Or maybe not. “Of course.”
We walk inside, and I reach for the light switch, but her hand on mine stops me. “I don’t want the lights on.”
Definitely not a bad request. There are some good things that happen in the dark.
“You want to stay in the dark?”
“I can’t look at you when I say what I have to say.”
Well, shit. Now we’re back onto dread. “Oh. Okay.”
“Lay with me?”
I’m so fucking confused. I have absolutely no idea what the hell is happening, but I guide her to the bed, letting her rest her head on my chest. If this is her way of breaking things off, it’s not the worst way.
“Bear with me,” she whispers. “I’ve never told anyone this before. Not the truth.”
My heart races, and I almost want to tell her to stop. Not to tell me. Because I suspect my imagination isn’t nearly as bad as what she’s about to say.
She trembles in my arms, and I wrap her up tightly, wishing I could take away all of her pain. Her fear. Everything but her happy light that is nowhere to be seen.
“When I was little, my dad left Mom and me. I barely remember him I was so young.”
“Do you want me to find your dad for you?”
It’s something I can do. I can help with that. And it would make me feel useful because I feel pretty helpless right now.
“No, please. I know it’s not fair, but I blame him for everything that happened when he disappeared.”
My stomach churns. “Blame him for what, Yellow Crayon?”
She swallows and takes a deep breath, making me even more anxious. “When I was nine, Mom went through a rough patch. Lost her job, couldn’t find another one, and we had months where we lost electricity because it was bills or food.”
I massage her scalp absentmindedly, focusing on how soft her hair is between my fingers. “Is that why you force-feed people donuts?”
The small chuckle she gives eases some of the tightness in my chest. “No. Well, maybe. It’s why I bring leftovers to the homeless shelter. With you, I just kind of wanted to impress you. Something told me you were special, and it’s one of the few things I’m good at.”
There are more than a few things she’s good at. But I honestly don’t really know where this is headed.
“We moved in with my uncle at Grandma’s old farmhouse after we got evicted from our apartment. He offered us a place to stay while Mom looked for work, and she just had to help with groceries. Which we could do.”
I can’t help but brace myself for the horrible turn I know we’re about to reach. The pace of her storytelling is killing me. I’mabout to jump out of my skin, but I understand she needs to do this her way.
“She found a job, but it was nights. My uncle’s the reason I got that tattoo when I was nineteen. It felt empowering while I tried to put the pieces back together after Grandma died.”
“Is that why you hate basements? That’s where your uncle… hurt you?”
My mind swims. I’ll fill in the fucking basement with cement if that’s what happened. God, I hope that wasn’t what played in her mind that first night here. I feel like a fucking jackass now.
I do plan to find this asshole and chop his dick off, though. Then I’ll feed it to him.
“No, but yes. That’s where he took me, but I disassociated. That’s what the psychiatrist told me when I was thirteen. It’s not healthy, but it doesn’t really bother me as much as you’d think. It was usually quick.”
My jaw drops, and I want to say something. Anything. But what the fuck can I say other than I will find this bastard and kill him painfully?
“There are only two movies that trigger me, but I avoid them. It’s not difficult. I don’t think about it much.”
Yeah, none of this is fucking healthy, baby. But who am I to judge how she copes? I fucked a former escort from behind for years until Phoebe came into my life to deal with my issues.
