Page 103 of Promises in the Dark

Too far gone.

I wanted to tell her that I was fine, that I didn’t need her pity, that I wasn’t some broken little boy looking for someone to fix me. But the truth was, I was fucking tired—tired of carrying around the weight of my past, tired of pretending like it didn’t still eat me alive.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it it damn near impossible to speak. “No sense in dwelling on the past.”

“What about your mother?” she asked.

I chuckled, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement—it was bitter, filled with pain and anger and a fucking lifetime of resentment. More like the sound of a man who’s given up trying to pretend things weren’t fucked beyond repair.

“She left when I was young,” I said, my voice flat and emotionless. “My old man beat her too, until one day she just couldn’t take it anymore. Ran off, didn’t even look back. Left me with that bastard like I was some fucking afterthought.”

Red drew in a deep breath, a look of horror and shock overtaking her features as she registered my words. “Oh, my God. That’s horrible. Please don’t say anything more. I’m so sorry. I never should have brought it up.”

I brought my cigarette to my lips and took a quick drag, letting the smoke swirl around in my chest before I exhaled.

She looked at me with pity in her eyes and for some reason, it angered me. I didn’t want to be viewed as something broken that needs to be fixed.

No need for it, love.

I let out another harsh laugh as I thought about how I was a product of domestic abuse. It wasn’t exactly fun to think about, but she asked, and there was no point in hiding it. My mother was stuck between two monsters—me, and my father.

After all, maybe I wasn’t worth saving.

“No need to feel sorry for me. I made my peace with it a long time ago.”

She looked like she was thinking real hard, probably trying to figure out the ‘right’ thing to say. After a minute, she just went with it.

“Your mom shouldn’t have left you behind. You didn’t deserve it. You deserve to have a mother who loves you and takes care of you. I’m sorry she wasn’t that woman.”

A plume of smoke escaped my lips, clouding the space between us. “So, does that mean I have mommy issues?”

Red’s lips twitched in a hesitant smile. “Hey, at least you’re self-aware,” she teased as she nudged me playfully with her elbow. “That’s more than I can say for most guys I’ve met.”

I inhaled slowly, letting the smoke burn its way down my throat. Fuck, I could use a drink right now. That warm, burning feeling, the one that made you forget everything for a little while.

I flicked my cigarette, trying to push the thought away. I wasn’t going to become my father, wasn’t going to let those same demons drag me down into the pit with him.

As I smoked, I noticed her fingers drifting to that spot on her neck where her necklace used to be—the one her old man had given her. For once, I wanted to hear something good. I wanted to know there were fathers out there who didn’t use their fists to make a point.

“How was your relationship with your dad growing up?” I asked, exhaling smoke as I spoke. “Were you guys close?”

She looked up at me and nodded, as if she had been expecting the question. “He was the only family I had. My mom died when I was born.”

She said it with this quiet acceptance, like she’d already made peace with it. There was a strength in her that was both impressive and fucking sad. I wanted to say something comforting, but the words just wouldn’t come out. I wasn’t used to this shit—being there for someone when they needed me.

“He did everything for me,” she continued, not giving me enough time to react. “Worked his ass off as a firefighter to provide for us, to give me the best life he could. And despite everything, he always had a smile on his face, always made sure I knew I was loved.”

I flicked ash from my cigarette and blew out more smoke, not giving a damn where it went. “Sounds like he was a good man,” I said, my voice flat. “He’d be proud of you.”

Red breathed in deeply, her gaze settling on mine and for a second, I thought she might break down. “I doubt that,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “He’s dead because of me.”

I wasn’t going to let her sit there and tear herself apart. “May I ask what happened that day?” I asked, genuinely curious.

I needed to understand where she was coming from.

“My father loved fishing,” she said through trembling lips. “He would take me along sometimes, but he wouldn’t always allow me to go with him.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered that particular outing with her father. “That day, I insisted on going with him, even though he said no. But I was a stubborn child, and eventually, he gave in because he couldn’t bear to see me cry.”

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