6. The Past
6
THE PAST
TYLER
“You’re not trying hard enough!”
I pump my arms and legs faster, driving my feet across the long, narrow lawn that runs along the side of the house. My lungs burn and my muscles quiver. I’m afraid they might fail at any second and I’ll crash onto the wet grass and skid through the mud on my belly.
I reach the end of the lawn, pivot, and run back toward the starting point.
“Faster.” Dad claps his hands briskly. “Get a move on. I didn’t raise a pussy.”
Rain streaks down my face as I arrive at the starting line he set up earlier, pivot, and take off again. He’s had me out here doing shuttle runs for half an hour now. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up.
Unfortunately, this is what happens when we lose a game. This time, he blamed my lack of explosive cardio training for the failure. I tried to point out that it’s a team game, but he didn’t listen. He never does.
A muscle in my thigh seizes and my steps falter. I try to mask it by pretending to slip on a muddy patch—of which there are plenty. I drag in a lungful of air, wishing I had time to appreciate the scent of rain on the concrete.
“I saw that!” Dad yells. “Keep going. Half-ass isn’t good enough.”
I sprint to the end of the yard, then return to the start, nearest the driveway, where he’s sitting beneath an umbrella, with a cup of coffee nestled on his lap.
Asshole.
I stop beside him and grab the towel slung over the arm of the chair, then mop my face with it.
“Did I say you could take a break?” he demands, his eyes flat.
“My tutor will be here soon,” I puff, struggling to catch my breath. “I need to work on that biology essay.”
I bend, my hamstrings protesting, and wrap my hand around the water bottle on the ground. I slug the water back, desperately thirsty despite the fact I’m soaked to the skin.
A muscle ticks in Dad’s jaw. “You should have thought of that before you let your fitness slide. I want twenty more, and don’t even think about slacking off.”
Anger heats my insides, combating the chill that’s long since settled into my bones.
“I can’t do everything.” A sense of helplessness consumes me. “It’s nearly impossible to get the grades you think I should and keep my fitness and skills in peak condition.”
Dad laughs, but the sound is all edge and no humor. He gets to his feet and, before I have time to react, he smacks me across the face. My head snaps around and the metallic tang of blood fills my mouth. A searing pain flares in my cheek and I raise my hand to it, gently probing the area.
Fortunately, he hasn’t split the skin.
I stare at him, seething. Fuck, I wish I could punch the smug expression off his face.
“Laziness and excuses won’t win you a Stanley Cup.” He shakes his head and stalks away.
I watch him go, and a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention.
My heart sinks.
Standing on the driveway, a backpack slung over one of her shoulders, is Echo Dean. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and a dozen emotions flicker across her face. I know in an instant that she saw everything.
“What are you looking at?” I demand.
Her mouth falls open. “N-nothing,” she stammers.
“Better fucking not be.”
I can’t have rumors spreading about Dad hitting me. I can’t stand the idea of my classmates looking at me with pity or disgust. I’d become a laughingstock. Then, somehow, Dad would find a way to blame me, even though he’s the one who acted like a child where someone could see.
I know I shouldn’t let him get away with what he does. I’m a big guy. Strong. I shouldn’t be a victim. But I can’t protect Mom and Soraya all the time, and no one else will ever back me up against him. He’s too adept at talking his way out of situations, paying people off when that fails.
“Are you ready for our session?” Echo asks hesitantly.
I wave at the cones set out on the lawn. “I have to do another twenty.”
I hate myself for giving Dad what he wants, but he’ll no doubt be watching, and he’ll find a way to make me regret it if I defy him.
“O-okay.” She nibbles on her lower lip, visibly nervous. “I’ll wait inside.”
“Thanks.”
I watch her go. She probably wishes she wasn’t here. I do, too. Now I have to turn myself inside out wondering what she thinks she knows—and what she intends to do about it.
I spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva and launch into another sprint. Thanks to the brief break, I’m able to force my body to move.
The rain picks up, and if not for the fact my muscles are screaming and I’m dreading dealing with Echo, I might actually enjoy this now that Dad isn’t supervising. His presence makes everything worse.
When I’m done, I take a few extra minutes to carefully stretch my legs and glutes. I’m going to need to repeat the exercises later today or I’ll be miserable at training tomorrow.
I empty my water bottle down my throat, peel off my T-shirt, which is plastered to my torso, and stomp over to the front door. On the doorstep, I remove my muddy shoes and wipe the souls of my feet on the mat.
Inside, I do my best not to drip on the floor as I make my way toward the living room, where Echo is likely waiting. Mom appears from the direction of the bathroom with a fluffy towel clutched in her hands. She scans my face, her teeth catching her lip as she notices the bruise forming on my cheekbone.
