“There will always be something for her to hang over your head,” Leo says slowly. “How much of your life are you willing to play with until you decide the debt is cleared? How many times will you let her set you on fire to keep you warm before there’s no more light for you to give? She treats you like you’re hers to manipulate.” Why do his words hurt so much? “You’re her collateral damage. You don’t owe loyalty to people who make you feel like you’re never enough because that’s not loyalty—that’s conditioning. Guilt is a weapon.”
“I owe?—”
“You owe your abuser nothing.”
I bite down a sob, wrapping my arms around myself. That’s what she is, isn’t she? Two things can be true at once. She’s my mother and my tormentor.
The answer to my problems is so clear, but it’s murky at the same time. Leo makes it sound so simple.
Did he find it easy to cut off his parents after a single incident? Have I been so—as he said—conditionedto take the beatings that I interpret them as love? That so long as my heart still beats, she can break as many bones as she’d like?
What’s safety if it’s in the hands of someone who hates me?
“You deserve a love and a life that doesn’t hurt, and your mother has given you neither,” Leo tells me. “Choosing distance isn’t betrayal, Mina—it’s self-preservation.”
Then why does it feel like I’m sacrificing myself either way?
The entire world is blurry as I stare down at my feet. I can’t look at him.
“I want to go home.”
There’s a moment where neither of us moves or breathes, and his last words are a nail in my coffin.
“Picking peace isn’t selfish.” His solid hand grasps my arm. “Choose your peace with me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mina
My phone went off. Someone has texted me, but I don’t want to check. I don’t want toknow.
So, I ignore it. I shove my nose back in my book and pretend it didn’t go off. It’s midnight. No one would text me at this time. And itisa text. I saw the tiny green icon light up the screen. There are only three people who send me texts: Leo, Mom and the unknown number.
I keep reading—try to, at least. I reread the same paragraph five times, and not once do I process any of the information. Admittedly, it’s not like I even know what’s happening in the book. I keep zoning out and thinking about what happened... earlier. With Leo.
And Mom.
My throat tightens. Then my phone goes off again. The two-minute reminder that I have a text I haven’t responded to.
Fuck it. I crawl over to the other end of my bed and regret every decision I’ve ever made.
Unknown Number: I don’t like being ignored. So maybe you need a reminder of everything I have: your unwritten books, every email and message you’ve ever sent, the information you gathered about Leo Duval and his teammates, the tracker you placed on his car. Should I continue?
I stare.
And I stare.
And Istare.
The words are a blurred smudge across the screen. I keep blinking back the tears, but they won’t stop falling.
It’s been ten minutes, and I haven’t been able to do anything but stare at the text, and the longer I stare, the harder I try to convince myself that the message that arrived at midnight will change.
This—after everything that happened today—is too much. For one crazy second, I saw arealfuture without hurt or wrong, where I’ve cut my parents off and I’m happily riding off into the sunset with Leo.
After the discussion we had today, I felt a brief flicker of hope because I thought I might find the strength to do what needed to be done if I knew it wasn’t a path I’d be walking alone. Whatever hiccup, we’d work through it together.
But then this text came. Reality barreled in.
