Then my father’s weight was pressing into the bed, and his hand was reaching out to pull the covers away from my head.
“I tried to fight him,” I whimpered.
“I know you did, baby girl, I know you did.”
“I almost got away,” I added, sniffling hard. “But Lance was holding the door closed.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen the look on his face right then. It was the face of a man who’d killed people, who was contemplating doing it again.
“He what?” he hissed.
“He pushed him in here, and then he held the door closed.”
“Why would he do that?” my father asked, confused because of how much I’d kept from him.
So the rest spilled out of me then, words tumbling over one another, useless tears starting and stopping over and over.
“Is that so?” my father asked, sucking in a slow breath. “Well, you’ll never have to see him again.”
He’d been right about that. Lance was gone that night, and he never came back.
As for us, we packed up and moved, since my father didn’t want me anywhere near Blake or that group of friends ever again.
As for me, I went through a paranoid phase, expecting every guy who looked twice at me to want to hurt me. So I did the only rational thing I could think of: I made myself as unappealing as possible. I dressed in long-sleeve black clothes year-round. I puton heavy makeup. I practically growled at people if they tried to talk to me.
Eventually, I moved past it, opened up again. I found a boy my age who I really liked and who really liked me. And he showed me how things were supposed to be.
And then I stopped thinking about my step-cousin entirely.
Until, of course, he showed up again.
It was the damn pickles.
None of the deliberate clues he left would have had me connecting the dots.
But the Lance I knew hated pickles. He used to wrinkle his nose whenever I ordered extra.
“Try,” he scoffed. “I have been training ever since your father kicked me out onto the streets. Over nothing.”
“Nothing? You held the door closed while your friend tried to rape me, you fucking asshole.”
“God, don’t be dramatic. That wasn’t what was happening?”
“No? Because I had scrape marks down my hips and thighs from where he’d pulled my pants down for weeks. I had bruises on my chest from him pawing at me.”
There was a flicker then, just the slightest hint of uncertainty. Like maybe for all these years, he had himself convinced that I’d fabricated a story just to get him out of the house because I hated him so much.
I hadn’t seen where Lance was when my father stormed into the room and started beating Blake bloody.
My best guess was, like the chickenshit he was, he heard my dad coming and ran.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I think you do. You want some more proof? I looked into Blake a few years back. He’s been accused of rape four times. Once against his little sister’s best friend.”
Another flash.
Not quite regret. He probably had too much lingering resentment about losing the father figure and lifestyle he’d learned to love. But it was a hint of humanity. I could work with that.
