Page 108 of Tell Me Something True

“What happened then?” the girl asked around the thumbnail still in her mouth.

“The police came, along with a very nice social worker, and they took me somewhere safe I could wait until my mom came back. But she didn’t. She never came back. And, as far as I know, she never tried to find me.”

It took Miles a moment before he realized he’d stepped into the room. That his hands were fisted, wanting nothing more than to go back in time and beat the shit out of all the fucking monsters Tabitha had been victimized by. He wanted to sweep in there and haul both her and the girl out of that room. Away from their memories. Their trauma.

He wanted what he’d wanted all those years ago.

To take care of her.

To keep her safe.

But she didn’t need him to fight her battles for her.

She was battling her demons all on her own.

And goddamn it, he was so proud of her for it. Was in awe of her fortitude. Her strength.

Her ability to keep going after life had dealt her shitty hand after shitty hand.

But just because she didn’t need him to fight her battles for her, didn’t mean he couldn’t be by her side while she did so.

At least for tonight.

The girl looked down. “Were you sad? When she left you?”

“I was so sad. And scared. And then, when I got a little older and I realized she was never coming back, I got very, very angry. But mostly, I just wondered what I’d done wrong. What I’d done to make her leave. Why she didn’t love me the way a mother is supposed to love her daughter. For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me. Something that made it impossible for anyone to love me. I thought I was…”

“Broken,” the girl whispered when Tabitha trailed off.

“Yes. I thought I was broken. Broken beyond repair.” She leaned toward the girl, settling her hands on the bed near the girl’s feet, her gaze earnest. “But I was wrong. Because I’m healing. It hasn’t been easy and it hasn’t been quick, but I am healing. I’m not as broken as I once was. And who knows? Maybe one of these days I’ll even be whole.”

“You won’t,” the girl said, her tone flat, the bleakness in it, making her sound way more adult than she had so far tonight. Way more adult than a kid her age should ever sound. “You’ll never be whole again.”

Tabitha studied her for a moment, then she nodded. Eased upright. “Maybe not. Maybe there will always be bits and pieces of me that are cracked. Parts of me that are beyond repair. But I won’t let those parts take over. I won’t let those cracks get wider and wider until they threaten to tear me apart again. Because I deserve better than that. What happened to me wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. And no matter how my mother treated me, no matter what those men did to me, I am worthy of love and respect. I always was.”

Miles wanted to cheer. Hell, he wanted to throw a fucking parade in this woman’s honor. He wanted to celebrate her strength and resiliency. Her courage and kindness.

But he was terrified of softening toward her. Even a little.

Afraid if he did, he’d end up where he’d been when she’d left him.

Or worse.

He’d end up back in love with her.

“I am worthy of love and respect,” she repeated to the girl. “And so are you. What happened to you wasn’t your fault. And if you let me, I can help you.”

She waited, but the girl kept silent, head down once more, back to chewing on that thumbnail. A minute ticked by. Then another.

If Tabitha was disappointed, she didn’t let it show, her face full of only concern. Sympathy. And so much patience and understanding, it made Miles realize how much he was lacking in those two things.

How badly he’d fucked up by not having more of them with Tabitha.

“When you’re ready to talk,” she told the girl, “I’ll be here. No matter what time it is or where you are or what you need to tell me. Okay?”

Again, no response. The girl just curled into herself even more, trying it seemed, to make herself as small as possible. As if she was trying to disappear.

Like Tabitha had admitted she’d done when she’d had to hide under the kitchen counter.

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