Page 54 of It's Not All Fake

He regards me with a surprising seriousness. “So, what does a new moon mean?”

“New beginnings,” I reply, watching his reaction closely. His expression remains open, curious, not mocking or skeptical.

“My mom always said it’s the best time to start new things,” I add, feeling a twinge of sadness.

His eyes soften. “Seems like she was onto something.”

I can’t help but think he’s talking about us—our beginning—and it sends my heart racing anew.

“Yeah, I think she was,” I agree, my smile growing.

Looking up at Liam, I know my mom was right about more than just lunar cycles. There are inexplicable, magical things in the world. The wordless communication between us proves it. There is no way I can explain our connection, but it’s undeniably there.

He returns my smile, but quickly falters. His forehead creases, and I can tell he has something serious on his mind.

“Chloe, I want to tell you something,” he begins, his voice laden with hesitation.

Uh oh.

“Um…” He stops playing with the ends of my hair, his hand falling to his side. We’re no longer physically touching, and my mind races to interpret this as a bad sign—he’s pulling away. But I try to hush these unhelpful thoughts, focusing instead on his body language for clues.

He looks down, clearly thinking about how to phrase something. I can tell it’s something important.

“I—” he meets my eyes again, “I’ve been thinking about how to be more open with you.”

With you. Those words strike me. Our goal was for him to learn to be more open with other women. Yet his wording puts the focus on me.

Okay, brain—stop analyzing and listen.

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to relax enough to get out whatever he wants to say. “I told you that my dad left our lives when I was seven.”

I nod, remembering the horrific details of the abuse he and Olivia endured.

“Well, that’s not untrue, but I was evasive with the phrasing,” he admits, but I am only more confused now.

I notice his jaw clench as he gathers courage. I reach out and take his hand. He straightens up, covering my hand with his other one, holding it tightly as if pleading silently for me to understand what he’s about to say.

“I shot and killed my dad, Chloe.” He exhales, his eyes filled with pain.

I suck in a breath, taken aback by his confession.

“I found my mom’s gun before that night, and I—” He steadies himself, swallowing hard. “I went to get it when he was beating the shit out of her. He would have killed her,” he continues.

I see the anger and pain burning behind his eyes. His features are shadowed in the dim light, but there’s a faint glint of the tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

He watches me, vulnerable, and I realize he’s half expecting me to reject him and turn away.

But I won’t. I wrap my arms around him tightly, drawing him close. I feel his strong arms encircle me and his chin rest gently on top of my head.

“I’m so sorry, Liam,” I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest.

He was only seven. No child should endure such pain.

Tears prick at my own eyes, my heart aching for him.

He gently pulls back after a moment, leaning against the railing. “Everyone expected me to be broken,” he starts, his voice low. “They sent me to counselors and my teachers were always checking on me. It messed with my head because I didn’t feel that way.” He breathes out a sour laugh. “I started thinking something was wrong with me because I wasn’t disturbed by what I did.”

“Like you were messed up because you weren’t messed up,” I say quietly. I can relate all too well. After my mom passed, everyone expected me to be completely nonfunctional. I was hurting like hell inside, but I needed to continue living—for her. My dad was shocked when I still wanted to try out for volleyball. I didn’t recoil from life and everyone in it like he did.

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