Chapter 43 #2
I laugh harder. “I was two years ahead of him in high school,” she continues. “All the girls and gays were obsessed with his rear.”
Something hot and possessive sparks in my chest. Before I can stop myself, a tiny growl escapes.
Harper gasps. “Oh, we love a possessive king.”
I just shrug. It’s not a lie.
“Especially if it's about our brother.”
I bump her shoulder. No words necessary.
Cricket swipes to the next picture. At first glance, it's just another family photo—parents, siblings, aunts, uncles.
Normal. My eyes drift across the faces. Then stop.
My entire body freezes. The room goes silent.
Or maybe that's just inside my head, because suddenly all I can hear is blood rushing through my ears.
No. No. No.
I stare harder. My lungs stop working. My pulse explodes. The woman smiles warmly from the photograph with soft brown hair, kind eyes, a teal brooch pinned to her jacket. My stomach drops out from under me.
I know her. I know her. I know her.
My throat closes as I point at the screen. “Who—” The word cracks. I swallow hard. “Who is that?”
Cricket looks over. Her brow furrows. “That's our Aunt Iris.”
I shake my head. My vision blurs. My chest caves inward. “No.” I point harder. My hand is trembling now. “No.” The room feels too small. The air too thick. “That's Tammy.”
Ryan’s sisters stare at me, confused.
I jab my finger at the screen. “That's Tammy from the Second Sunrise shelter.”
Understanding immediately flashes across Cricket's face. “Oh.” She nods. “Yes.” My pulse pounds harder. “She ran the shelter for years, right up until she died. Tammy was the name she used there.”
Everything inside me starts unraveling.
“When you shelter women from abusive men, you put yourself at risk,” she clarifies.
They had fake names, too.
Fight or flight detonates in my bloodstream. Adrenaline floods every nerve. The room tilts.
“Actually,” Harper says thoughtfully, “Ryan volunteered there a couple times.”
The floor disappears beneath me.
“Aunt Iris used to take him whenever he came to visit.”
No. No. No.
“Do you know her or something?”
That does it. The walls start closing in. My skin feels too tight. I can't breathe. I can't—
I drop the phone. It lands on the rug with a soft thud. Then I scramble backward. Away. Away. Away. I climb onto the sofa and bury my hands in my hair, elbows on my knees.
“Kind eyes.” The words tumble out before I even realize I'm speaking. “The kind fucking eyes.”
Then the first sob hits. Violent. Brutal. A sound tears from my throat, raw and animalistic, the kind of sound a wounded creature makes when it's dying.
The girls are surrounding me instantly. “Spence?” Cricket says. “Oh my God.”
Hands rub my arms. My shoulders. My back. Trying to anchor me. Trying to bring me back. But memories are flooding in now, a dam broken wide open. The smell of that shelter. The tiny room. The fear. My mother's tears. The bruises. The shame. God, the shame.
I hyperventilate. Everything hurts. I just keep shaking my head. Over and over.
“What do you need?” Harper asks softly. “Should we call Ryan?”
“No!” The word rips out of me, sharp, immediate, panicked.
Both women freeze. “Okay,” Cricket says gently. “Okay. Harper, go get an ice cube for the trick.”
I can’t even process her meaning before Harper is gone and back, climbing onto the couch beside me, and rubbing the ice on my wrist. “Shh.” Her voice is soft. Steady. “Shh.”
Again. And again. And again.
Oddly, somewhere inside the storm, it starts working. Little by little. The sobs become quieter. My breathing slows. The panic loosens its grip. Until all that's left are tears sliding silently down my face.
“Kind eyes,” I whisper.
“Who has kind eyes, sweetie?” Cricket asks.
I swallow. Take a shaky breath. “Ry—Ryan.”
Both sisters exchange a confused look.
Harper hands me a bottle of water she must have brought back with the ice. I grip it with both hands. “Thanks.” My voice sounds wrecked. A sip. Then another. The cool water helps. A little. I set the bottle down.
“My mom and I—” The rest catches in my throat. I stare down at the strings dangling from Ryan's hoodie, fidgeting with them, twisting them around my fingers.
“Oh my God.” Cricket's voice is so soft I barely hear her. I look up, and realization fills her eyes. “You were there as a kid.”
I nod slowly. “And it was during a time Ryan was volunteering.”
Another nod.
Harper covers her mouth. “Oh shit.”
Cricket scoots closer. “Okay.” Her voice is careful. Gentle. “Did you know him?”
I shake my head. “No. Not really.” My throat burns.
“She brought him into our room once.” The memory is suddenly crystal clear, sharper than it's been in years.
“To drop off gifts.” I let out a trembling breath.
“He tried to be nice to me.” My eyes close.
“But I took one look at his kind eyes and I couldn't.” My voice cracks.
“I couldn't look at them.” The shame returns. Old. Familiar. “I was so ashamed.”
“Oh, honey.” Cricket squeezes my calf.
I throw my hands into the air, frustration bubbling up through the grief. “He said his name was Dawson. I didn’t know—”
“What?” Both sisters blink.
I groan. “Dawson.” I point accusingly toward Cricket’s phone. “I thought his name was Dawson.”
For a second neither sister says anything. Then Harper starts laughing. Actually laughing. I stare at her. Offended. Confused. Then she rolls her eyes. “Oh my God.” She gestures to Cricket. “Of course.”
“What?” I ask, seriously confused.
Cricket nods. “Mmhmm.” Then she grins. “He was obsessed with Dawson's Creek.”
I stare at her. Then Cricket. Then back at Harper.
Silence. Processing. Then—a laugh escapes me. Small at first. Disbelieving. Then another. And another. Until suddenly I'm doubled over laughing. The girls watch for half a second before joining in.
Through tears and laughter, I howl, “That's so Ryan.”
Harper loses it. Cricket falls sideways into me. The three of us collapse into hysterics. And for the first time since meeting the boy with the kind eyes, the memory holds a completely different meaning.