Page 47 of The Boy from Half Moon

“We can’t do whatever this is, Luke,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You understand that, right?” His words shattered my dreams.

Hearing him shut me down before I even tried to explain what I was feeling hurt me. The last time I was in his home, he seemed like he’d consider letting me court him, but now he was closed off.

“I’m sorry, but no. No, I don’t understand,” I stammered.

Tate turned his back to me, his head leaning over the sink. I watched as his back shook after a deep breath. “It was you that said we can’t be friends outside of ranch walls, Luke.”

“But I want to court you,” I reminded him. He turned around, and his eyes were wet. His mouth opened, but then it shut again as if he needed another moment to sort his feelings. I took my chance to attempt an explanation. “Courting someone is more than being their friend,” I defended. “I want to be with you as more than a friend.”

“What is more than a friend, then?” he asked, turning to face me. “What happens, Luke, when someone courts someone?”

“You say yes, and then you and me are one. We join, Tate. Like one… one…”

“One what?” he quickly interrupted.

He had me there. What would happen if he said yes, and we joined? I realized I didn’t even know what that meant. “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Is there something else we could be? Something that you do in the outside world?”

Tate lifted his arms from his sides, palms toward me, appearing mildly bothered, and gazed around the room before returning his focus to me. “This is the outside world, Luke. I live in the outside world. Remember? Right here. Right now.”

He seemed angry with me, and I didn’t understand the reason. “I thought you liked me,” I said, feeling like a rug was yanked out from under me. My chest felt a pain I’d never felt. The ache was foreign to me and felt like a knife stabbing my heart. “You don’t want the same thing anymore?” I asked.

“What I want and what you can give are two separate things, Luke.”

“I can give you those things,” I pleaded. “I can try harder and learn stuff. I’m smart, Tate. I can do things.”

“I want a husband, Luke. I want to live in a house like a family. I want to be loved by someone, to love someone, to belong to someone,” he explained.

“I can do all that,” I said.

“I want to have sex with that someone,” he declared, pinching the bridge of his nose and hiding his eyes behind his hand.

He surprised me with that statement. I froze in place, my eyes darted around the room, and panic crept up my back as my body recognized the feeling of fight or flight. Blackness filled my mind as a memory of Franklin pushing my face into the hay and assaulting me took over. I felt the ropes tightening. He wanted to hurt me. Over and over and over again. Run away, Luke. Tate is going to hurt you like Franklin does. Sex is mean and painful. Run.

“He hurts me,” I whispered. “He makes me… makes me…do stuff.”

Tate’s face registered horror at my words. He froze for a moment before coming around the island, careful to keep his distance, like he was afraid of how dirty I was.

“Who hurts you, Luke?” he asked.

I began sobbing uncontrollably and bent at the knees as I came to the floor. Tate was at my side in a moment, reaching for my hands.

“He… he… hurts me. Since I was thirteen,” I cried, hiccuping, pulling my hands away and hiding my face, trying to hide my shame. “I don’t want to do those things with you, Tate. I will, though, to be with you, I will, but I don’t truly want to.”

He reached out and held my chin, being careful as he assessed my reaction. I lowered my hands and found him staring at me, tears in his eyes. “No one deserves to be hurt, Luke. No one,” he whispered. “I would never do that to you. I would never hurt you.”

“Aren’t I dirty, though?”

“Of course not,” he said. “What you are is pure and wonderful. Strong and kind. You are exactly the opposite of the person who hurts you.”

“That’s why I’m afraid of… of… what you said,” I confessed.

Tate held my hand and locked eyes with me. “Listen to me, Luke. Please listen carefully. Sexual abuse and consensual sex are not the same thing. What happened to you, or is happening to you, is not normal. And sexual abuse is wrong on all levels. Do you understand me?”

“It doesn’t feel good,” I whispered.

“Oh, honey,” he began. “Of course it doesn’t; because it’s wrong. However, you are not the bad person here. Do you understand what I mean?” I nodded. He lifted my chin and waited until I focused on him. “The person in front of me, you, are all the things I just said. You are kind and caring and you do not deserve what is happening to you.”

My embarrassment at telling Tate what I’d told him overcame me. I felt burdened with shame, and that I was unworthy of him. But he stayed there. Right by me. He wasn’t running from me. He didn’t recoil in disgust. He was crying with me.

---