’m hardly responsible for this current predicament.”
His stare pins me in place, his nostrils flaring, but says nothing. Instead, he leaps out of his chair dramatically, which falls to the floor on a loud clatter, and storms out of the dining room.
“Well, that went well,” I say to myself as I stare at the fallen chair.
Alone again.
How I’m used to things.
I tut.
How can things change so rapidly? Two days ago, things were normal. Getting my assignments, making cracking shots. Now…it’s all gone to shit.
A heartbeat. A shot. An assignment. A confession. My confession.
It hangs in the air between us like a shit-covered elephant. I know it needs addressing, but I’m not exactly sure how best to do it. I lashed out, I said what I said, it’s out there now, and I can’t take it back.
Our foster father, James, raped me, and whether I’m ready to say the words out loud, let alone admit them to myself, I blame Owen. And I wanted him to blame himself, too. And doesn’t that little confession make me feel like the biggest piece of shit?
I fucked him this morning because I didn’t want him to push me into talking about it. I’ve pushed him away every time he’s asked me; because I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that I blame him.
Because fifteen years later, I wonderwhat if?
What if he hadn’t left? Would James have got to me? But it’s not his fault.
Not really, because a person like James would have found a way, whether Owen had been there or not. And that right there is the real reason for this. It’s nothing to do with Owen.
Sure, Owen wanted to know what happened to me, so he could beat himself up some more, because he feels shit about leaving. But the real reason I pushed him away, the real reason I’m reluctant to revisit the past, is that I don’t want to know why he left.
Because what if the reason he left was because of me?
That’s my real fear.
You don’t truly understand pain until the person you love more than anything in the world walks away and you have no idea why.
I blink myself back to the present, my eyes staring vacantly at the mashed potato on my plate as shouts from the hallway pull my attention from the squishy substance.
“Fuck you.” Owen’s deep voice carries through the air, followed by the deep, placating rumble of Andrews.
