They don’t listen.
“I was eight,” I tell him, letting the three words drop and settle between us, “when my dad died and my mom left. I think she ran off with a guy I saw her cheating on my dad with.”
“Erin, I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head.
I press my hand against my sternum, trying to quell the emotions swirling inside me.
“I’m not good at opening up, Chase. It’s never come easy to me,” I say as my hands curl into fists and the tips of my nails dig into my palms, frustration coursing through my veins.
Why do I want to tell him everything and go no further at the same time?
What does it mean?
Chase inches closer. His hands move to cover mine. Calloused, but rough and smooth at the same time. The raised skin represents his hard work and dedication. His thumb makes slow circles over the back of my hand, showing his gentle side. My hands feel safe in his, and for that reason, I trust him to hold my secrets—and me—with delicacy.
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you decide you don’t want to talk, I’ll stay.”
“I don’t think my mom wanted to be a parent. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t love me the way one should. We never had a bond. My dad saw that and made sure we had one. Sh—” Air catches in my lungs, and I stop.
“I’m here,” he whispers.
“Physically, she never hurt me. She’d grab me every now and then. Shake me. But that was the extent of it. It was her words that cut deep. I don’t remember when her spitefulness started. Just that the harder I tried to be good, to be praised by her or feel wanted, the meaner she got,” I tell him. “My very existence bothered her. Sober Clarissa Rose ignored me, and sometimes, that was better. Easier. When she had a bottle in her hand, I just wanted to disappear.”
I look up at Chase, who says nothing.
Questions slam into me.
What if he doesn’t understand?
What if he sees me differently now?
I wait for him to pull away, to tell me it’s too much.
But he doesn’t.
He just stays there with his hand on mine, unmoved by any of it, and out of nowhere, another truth spreads on the tip of my tongue.
What I saw happen to my dad.
Whenever I wake up screaming in the middle of the night, it’s always from the same dream—my dad getting shot and the man with the tattoo taking me somewhere. For years, I’ve said I dreamt of Roger finding and hurting me for sending him to jail.
I don’t know why sitting here with Chase feels as though he’d be the parachute guiding me to safety if I were to take that leap and tell him everything I’ve kept to myself all these years.
“Hey, come back to me.”
Just like that, I’m in the room again, rather than lost in my thoughts.
“Sometimes, I still hear her. I’ve worked hard to keep her out, but I can’t always do it,” I admit.
I don’t tell him that my mother came out to play today. I don’t tell him that I ran because I can’t become her. The thought of it—becoming someone who hurts others—shakes me to my core.
“I’ve always tried to keep my distance from people. I thought it would give me a sense of control, and in some ways, it has. Keeping people away lets me decide who I let in and what I let them see. I’ve always been scared that if I let anyone get too close, I’ll lose that control. And even though I barely have a hold on it sometimes, it’s the only thing that feels like my choice.”
“You don’t have to share all your secrets and fears with someone to matter to them, Erin.”
“Can you really know a person if they don’t?” I ask him. “Sometimes, I think I’m just a reflection of someone else’s secrets and lies… and that I’ll never truly have what I want.”
“What do you want?”
