An ache spreads through my chest, and I brace myself for the worst.
“Our stories aren’t all that different,” he rasps, dropping his head into his hands. “Only I’m not thehero in mine.”
I stare at him, unable to process what he’s saying.
“Where you escaped the monster in your world, I became worse than mine.”
His words don’t make sense. But while I get the sense I should be afraid, I’m not. I’m scaredforhim, notofhim.
Drawing a deep breath, I inch closer and reach for his hand again, needing to anchor him the way he did me when I was rehashing my painful past. He flinches, but then his fingers latch onto mine like he’s clinging to his last hope. His eyes flash up to mine, and the storm in them pulls me under.
“My father didn’t discriminate in his abuse. Whoever got in his way was fair game. One of my earliest memories is cowering in the corner with Tori’s hands over my eyes as he laid into our mother. I don’t even know what she did to deserve it, but I’ll never forget the sound of his fist hitting her flesh and her pained whimpers as she tried not to scream.”
“Blake—”
He squeezes my hand and shakes his head, and I know he just needs me to listen.
“I was eight when he snapped my arm after a teacher called to say I was disruptive in class. Mum told everyone it was a soccer accident.” His jaw clenches. “When Tori got home late from a party at fifteen, he broke her nose. Mum told the hospital I’d accidentally kicked the ball into her face.”
His throat bobs as he swallows, and his grip on my hand tightens.
“When I was twelve, I tried to pull him off her.” His voice hitches, and I can tell from the vacant look in his eyesthat he’s caught in the memories of the past. “That’s when he broke my collarbone. Another ‘soccer injury’.”
A hollow laugh escapes him.
“That was the night I quit. I was sick of them using the only thing I loved to cover up what he was doing to us.”
After watching him play on the weekend, seeing the way he moved on instinct and pure, unfiltered talent, it hurts knowing what it must’ve cost him to walk away.
“It didn’t stop him. The excuses continued; the abuse continued. I tried to protect them. I’d mouth off on purpose to draw his attention. If he were going to hurt someone, I’d rather it be me. But I wasn’t always there.”
He shudders.
“I was fourteen, and I’d been given detention for fighting at school. When I got home, I could hear him shouting from the front yard. I didn’t want to go inside. My body hurt. I was tired. But I couldn’t leave them in there with him.”
His leg bounces, and I rest our entwined hands on it to remind him he’s not alone.
He licks his lips, his anguished gaze finding mine.
“There was so much blood. On her face. In her hair. I didn’t know if she was breathing.” His voice breaks, and he bows his head. “He was standing over her, screaming that she was useless. I couldn’t let her die.”
A tear slips down my cheek, my heart aching for the fourteen-year-old kid desperate to save his mother. Guilt washes over me for what I put Everett through at a similar age.
“I don’t remember grabbing the poker from thefireplace.” He drags in a pained breath. “I just wanted him away from her.”
His body shakes.
“I just wanted him to stop.”
My stomach twists.
“You were just a kid,” I whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek.
He sags into me. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
My chest tightens at the conviction in his tone. “I know.”
“She blamed me.” His voice cracks. “When she got out of the hospital, she couldn’t even look at me.”