“Here.” She offers me the towel. “Use this to dry off. There’s a change of clothes inside.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Why won’t you stop him?
The unspoken question hangs in the air between us. She just smiles awkwardly and leaves.
I take the towel, set the jeans and T-shirt aside, and dry myself. Then, with a quick glance toward the living room to make sure I’m out of Echo’s sight, I strip off my shorts, towel off my bottom half, and pull the change of clothes on.
I toss the towel into the bathroom, knowing Mom will take it to the laundry, either out of guilt for not saying anything to Dad about hitting me or out of fear of what he’ll do if she doesn’t maintain a pristine show house.
I stride into the living room, where Echo is waiting on the sofa. She looks up and her gaze searches mine.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her fingers toying with the edge of the textbook on her lap.
“Fine,” I bark.
She flinches, and guilt flashes through me. I can’t show any weakness now. Not after what she witnessed earlier.
“I needed motivation, and Dad gave it to me,” I say, hoping to explain it away without any future questions. “If you mention a word of this to anyone, I won’t help out with my teammates like I said I would. I’ll make sure your life is hell.”
Her porcelain skin blanches. Her eyes drop to her knees, and for a moment, I think that’s the end of the matter, but then her gaze lifts and she determinedly thrusts her chin forward.
“It isn’t okay for parents to hurt their children.” Her voice is shaky. “No matter what the reason.”
A breath gusts between my lips. For some reason, her certainty soothes a hidden pain inside me. Logically, I know it isn’t right that Dad hits us, or that he controls every aspect of our lives, but he makes it seem inevitable. As if it’s just the way things are. It’s nice to know that not everyone believes that.
My silence must worry her, because she starts skimming the pages of the textbook, running her finger over the end of the paper, her gaze no longer on me but staring into space, somewhere past my shoulder.
“I won’t say anything,” she adds. “But you deserve better.”
I grunt as her words land with the precision of an arrow. How can she say that to me when I just threatened her? How can she look at me and see someone worth protecting?
I don’t know how to respond, and unease is slithering up my spine.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
I get the hell out of there.
ECHO
I fold over the corner of the textbook, trying to make sense of everything I’ve seen and heard since I arrived at the Kinsey’s house this afternoon.
I’m having a hard time merging my idea of who Tyler is with the fact I saw his father strike him and he didn’t retaliate or even seem shocked by the blow.
Come to think of it, the way they each behaved gave the impression the encounter wasn’t out of the ordinary for them, and I don’t know what to do with that.
Tyler is an outgoing, confident guy. Or at least, that’s how he comes across at school. It’s difficult to believe he’d let his father hit him.
Let.
I roll my eyes at myself. As if victims of domestic violence are somehow at fault. I know better than to think something like that. Victims come in all shapes and sizes, and just because they’re physically capable of fighting back doesn’t mean they aren’t still being abused, or that there aren’t other ways to control them.
Whatever the case, Tyler is obviously afraid I’ll tell someone.
I won’t. I can’t do that, especially knowing how much his reputation probably means to him. But I want to help him. How can I when he’s clearly determined to pretend I never saw anything and that nothing ever happened?
I run through options in my mind. If I was looking at this in black and white, the most reasonable thing to do would be to tell the police. But Tyler would never forgive me, and despite the tentative truce we reached during our last tutoring session, I believe him when he says he’d make my life hell.
Is there someone I could quietly mention it to? One of the teachers, perhaps? Or maybe the coach? Tyler is the star center on the ice hockey team. Surely, he has a good relationship with his coach.
But what if I did and then word got back to his father? Mr. Kinsey seems like the type of man who’s very involved in his children’s lives. It’s possible the coach wouldn’t believe me.
I can’t risk it.
I grit my teeth, frustration making me edgy. I’m supposed to be smart. My teachers are always telling me so. Mom, too. Why is it so hard to figure out what to do?
My eyelid twitches, reminding me that I was up late studying last night. I need coffee. Tyler could probably do with one too, after all of that running in the rain. I don’t know when he plans to return, if at all, so I don’t know how much time I have, but keeping him caffeinated won’t take long and it seems like the least I can do.
I place the textbook on the coffee table, straighten, and tiptoe into the foyer. Tyler is nowhere to be seen, but his mother is leaving a room opposite me with a damp towel slung over her shoulder.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Kinsey?”
She jumps, apparently not having noticed me.
