41. Bodhi
41
BODHI
I t’s nearly noon by the time Ella and I manage to get out of bed. Last night had been a trust fall off the highest building without a parachute, the adrenaline almost too much to bear.
But I hadn’t hit the ground.
My descent had been slowed not once, but twice.
By a bonfire.
And in her arms.
I feel lighter and wrung out all at once, but I still owe her some of my truths. Because I don’t want there to be anything standing between us.
Like my past.
“Take a walk with me?” I ask over my second cup of coffee, the spoon of cereal halfway to her mouth.
“Right now?”
“When you’re done.” I smile, noting that her face is still flushed from the time I spent between her legs. My scalp prickles with the way she’d gripped my hair, holding me against her pussy as she bucked her hips.
It was heaven.
And I needed it desperately after yesterday. I’d been in and out of therapy, but I’d never felt as much relief there as I did in Ella’s arms, losing myself in her body. But it was more than that.
So much more.
I pushed and she pushed right back—didn’t shy away when I tried to put distance between us.
No, my girl had doubled down until I’d surrendered to her fully and completely.
My girl.
She fought for me and maybe that was the difference. I’d been a case file my whole life, but she didn’t see any of that. She just saw me.
Right now, I’d like to still see her naked.
But it’ll have to wait.
It takes another twenty minutes before she’s stepping into her boots and following me out into the sunshine. Birds chirp and trees sway as Birdie and Moose trot along the path ahead of us.
It’s beautiful.
Peaceful.
“Tell me about meeting Mason,” she says, surprising me as she breaks the silence, her fingers threading with mine as we walk.
“He was placed in the same home I was when he was seven and I was nine. As far as I remember, my life had been a happy one before I lost my parents, but Mason’s life wasn’t like that. We latched on to each other right from the start. He’s my brother and my best friend, and after we left New Hampshire, we drove down the East Coast—just picked a spot on a map—and ended up in Blackstone Falls.”
“And you said you weren’t good at road trips,” she teases gently.
“We lived together, got a job with Otto and Case Thayer doing landscaping, and then he met Lana. He’s eleven years younger than she is but that never mattered—not really,” I tell her. “When they moved in together, it was a reality check. And I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“With him, or in general?” she asks, the question devoid of judgment.
“Both, I guess. I get to be an uncle and I like that. When he moved out, I converted his room into a space for Beck, and I took the office and made the other bedroom for Holland and Remi, Jensen’s daughter.” I swallow hard. “I know it’s not the same, but growing up I was never made to feel at home, so even though they’re not going far, I want them to feel like the space is theirs. I want them to be comfortable.”
Ella stares at me, emotion swirling in her eyes. “You have no idea how good you are, do you?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to deny it but I keep my mouth shut, pressing my lips together as I force myself to think about it. To feel it.
To own it.
“I try hard, but I wasn’t always,” I tell her, not needing to touch the scar to know every dip and jagged edge smoothed over by time.
“Don’t tell me if you’re not ready.”
“It’s a part of who I am.”
“You’re beautiful,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I’ve never told anyone just because I wanted to.” It’s a strange reality. I’d been forced to talk to the therapist in juvie, told countless police officers and lawyers, but it’s all been for a purpose.
Not for me.
“Then I want you to really make sure you’re ready. I can wait.”
But I can’t.
The realization is freeing—like sunshine warming my skin after a string of rainy days.
“My foster sister, Audrey, went missing when she was twelve. I was ten and our foster father, Daryl, told the police she ran away—made up stories about how she’d take off for days at a time but didn’t report it because she was a troubled kid.”
“I’m here,” she says quietly.
“No one believed that he was lying, so after school one day I took Mason to the police department and I made a statement. Told them what she was wearing and why I knew she didn’t run away. It was a formality—I knew that—but it made me feel a little better knowing I tried.”
“You were so young; that must have been awful.”
“Daryl was cleared of suspicion and allowed to continue to foster with his wife who had corroborated his whereabouts at the time of Audrey’s disappearance. I was given the option to be moved to a different family.”
“Did you?”
I shake my head. “They wouldn’t let Mason come with me, and I would have died before I left him.”
“What did you do?”
“I stayed. Got stronger. Learned how to protect myself and him, as well as the other kids that were placed there.” Swallowing hard, I add, “And I wrote a letter to the police department every year on her birthday begging them not to forget about her.” Ella sniffs, wiping a tear from her cheek with her free hand. “Are you sure you want me to keep going?”
“Yes.”
The woods are quiet and it’s such a contrast to the blood pounding in my veins. “Things got worse as we got older. Mason was less interested in keeping his head down and just making it till we could age out, so naturally the verbal abuse morphed into physical. The unspoken threat was Daryl knew I wouldn’t leave Mason, but he never missed an opportunity to remind me he could have me removed at any time.”
“Bodhi.”
“I took as much as I could and taught Mason how to channel his anger into something that wouldn’t get us split up.” I swallow hard. “And that lasted until I was sixteen. I’d gotten a job at the auto parts store to save up some money to get away. But one night when I got back to the house, Daryl had Mason on the ground and he was hitting him. I yelled, ripped him off my brother, and landed a punch on his jaw that made him stumble back into the table.
“There was a steak knife I didn’t see him pick up, so when he charged me, I couldn’t avoid it. I knew I’d die if I didn’t fight. So, I did. I hit him as hard as I could, the knife went flying, and I kept hitting him. I couldn’t stop.” Swallowing hard, I look at her. “Mason pulled me off him.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“When the cops showed up, it was chaos. We all went to the hospital and then Mason was put in an emergency placement. Daryl was arrested and so was I.”
“But you were protecting Mason, protecting yourself.”
“They could have charged me as an adult but they didn’t,” I tell her honestly. “Daryl’s wife said we attacked him, so it was our word against theirs. I served almost two years in juvenile detention, and got out when I turned eighteen.”
“I can’t even imagine what you went through.”
“It could have been worse. I got my GED and took whatever classes they had, kept my head down, and got the hell out of there when my time was up.”
“What happened after?”
“I got a job and an apartment. The foster house Mason was in was all right and I convinced him to stay. They were nice enough and let him come with me on the weekends. I worked double shifts doing anything and everything I could to make us some money—paid what was left for him to get an associate’s degree after his scholarships.”
“And Audrey?”
“A hiker found her remains on some trail a couple of miles from Daryl’s house when I was in juvie. Detectives came and took my statement, but it was years before he was finally convicted. Daryl’s sons threated us to keep quiet and we were scared, but Mason and I both testified. That was the last thing we did before we left New Hampshire to come down here.”
“What happened to your letters?”
“Someone had saved all my letters, put them in her case file.”
I smile at that last part, thinking that whoever received them cared enough about the boy who’d scrawled the words to keep them.
About the young girl who’d gone missing.
“I’m so incredibly proud of you,” she says, hands gentle as she cups my face.
“What?”
“You’re so much more than a survivor. You’ve done so many incredibly beautiful and selfless things with your life, and you walked away from the darkness instead of letting it consume you.”
She must know I can’t even begin to process that let alone respond to it, because she presses her lips to mine in a sweet kiss—no heat, just two people connecting over something profound.
Something freeing.
Instead of shying away from it, I wrap my arms around Ella and pull her close, unapologetically enjoying this moment.
This connection.
Us.
Because nothing in my wildest dreams could compare to the reality of loving her.
Of being loved in return.
And realizing we have forever to get it right.