Page 95 of Tell Me Something True

“I’m coming in,” she said, still in that quiet tone. Stepping inside, she shut the door behind her, kicked off her flip flops, and crossed to the island.

She lowered to the ground next to him, the corner separating them. Sat cross-legged under the island’s eating bar, keeping enough space between them that they weren’t touching, but were still close enough that she could reach him if he needed her.

They stayed that way for one minute, sitting side-by-side on the floor. Then two. His breathing was quick, but it was even. His body was trembling but not shaking uncontrollably. Another minute passed and he lifted his head again, this time leaning it back against the island, eyes closed, as he let go of his knees and straightened his legs.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said, starting to rise.

“No,” he said, stopping her, his voice low and hoarse. “Could… could you talk to me? It helped. The last time.”

She settled back. Realized she was rubbing the scar on her chin. Remembered his question from earlier.

Who hurt you, baby?

Her throat grew tight, like fingers squeezing, trying to hold back her answer to that question. Wanting her to hold onto her past. Keep it tucked away where it couldn’t hurt her.

Where no one could use it against her.

The truth didn’t set people like her free.

The past had its hooks dug too deep in her for that.

But she could wiggle a few of them loose. For him. For herself.

Even if they did rip her to shreds in the process.

Curling her fingers into her palm, she lowered her hand. Kept it fisted there, pressed against her stomach like an anchor, holding her in place, keeping her from bolting.

“When I was little,” she said, forcing the words past the increasing tightness in her throat, “there was an empty space in the kitchen in our apartment between the cupboards and the refrigerator, but covered by the counter. I used to hide there. It wasn’t very wide, maybe a foot and a half? But if I wiggled in backwards, I could fit. I’d slide all the way to the back and hug my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible.”

She sensed Miles tense. Heard him shift, then sit up. He was listening.

But he kept silent.

It helped. That silence. His patience.

Knowing he was going to let her tell this without poking and prodding for more than she was ready to give him.

“This reminds me of that,” she continued. “My back pressed against the wall. The counter overhead. I thought if I stayed still enough, silent enough, if I was small enough, no one would be able to reach me. I was wrong. So I eventually learned to hide in other places. Places where I wouldn’t be cornered. Where I couldn’t be so easily caught. Under the kitchen table or beside the bushes next to the porch.”

“Or near a window?” he asked softly, obviously remembering what she’d told him and Reed about wanting her bed by the window.

She glanced at him and, when she found he was watching her, forced herself to hold his gaze as she nodded. “Or near a window. And when I hid, I stayed hidden for as long as possible. I didn’t run unless I had to. And I didn’t come out until it was safe.” She pressed her forefinger against her chin in the exact same way he’d done earlier on the sidewalk. “Except for once. One time I forgot all the lessons I’d learned.” She lowered her hand. “And was reminded of what happens when you let your guard down.”

“How old were you?” he asked after a moment. “When you were reminded of that?”

“Six.” Bending her legs, she pulled her knees to her chest, sitting like Miles had been when she’d first arrived. “My mother and her boyfriend at the time were fighting…”

But that wasn’t right. And while it wasn’t quite a lie, it also wasn’t the truth.

“They weren’t fighting,” she corrected, staring at the kitchen door. “He was beating her. She’d stolen some of his supply and when he confronted her, she denied it.”

“He was a dealer?”

“Most of her boyfriends were.”

Because her mother was an addict.

To the pills and, it seemed, to dangerous, abusive men.

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