Chapter 29
I’ve been standing with my back to the wall, head bowed, wrists held in place behind my back as if invisible fingers grip them. But Grayson won’t leave. He paces my room—back, forth, back, forth. Normally, he’s gone by now, especially if I stay really still.
Lethal, violent energy buzzes the air.
I don’t know what I did wrong this time. He won’t even tell me. Desperately, I search my brain digging deep for apologies.
I’m sorry I left a chicken bone on my plate at dinner.
I’m sorry my hair isn’t combed smooth.
I’m sorry I made an A- in English.
I’m sorry I’m fifteen. I’m sorry I’m a girl. I’m sorry I favor my mother. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
He stops pacing. Despite everything in me that screams to keep my eyes shut, I slit them open just a little as he unbuckles his gray leather belt.
My stomach cinches tight. The last time he used that particular belt on me had been three months ago.
He made me stand with my hands on the wall and feet braced wide.
He took his time, savoring each snap across my backside as I counted.
One.
Two.
Three…
There had been fourteen total, one for each year I’d been alive. I’ve had a birthday since then. Does that mean today there will be fifteen?
This time there is nothing slow and methodical about his movements as he rips the belt from its loops and lunges.
I do the only thing I can; I fall to my knees, curling into a tight ball. I snake my arms around my head.
The belt buckle whips across my back, covered only by a thin cotton dress.
It connects with the exposed skin on my arms. It cracks over my bare ankle.
It lashes across my back again. My legs.
My arms. My ribs. The blows come in a frenzied pattern, driven by blind rage.
I count them, praying for fifteen, but I lose track after nineteen.
The lashes come.
And come.
And come…
“Eve, you’ve got to wake up.”
My arms flail as I let out a guttural cry, floating between the nightmare and the present time.
“Wake up.”
I kick my legs, trying to get away, trying to wake up. “Nooo,” I moan.
Someone catches my shoulders and pins them down, and I ram my knee into the person’s side, trying to get away. Numbly, I register a groan of pain.
“WAKE! UP!”
With a gasp, I zoom straight out of the nightmare and stare unblinking, panting for a breath I can’t quite catch.
“It’s okay,” West says. “You’re all right. You’re safe now.”
I inhale another gasp, throwing my arms around his neck. “West,” I breathe.
“Shh,” he whispers, holding me tight. “You’re okay now. It was a horrible nightmare. That’s all.”
Time ticks by as I cling to him, my heartbeat steadily regaining normality, my breathing slowing to normal, and I reconnect with my surroundings. I’m in Vianca’s room. We celebrated her birthday. We had nachos. West and I went to the beach.
“Everything okay now?” Gramma quietly asks from the doorway.
I pull out of West’s arms. Dressed in their pajamas, his entire family hovers, watching. Maria’s who I focus on, though, with her understanding expression, yes, but also sadness. I told her that the bad dreams would go away. She thinks I lied to her. Maybe I did.
“All good.” West waves them off.
“I-I’m sorry,” I mumble, humiliated and embarrassed I woke the whole house.
Gramma smiles. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
West’s family all shuffles back to their rooms, leaving us in the bedroom illuminated only by Vianca’s nightlight. West soothes my sweaty hair as I take in his features, memorizing the details, reassuring myself I’m here in Florida with him and not anywhere else.
Gently, he touches the pads of his fingers to my black circles. “It’s no wonder you have so many sleepless nights.”
Silent tears roll free as I take in his dark brows, the strong line of his cheekbones, and the curve of his lips.
“Hey.” He strokes the wetness away. “What’s this?”
I wipe my hand across my cheek, inhaling a trembling breath as more tears fall. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“I’d say you deserve to cry after a dream like that.” West kisses my wet lips and gathers me into his arms. “Cry as much as you need to.”
His soft words make the tears stream so fast I don’t bother wiping them. The whole time West strokes my back, whispering soothing things, but now that my weeping is here, I can’t make it stop.
I cry.
And I cry.
What feels like years of sobs come from me, and I give freely into them and the moment. I don’t hold anything back. It’s a long time coming.
Gradually, the pain lessens, and I pull back. “Thank you,” I whisper, wiping my fingers across my nose.
West gets up and comes back with a roll of toilet paper. I blow my nose while he studies me, but there’s something off, and I can’t quite peg it. Something that’s not about the nightmare and the crying jag I just had. There’s something else.
“What?” I cautiously ask.
Silently, he reaches around and slides his hand up under my shirt. I want to jerk away, but I can’t. I’m frozen. No. What is he doing? His fingers trace a few of my scars, and all the air backs up in my lungs.
“How did you get these?”
My brain whirls in panic. How does he know they’re there? Did he see them when I was thrashing around? Did he feel them when he was comforting me just now? How?
His brows furrow in disbelief, in pain, in horror at what he’s realizing. “Eve?”
His expression, his fingers still on my back—they both rip through me in terror. I’m not ready for him to know about that. I’m not ready. I jerk back, and his hand falls to the mattress.
West reaches for me. “Eve.”
“Just…” I scramble back. “Just leave me alone.”
He lifts his hands. “Tell me what happened. Who did that to you?”
“Go.” I shake my head. “Please.”
West doesn’t move and instead just looks at me.
“Please,” my voice cracks.
“Eve—”
“Go!”
With a heavy sigh, he gets up and walks to the door. I both want him to stay and need him to go. At the door, he pauses like he might say something and instead walks right on out.
It’s what I wanted him to do. At least that’s what I tell myself.