CHAPTER 13
WESTON
If not me, if not therapy, someone else. Please.
I’m thinking back on Penelope’s big, begging green eyes after I’d told her I didn’t want to go back to therapy. We met for breakfast this morning before her lecture at Golden State, and she’s been pestering me to continue my sessions since I stopped attending upon my move to Pacific Shores. My therapist was never a good fit for me, anyway. I know I could find someone here, but I don’t think I’m ready yet.
I’ve had countless counselors over the years. Dead mom, abusive dad, attempted murder charge, and a stint in county lockup. My rap sheet is longer than any twenty-year-old’s should be, and I have more reasons than most to seek help. Despite that, I haven’t yet met someone I feelgetsit, and I’m too burned out to continue trying.
Penelope worries that turning to surfing is merely a way of covering my pain, and that I’ll never truly heal if I can’t face my past. I’d argue I won’t ever heal at all, so what does it matter? Except, Penelope’s mom also died. She never knew her dad. She was adopted and can relate to the feeling of being completely alone in the world. So, she’s difficult to argue with.
I also realize Penelope, like Willow, is a victim of sexual abuse. I wonder if Willow knows, and if she’s ever considered talking to Penelope about what she’s gone through. Though, I know it’s not my place to be involved. Willow likely disclosed that bit of information with me out of pity, or by a slip of the tongue.
Yet, it’s clouded my head since the moment the words left her mouth. I found myself grateful I don’t know who her ex is, it made it harder to visualize harming him—but I can’t pretend the thought hasn’t crossed my mind several times since.
I know it’s not healthy—especially with my past—to have a reaction like that. Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to lay a hand on any person since the day I almost killed one—until Willow told me she’d been sexually assaulted. The way her golden face lost its color, her bright blue eyes turned almost gray, her sing-song voice cracked and broke... Someone who could take a woman like Willow—gentle and lively and soft—and shatter her doesn’t deserve to walk free.
And yet, so many men do.
I think that’s what triggers me. The unfairness of it. I’ve been struggling to come to terms with the fact that my mother wasn’t the world’s only victim of it. A fact that I am aware of, but feels much more real when I see it up close with Willow.
I wonder if perhaps she could understand me. The choice I made and the way I acted. If she came face-to-face with her monster again, if every instinct screamed at her to slay him, would she do it? Maybe she has more control—she’s well-adjusted, raised in a stable household with patience and love. She’d never harm anyone, I’m sure, but maybe she’d understand why I did. Perhaps we could be a comfort to each other. A friend. Companions living in darkness together. Though, mine is dark and turbulent and violent. Sure, that violence has only ever beenaimed at the abuser, never the abused, but I can’t deny that my father’s blood still runs through my veins, and it’s no good.
Yet, my mind wandered to Willow when Penelope pleaded with me to find someone to share my trauma with.
I crane my head toward her dad, who straddles his board about fifteen yards away, paying me no mind as he laughs with Carter beside him. I trained hard this morning, and Carter made the trip out with Penelope today so he could join Leo and me. They both took a break about ten minutes ago, opting to float out on the waves instead of riding them. I kept going, but now realize I’ve been so lost in thought I don’t know how many minutes have passed since I paid attention to the swells in front of me.
Only Penelope, Carter, and Carter’s dad—a lawyer who significantly assisted us in navigating my charges—know the true depths of my case. They had to disclose the basic details to Leo and Darby before I came to stay with them, but otherwise, my past has stayed between us. I’m not fond of others knowing my trauma if it’s not coming from my mouth, and I don’t like talking about it either.
My initial arrest warrant was public record, and while the court documents have since been sealed, it’s not difficult for someone to search my arrest online and find the information they’re looking for. The gist of it is there: I was charged with attempted murder and eventually convicted for only misdemeanor assault. The fact I sat in a cell for nearly two years awaiting trial without bail makes me a villain in the eyes of most. Many believe that I got off on technicalities—I committed the crime two weeks short of my eighteenth birthday and had a damn good lawyer—but I’m still a monster nonetheless.
I’m not even sure I mind that narrative. I think the alternative might be worse. Being pitied, seen as a victim. The idea that I somehow had no other choice, or that my actionswere a trauma response, a form of self-defense. That was my team’s entire argument. I was a child of abuse, so I turned to violence when I felt threatened. That I wasn’t able to register the extent of the injuries I caused because I was so used to being harmed myself, I had no threshold for the damage that could be done to another person. While all that may be true, there was one aspect of the defense that wasn’t—the narrative that I never intended to murder him, I was only protecting myself.
I had every intention of killing my father that day.
If I hadn’t approached him, he’d never have bothered to look my direction. I wasn’t threatened, never in danger. I was no longer a boy he preyed upon. I became a fucking predator.
I’m every bit the criminal the prosecution and the media made me out to be.
A good law team and a warranted motive certainly don’t make me a victim in the situation, but in my experience, most people can only see me as one or the other. I don’t want to be viewed as another result of my father’s wrath, as a consequence to his actions. That’s a burden my mother already carried to her grave, and I’d rather be remembered as the person who tried to enact revenge than as another victim of domestic violence.
I don’t know how to explain the complexities of these thoughts, and every time I’ve tried in therapy, it feels as if I’m doing it wrong. Rather than constantly venting to others and watching them fail to understand, I find myself holding it all in and living with the fact that some will think lowly of me because of my past.
There is no reason to believe Willow would be understanding of my baggage, or that she’d be willing to help carry it like Penelope suggested I find someone to do. It’s a ridiculous burden to place upon her—hell, I don’t even know her, really. I don’t trust her. She’s so far removed from the reality I’velived... I don’t understand why any part of me believes she’d be the one to actually understand me.
And yet... she remains right there, nestled in the center of my mind.
“Wes!” Leo calls over the roaring waves. When I turn toward him and Carter, he hitches his thumb. “Dinner at the big house tonight around seven.”
I toss him a thumbs-up, and before I can allow nerves to knot inside my stomach, I lay flat and begin paddling toward the swell in front of me instead.
“Thanks for lettingme use your shower,” Carter says as he follows me down the steps of the guesthouse and across the yard to the back porch of Leo and Darby’s.
“I mean... it’s not my shower, but also, it’s literally not a big deal.”
He chuffs, nudging me with his shoulder. “I’m being polite, you menace.”
As we reach the deck, I find Penelope and Darby, rocking on the porch swing facing the horizon, a bottle of wine on the table between them. Darby says something under her breath, and Penelope bursts with a cackle I’ve never heard before.