“Oh, Echo.” Her hand flutters over her chest. “You gave me a fright.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
But now my mind is working overtime. I know some people are just jumpy, but the way Mrs. Kinsey’s eyes are darting all over the place makes me wary. Perhaps Tyler isn’t the only member of the family that Mr. Kinsey has laid his hands on.
“Does Tyler like coffee?” I ask, studying her features for any evidence of violence. She’s wearing enough makeup that it’s impossible to tell if her skin is discolored beneath. I scan her arms, but she’s wearing long sleeves, and her capri pants cover her legs to mid-way down her calves.
I don’t see any damage on the skin beneath the hem, but there are plenty of places it could be hidden.
“Um, yes. He does.” She glances at the hall as if she’d like nothing more than to disappear down it.
“I’d like to make him one before we start, and maybe a snack, too. I saw him running outside. He must be hungry. Is that okay? Could you show me where the kitchen is?”
“I suppose so.” She sounds uncertain, which only increases my certainty that Mr. Kinsey takes out his temper on his whole family.
We each stand there for a long moment, unmoving.
I clear my throat. “The kitchen?”
“Oh.” She jolts in surprise. “Yes. This way.”
She leads me down the hall and into a kitchen with large windows that overlook the back lawn. An island with a marble countertop occupies the center of the space, and all of the paneling is dark wood. Slightly outdated, but no doubt expensive.
Mrs. Kinsey gestures to a fancy coffee maker on the island. “Have you used one of these before?”
“No, ma’am.” I’m liable to break it if I try.
She hesitates, then glides toward it. She’s surprisingly graceful, for a shadow of a woman. She moves like a dancer.
“There are mugs in the cupboard on the other side of the island and a box of protein bars on the shelf above the counter at the end of the room. Why don’t you get those while I make the drinks?” she suggests.
“That would be great. Thank you.” I don’t want to lose all my tutoring money as soon as it arrives just because I don’t know how to work a coffee maker.
While she presses buttons and the machine comes to life, I search for mugs.
“Are you having one?” I ask.
“No, but you’re welcome to,” she replies.
I withdraw two mugs and slide them across to her, then go to the shelf at the end and search for the protein bars she mentioned. I find a stash of them—nearly four boxes—and pull one out. Then, after consideration, I grab another. I don’t want a hangry jock on my hands.
That done, I hover awkwardly while Mrs. Kinsey makes coffee.
“How do you like yours?” she asks.
“Whatever is easiest.” I definitely have preferred tastes when it comes to coffee, but I’ll drink anything with caffeine in it.
A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Kinsey passes me two flat whites on a tray, along with a sachet of sugar, just like I’m at a coffee shop. I thank her, add the protein bars to the tray, and return to the living room, grateful not to encounter Mr. Kinsey on the way. Now that I know what he’s like, I don’t want to see him again.
Tyler is sitting on the sofa, scowling at the textbook, which, to my surprise, he’s actually opened. I don’t know why he’s using mine when I’m sure he has his own, but it’s not like it hurts anyone, so I keep quiet.
“Here.” I lower the tray of coffee onto the table and push the protein bars toward him. “Coffee and a snack.”
He gives me a searching look. “What’s this?”
I squirm, self-conscious. I hadn’t thought about how this might look beyond assuming he’d probably like food and a nice, warm drink. Now, I can’t help but wonder if he suspects this is my weird way of flirting with him.
“I thought you might be hungry, and I wanted coffee, so I asked your mom to make us each one.” That’s all he’ll get from me.
I sit beside him and smooth my jeans self-consciously. Where his are artfully distressed by design, mine have tiny holes in the knees because I’ve worn them through. They’re slightly too baggy on my slim frame.
They make me look like exactly what I am: someone from a working-class family. I’m not ashamed of that, but it’s yet another way I’m different from my wealthy classmates.
I glance up and draw back, caught off guard by Tyler’s face so close to mine. He’s gazing at me, his pale blue eyes intent on my mouth. My breath hitches. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to kiss me. But then he shakes his head and blinks, and the intensity vanishes.
“Thanks.” He picks up his coffee and swallows a mouthful.
“No problem.” I reach into my open backpack and pull out the small case where my tablet lives. Mom can’t afford to buy me a laptop, so I make do with this and my phone. “Show me what you’re up to.”
Together, we go through his notes. He’s done more than I expected, and not once does he ask me to finish the essay for him, which I appreciate. While he revises a paragraph where he’d gone off on a tangent, I debate whether to bring up the elephant in the room again.
In the end, I wait until we’ve nearly wrapped up before raising the topic.
“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” I tell him.
His expression closes off. “There’s nothing to talk about. Thanks for your help, but it’s time for you to go.”