Page 96 of All Your Pucking Secrets

“You know how I was trying to push you away, to make it seem like I didn’t care about you, so my dad would get off my back?”

“Yes.” She’s clearly uncertain where this is going.

“One night, the guys from the team were over at my place after a game. We’d done well, so Dad had eased up on his rules about having people over. He stayed with us though. Didn’t trust us to be alone.”

I never knew exactly what he was afraid I’d do. Tell a bunch of teenage guys that my Dad hit me?

Not going to happen.

Even if I admitted that he hurt Mom and Soraya, they’d just want to know why I didn’t do something about it, and I had no way to make them understand.

“The guys all knew we’d had sex.”

My stomach curdles at the memory of how I’d announced that in the school corridor, calling it meaningless. It’s amazing she’s with me now. That she was generous enough to hear me out.

“Eric asked if you were done with me, and whether he could move in.”

Her face blanches.

“I said yes.” Shame threatens to swallow me whole. “Dad was listening, and so were the other guys, and I didn’t know what else to say.”

She looks at me as if she doesn’t know me at all. I clamber off the garden bench and drop to my knees, moisture from the grass soaking my jeans.

“I’m so sorry.” I reach for her hands, but she tucks them beneath herself. “I swear, I had no idea that he’d… That he’d rape you. I just thought he’d start coming onto you again, the way he used to, and that you’d shoot him down, like you always did.”

She lets out a forceful breath and kneads at her chest. “It doesn’t matter what you thought would happen. Even if we pretend Eric never laid a finger on me, it was still a crappy thing to do. You knew how much I hated his attention, and you promised me you’d put a stop to it, even before anything happened between us.”

“I…” I have no defense.

“You promised me, Tyler.” Her voice breaks, and the fragile trust between us snaps entirely.

I hang my head. “I was scared, and I reacted badly. I’ve regretted that every minute of every day since.”

But especially after I learned what she’d accused my former friend of. Not that most of our classmates believed her.

I had, though, and it had gutted me.

Echo draws in a ragged breath, and exhales sharply. She breathes in again, and I can tell she’s struggling for air. A chill races over my skin. Is she having a panic attack?

I wrack my mind for the advice my therapist gave me about helping someone through a panic attack. I asked after the last time I’d failed spectacularly at getting her through one.

“Breathe in with me,” I say, inhaling for the count of four. She can’t match me, and exhales part way through. “Try again.”

Eventually, her breathing is under control, but her pupils are pinpricks and it’s impossible to know how grounded she is in the present.

“Tell me three things you can see,” I tell her.

“You. Roses.” Her voice shakes. “Grass.”

“Good. Now, three things you can feel.”

“The bench beneath me.” Her eyelids flutter as she hesitates. “The warmth of the sun on the top of my head. The soles of my shoes against my feet.”

“Three things you can hear.”

“Your voice. Birds. A lawn mower.”

“Perfect. How are you?”

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