Chapter 32 Nick
NICK
No sign of Melanie.
I stood, every muscle stiff, and padded upstairs to the loft. The room was dark and still, except for Loco curled in a tight ball at the foot of the bed, rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Alone. A flicker of dread curled low in my gut.
Did she leave? No note. No sound. Just absence.
I trudged back down the stairs, instinct pulling me toward the front window. Her motorcycle and truck were still there, idle, untouched. Relief trickled in, but it didn’t soothe the sharp edge of anxiety gnawing at me. I turned to check the back.
And there she was.
Melanie sat motionless on the patio, legs tucked beneath her chin like she was trying to hold herself together, staring into the kind of black night that swallows everything. She looked so small, folded into herself, like if the wind blew a little harder, it might carry her away.
I moved without thinking—straight out the door and onto the patio. The boards groaned under my weight as I flipped on the light, its warm glow cutting the cold.
“Hey,” I said softly, standing beside her.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept staring ahead, like she hadn’t heard me—or couldn’t bear to respond.
Resigned, I pulled out the chair next to hers and sat.
The silence between us was thick, humming with tension and unsaid things.
The night whispered with rustling trees and chirping crickets, but all I could hear was my own pulse pounding in my ears.
I watched her from the corner of my eye.
Stillness clung to her like armor. She was locked inside her own mind, and I didn’t know how to reach her without breaking something fragile.
But I waited. Let the quiet hold us until it cracked open.
Finally, her voice slipped through the dark like a knife:
“When I lost my virginity to my stepdad, my mom thought I had just gotten my period.”
My head turned slowly, breath caught in my chest.
“I had just turned thirteen,” she continued, voice flat but trembling at the edges, “and for a second, I thought maybe I did get my period. That maybe it was a bad dream. A nightmare.”
The weight of her words was a fist to the chest. My fists clenched in my lap, useless. My tongue felt thick. What the hell do you say to something like that?
“But when I went to the restroom, there was still a little blood,” she whispered, “so my hope that I was just imagining it all rose. But then, after a few hours, the bleeding stopped. And I knew. I knew it wasn’t my period.”
A shaky breath escaped her. It rattled through her like it hurt to exhale.
“Then, when I was fourteen, I woke up in pain so sharp it felt like my insides were tearing apart. Sheets soaked in blood. Olga—my nanny—rushed me to the hospital. And the doctor told me I had miscarried.”
The last word barely made it out. So faint I had to lean in to catch it. And when I did, something in me broke.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t sit still. Every instinct screamed at me to wrap her in my arms and hold her together, but I didn’t move. I didn’t dare. All I could do was sit there and drown in the helplessness.
“Shortly after that, I got on birth control,” she said, voice thin and brittle.
“And I just remember thinking, Will this ever go away?”She turned to me, resting her cheek against her knees, her skin pale and raw from the cold.
Her eyes were empty, but also… pleading, like she needed someone to see the girl still trapped inside.
“Since I was underage,” she went on, “they needed a parent’s permission for the prescription. Olga begged me to tell my mom. To tell her what happened. What was still happening.”
She paused, voice quivering.
“I was so fucking scared. I didn’t know if she’d believe me. But I thought, why wouldn’t my mom if Olga did?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. It glistened in the dim porch light, and I had to physically restrain myself from wiping it away. Not to crumble with her.
“So, I told her,” she whispered. “At first, my mom thought I was acting. Like I was playing a part. Pretending to be some fucked up character from a movie. But when I told her I wasn’t lying…
” Her voice cracked and rose, words laced with betrayal.
“She got mad. Really mad. I think she even called me a slut. A liar. Accused me of blaming my ‘promiscuity’ on the man who ‘made our lives better.’”
She choked on a sob, swallowing it down like poison.
“That night, Olga held me in her arms while we cried. Because she knew if she said anything, she’d lose her job. She had no money, no place to go. And it wasn’t her job, anyway. It was my mom’s.”
My voice came out low, tight with dread. “Did your mom ever suspect anything?”
She shrugged, slow and numb. “Maybe. Doubtful. My stepdad was brilliant at hiding it. He never touched me when she was around. He knew how to play her. After that day, I just stopped trying. I figured if I ever told her again… she’d just blame me.”
My throat burned. I didn’t want to ask the next question, but it slipped out anyway.
