Page 53 of My Best Years

Those three words cause my floodgates to burst.

A whimper crawls up my throat before a sob cracks from my chest. I swallow down a lump as tears cascade down my cheeks.

I would rather endure the pain of Callum leaving me over something small and trivial than find out that he lived through pure hell for eighteen years of his life. Years that are supposed to be filled with joy.

I loathe his parents with every fiber of my being. My blood pressure skyrockets when I think of the adults who were smart enough to pick up on the abuse but ignored the signs because of who his father was. It makes me sick that so many people failed Callum when all it would have taken was one person speaking up.

I can’t help but feel like I failed him too.

Maybe I was too young to fully understand what was going on, but I should have pushed harder. I should have doneeverything in my power to find out what was happening in Callum’s home. I was the only person he had.

I should have known.

“I’m so…sorry,” I sob, barely able to speak.

“Birdie,” he rushes out before sliding his chair around the table. His woodsy scent surrounds me as he sits with my legs positioned between his parted thighs.

“How did I not know?” My eyes dart away in shame.

Small hiccups break up my sobs as I try to catch my breath.

“Birdie, look at me.” He slides his pointer finger beneath my chin and lifts my gaze. Instantly, his touch calms me. “I never want to hear you blame yourself for what happened to me. No one is to blame but my spineless excuse for a father. You were, and still are, the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I want to wrap my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck, but this isn't about me and my need for comfort. And I still have so many questions.

“What happened?” I whisper as my eyes dart between his. “Who got him to stop? How…how in the hell did your father get away with this?”

He drops his fingers from my chin and lowers his hand to my leg. His rough fingers cover the span of my thigh, giving me a light squeeze that has my lower stomach tingling.

“Sara—the woman my father was having an affair with—heard us yelling from outside,” he starts. “When she came inside, I remember her screaming bloody murder before I completely blacked out. I never had the chance to speak to her afterward, but I always assumed that my father had given her hush money because she just disappeared after that. I barely even remember what she looked like, except that she was really young.”

He inhales an uneasy breath before continuing.

“Hours after the fight, I woke up in a hospital bed. I don’t know what persuaded my dad to take me to the emergency room. Maybe it was Sara, or maybe he sobered up a little and realized that he almost fucking killed me. Even he knows that the best lawyers can’t get you out of cold-blooded murder. By the time I woke up, he told the doctor that I had gotten into a nasty fight after my tennis tournament. He said that I refused to tell him who the other kid was. He made up a lie to save his ass, claiming that me and another tennis player were in a heated argument after the tournament that turned physical once we got home. My father had no bruises or cuts on his hands, so it was easy for him to make it seem like he couldn't have been the one who fucked me up that bad.”

My jaw drops as my gut twists with disgust. What a manipulative, psychotic, piece of shit.

“What?” I gasp in disbelief as my brows shoot up to my hairline. “And the doctor just believed him?”

“I don’t know what the doctor believed,” he sighs. “I think he was just trying to piece me back together. I had six broken ribs and a concussion that turned out to be a small brain bleed. It was bad, Birdie.”

A fucking brain bleed? There’s nothing small about that.

I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, trying to force down the bile creeping up my esophagus.

“Jesus Christ,” I exhale, shaking my head. “Why didn’t you tell the doctor what really happened?”

My face and neck feel impossibly hot when I think about Callum’s father getting away with such a blatant crime.

“I was going to,” he admits. “I had every intention of turning him in. But when the doctor and nurses left the room, my father closed the door and used the only thing against me that he knew would keep my mouth shut.”

My heart plummets to my stomach because I already know what he’s going to say.

“What?” I rasp, holding his stare.

“You.” His tone is laced with agony. “My father remembered how I reacted when he called you a slut. It was the first time I had ever fought back. From that moment on, he knew that I would doanythingin my power to protect you. So he told me that if I wanted to keep you safe, I would go along with his story.”

A sob slips past my lips as he gently squeezes my thigh.

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