44 | I Can’t Tell You
I Can’t Tell You
Molly
AGAIN. IT HAPPENED again.
The world tilts on its axis, the walls of my bedroom warping into a suffocating, closing-in box. The air thickens, turns to water, and I’m drowning, I’m sure of it.
Even once my breathing has slowed, evened out into a ragged parody of normality thanks to Niall’s steady voice coaching me through it, my heart doesn’t get the memo. It hammers against my ribs, a terrified bird beating its wings against a cage.
I knew he was gonna ask. I knew from the moment I saw the photo that he was gonna need to know. It’s who Niall is. He sees a problem, a hurt, and his first instinct is to fix it. But I couldn’t do it.
The words are there, a poison on my tongue, but I can’t let the words leave my lips. To say them out loud would be to give them power, to make them real in a way they aren’t when they’re just a secret whisper in the darkest part of my mind.
I was raped.
I can’t tell anybody. He made sure of it.
Ross told me if I did, he’d ruin my life. He’d said it so calmly, next to my ear as he straightened my shirt, his fingers lingering a second too long. He told me he’d make sure I never played soccer again.
And he’d do it, too. He’d do it in a heartbeat.
He was one of the coaches at Camp Clearwater, a god in the world of youth soccer, and a retired pro player for the Chicago Fire.
He had connections everywhere—especially in WPSL, the pathway to everything I’ve ever wanted.
He could end my career before it even started, blackball me so thoroughly that no college team, no semi-pro club, would ever give me a second look.
All it would take was a few well-placed lies about my attitude, my teamwork, my “character.”
Even if he hadn’t threatened me, I don’t think I would want to tell Niall. He’s the best thing about this new life. He makes me feel normal. I’ve done more with him—by choice—than I’ve ever done with any other boy, and I don’t want to ruin that.
He makes me feel safe, a feeling so foreign and so precious I’m terrified of tainting it with the ugliness of my past. I don’t want him to look at me and see damaged goods. I want him to see me as me.
But now he’s looking at me with those deep blue eyes, his fingers still laced through mine, his thumb brushing softly against my wrist. I can see the worry etched onto his face, the confusion clouding his eyes, the fear he’s trying so hard to hide for my sake.
He doesn’t understand. How could he?
I don’t know how to explain it to him. How do I explain to him why I need it to stay a secret? How do I explain the way a single man’s voice is still stuck in my head years later, telling me that I’m lucky he even looked at me?
“Molly,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”
I shake my head, pulling my hands away and wiping my damp palms on my sweatpants. “I can’t.”
“Why?” His eyes look so pained it physically hurts me to look at them. They’re full of a desperate, pleading need to understand, to help. “Why can’t you tell me? You can tell me anything, you know that.”
My lip trembles betraying me, and I bite down on it hard, the coppery tang of blood a familiar distraction. “You won’t like me anymore.”
Niall’s brows knit together, and his face softens instantly, all confusion and fear just turning way to concern.
He reaches for me again, his hands warm as he cups my cheeks in his palms, forcing my gaze to stay on him.
“Molly. There is nothing— nothing—you could tell me that would make me stop liking you. Nothing.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper, the words barely audible, a pathetic little puff of air.
“Yes. I do.”
I shake my head again, fresh tears spilling over, hot and shameful as they track paths down my cheeks. “You don’t.”
Niall exhales sharply, his thumbs brushing away my tears, his touch infinitely gentle. “Then tell me, Molly. Tell me what happened, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
I bite my lip, hesitating. My stomach twists into painful knots, a tangled mess of both fear and longing. I want to tell him. God, how I want to tell him. I want to unload this burden, to share the weight of it, to let someone else carry it for a while.
I’m so tired of being strong, so tired of pretending.
But I’m scared.
Not just of Ross, or of the shadow he casts over my future. I’m scared of Niall’s reaction. What if he looks at me differently? What if he can’t touch me the same way again? What if he thinks I’m weak? What if he—
“Hey.” Niall’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge. “Breathe. Just like before. In... and out.”
I inhale shakily, the air catching in my throat, and nod. I can do this. I can breathe.
“Whatever it is,” he murmurs, leaning even closer, forehead nearly touching mine. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight with unshed tears, and squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the world, blocking out everything but the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on my face.
“Just say it,” he whispers. “Just tell me.”