Page 95 of Lie With Me

Wiping tears from my eyes to see the road, I bark a sarcastic laugh. “A whole lot of therapy.”

She snorts. “Len, I’m serious.”

I sigh. “No. I don’t know if I’m staying or gonna go back to the city tomorrow. I’ll keep you updated. And please don’t mention it to Jackson or Ginny. I don’t want to stress her out. The first trimester is hard enough as it is.”

“Okay. Keep in touch.” She sounds like she’d rather do anything else than get off the phone.

“I will.” After we hang up, I toss my phone in the cupholder, not caring if it dies. I know I should call Tripp. But I also know I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk to him. Too much has happened in the past twenty-four hours, causing my walls to be high as ever.

We need space—time to cool off. Time to figure out what we want from each other. I don’t know if I can handle him looking me in the eye and telling me he’s choosing Emily. But why would he? Aftereverything she put him through, I can’t believe he’d be that stupid.

My thoughts stray to Margo. She looked so infuriated when she found out the truth about what I do—did—for a living. And I hate that a small part of me feels like I let her down. Will there be anything I can do to change her mind about me? Do I evenwantto change her mind? If Tripp decides he still wants to be with me, they come as a package deal.

I’m replaceable. She’s his mom.

As angry as I am, I can’t deny she’s a good mother.

Night stretches on. Nearly five hours of farmland and sights I never wanted to see again pass in a blur I pay no attention to. A never-ending loop of all the lies Tripp and I spun replays like a movie behind my eyes. Before I know it, the familiar faded blue and white sign that readsParks Trailer Courtcomes into view.

No one wants to reinvent this town. Nothing new lines the streets, and some of the businesses I remember are boarded up. When I pull into the park, the trailer where I grew up still sits empty, waiting for anyone to come and take pity on its dilapidated siding and shoddily patched-up roof. The green door is chipped everywhere, desperate for a fresh coat of paint, and the stairs leading up to the front door still squeak loudly with every ounce of weight put on them.

It used to be how I knew one of Momma’s menwas coming—the squeaky stairs. They were the soundtrack of my inevitable sexual abuse.

Time passes as I just stand there trembling, gathering the courage to reach out and open the door. In order to move forward with my life, I have to let go of the past. Nothing is holding me here anymore. I just need…closure.

A loud bang sounds to my right, causing me to jump and swing my head, only to see the same neighbor with the same beer can that he spits his nasty tobacco into. He yells something incoherent over his shoulder, and the same woman yells at him from their screen door.

The man freezes when he sees me, beer can halfway to his lips. “Whadda doin' there, girl? Ain’t no one lives there, no mo’,” he croaks.

I wonder how many times he and his wife heard me screaming while I was violated. How many times they sat and did nothing while a little girl was repeatedly raped. If I can hear him clearly from our respective decks, surely they heard me screaming for help.

A look crosses his face as his eyes drag down my body. He cocks his head to the side, confusion flickering across his intoxicated eyes. “Valentina?”

Goosebumps break out over my flesh. Everyone around here is a functioning alcoholic and drug abuser. It doesn’t surprise me that he recognizes me, but it concerns me that the news may reach the wrong people. Before I can respond, he hums, turning on his heel to go back into his house.

The breath I’m holding leaves my lips in a shudder. Bracing myself, I grip the doorknob and turn it, stepping into my old prison cell as though it will save me from other prying eyes. It smells musty, yet still carries the undercurrent of Momma’s old perfume even this many years later. Instant nostalgia creeps along my bones, and dread settles into the marrow like old friends embracing.

There was never a time in this house when I didn’t feel frightened.

Stains litter the old, tattered softa—patches of discoloration rippling out like spindly fingers. There’s a cold draft that slips in through the holes in the floors, yet it still doesn’t feel as chilly as it did when I was little.

My steps are heavy as I walk down the hall, breathing shallow as I push open the door to my old room. A noise leaves my throat as tears spring to my eyes once more. The purple robe lies discarded on my bed—dusty cobwebs covering it—and my teddy bear is still sitting in the chair beside it. Both stare at me as I grip the doorframe and slide to the floor, sobbing into my hand to try to muffle my cries.

So many bad things happened to me here.

When I finally pick myself up off the floor, I leave all the remnants of the past there, in that room, shutting the door on my entire childhood and locking it away so it can no longer cling to my present.

Stepping into Momma's bedroom, I’m hit with the stagnant smell of old sweat and stale potpourri. Even time couldn’t erase the stench. My skin crawls as I siton her bed. An old, deteriorated pack of Black and Milds sits on the table tray next to her bed. She was always sucking on the disgusting things. I remember stealing one from her when I was fourteen and thinking I was going to die when I tried it and couldn’t stop coughing.

Even though the bed is covered in grime, and who knows what else, I lay back and stare at the water stains on the ceiling. My eyes grow heavy the longer I look, memorizing the patterns of the marks and wondering if Momma ever laid in bed and did the same.

Did she notice that one looks like a heart?

My little valentine.

Curling up into a ball, I begin to sob once more. I’m so sick of crying, but it feels cathartic. Like I can leave all my tears in this awful place and finally start fresh where none of it holds me back.

So I cry.

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