“Can’t you go to the cops?”
A dry, hollow laugh shuddered from her chest as she wiped her tears away.
“How can I prove any of it? Sexual assault is one of the hardest things to prove. For them to even take the case seriously, there’d have to be a line of women coming forward, not just one.
And men like him? With power, money? They get away with everything. ”
She was steel wrapped in scars.
And I just sat there. Drenched in helpless fury. Grieving for the girl she used to be and hating a world that let her suffer in silence for so long.
A cold wind brushes over us, so I ask.
“Do you want to go inside? You have to be freezing.”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Sorry, I don’t mean to unload this. I’m sure it’s not a sexy thing.”
“No, I want you to open up. I think you need to. As a survivor myself, that’s one thing I wish I did more of, but it’s cold out here, and I figured we could talk inside.”
That’s when she moved—slow, shaky—reaching down for a cup. The faint clink of ceramic scraped my nerves raw. She raised it to her lips and took a sip like it was oxygen.
Fuck.
“This is keeping me pretty warm.”
My stomach flipped. A sour wave of dread rolled through me, burning. Drinking? Now? How long had she been out here, drowning herself?
I wanted to snatch the cup from her hand and hurl it into the yard, but she looked so fragile, like a breeze could break her. So I swallowed the fury clawing up my throat and forced the words out steadily.
“Should you be drinking?”
She laughed through a wet sniffle. It was a hollow sound. “Probably not. But it sure feels good right now.”
Her hair fell over her shoulder as she lifted her head, and that one small motion—so human, so casual—hit like a gut punch.
“Ya know, during the whole time I lived with my parents, I always thanked God I had no sisters, even though I was so fucking lonely. I wanted one. But I always had friends, and my mom always wondered why I couldn’t keep any, and she always acted like I was the problem.
But in reality it was because my dad molested them. ”
Jesus fucking Christ. The words slammed into me like a freight train. My pulse roared in my ears.
“One of the girls, I got really close to and, when I got the balls to ask her if she stopped talking to me because of my dad, she said yes. So I apologized, and I thoughtthat after she would come back around, we could go back to being friends. Because when we hung out, I felt like a normal sixteen-year-old, and I could forget for a little bit. But nothing came of it. And I was back to being alone in a big fucking house.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached over and took her hand, anchoring her to me. To now. My grip was firm but gentle—everything I had left to give. I wasn’t going to abandon her in the middle of this storm.
She looked at our hands, then at me. Her smile was barely there, trembling. “When I lost the baby, the first thought that came to mind was thank you God.”
She slid her hand from mine, and it felt like she was peeling away a part of me too.
“Sometimes I wish I was never born.”
I dropped to my knees in front of her, cupping her hands in both of mine, forcing her to see me, feel me.
“Melanie, you are strong. Yeah, some bad shit happened to you, but you’re here.
You’ve survived. One day at a time, that’s how you move forward.
I know hell. You’ve lived it. But it can get better. I promise.”
“I’m tired of being strong. I just want to be…happy.”
I didn’t know what to say. That kind of truth—it didn’t need a reply. Just breath. Just presence.
So I asked softly, “Are you happy now?”
She stared at me, and I held my breath like her answer could split the world open.
“Even if I was, it won’t change anything.”
She stood and walked away. I followed. I had to.
“Why not?”
She spun around, fury crackling behind glassy eyes. “Because the only reason we’re even pretending this is real is because you’ve been fucking me like the whore I am.”
The words hit like shrapnel. Sharp. Explosive. I staggered back a step.
Was I making it worse? Was I part of her unraveling?
“I don’t think you are a whore. I just think you’re hurting.”
“Fuck you,” she snapped. “Don’t talk to me like I’m the only fucked up person here. You’ve got a whole cabinet full of Ambien, Percocet, and Valium. So you haven’t told me everything either, pal.”
She slurred the last part, her words thick and heavy. She stumbled toward the sink—toward the goddamn vodka.
How did I miss this?
“Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted, my voice quiet but cracking.
She took a swing. I watched her swallow poison and felt helpless rage burn my throat.
“Oh yeah?” she said, wiping her mouth. She started toward me with purpose, and didn’t stop until she was close enough that I could smell the liquor on her breath. “So tell me, Commando,” she said, kneeling slowly. “Do you like me fucking your cock with my mouth too?”