Page 94 of Our Secrets and Scars

Owen was.

It seems obvious now. The way my body reacted so profoundly to him from the very first moment we met. How I always felt endangered in his presence and how my pulse would spike in fear at the mere mention of his name. My gut was trying to tell me who he was all along.

Just like how my soul knew instinctively that I was safe with Holden.

Even now, after all his secrets, my heart still aches to be close to him. I won’t allow myself to reach out to him though. I’ve already decided that I won’t be meeting him later because I’m not ready to see him yet. Maybe I never will be.

Because, despite the relief I feel at him not being responsible for Bexley’s death, he’s still not totally innocent. He still fucked up. He still lied. He knew who I was from the first letter I sent him, and for over four years, not once did he mention the connection. Even when fate intervened and forced us together in real life, he still said nothing.

Even worse, he allowed me to touch him, to have sex with him, to fall in fucking love with him, all while keeping a secret that he knew would shatter my heart beyond repair. His innocence of the crime he was charged with doesn’t absolve him of the guilt of his betrayal. And though my fury has dissipated somewhat since learning the truth of that night, I still don’t think I can forgive him.

Truthfully, I don’t know if I want to.

Because if the movies have taught me anything, it’s that love should just be easy. It shouldn’t be fraught with secrets and lies, scars, and stinging deceit. What sort of future can we have when our entire relationship has been built on fraudulent foundations?

Maybe it would be better for both of us if we just left things where they are, threw our hands in the air, and admitted defeat. We could just forget that we ever existed at all, and I’d slip back into my comfort zone of self-loathing and worthlessness.

I tuck my knees into my chest and rest my chin on top of them, staring aimlessly out of the window at the downcast winter sky. Everything is so much darker since the night of the party when my heart was broken forever. It’s like Holden painted my world in colors I didn’t even know existed until he came into my life, and now that he’s gone, everything has faded back to black and white.

Someone knocks at the door.

A steady, confident rapping of fists against the wood, and I frown in the direction of it with a creased brow. Isla’s still at Harriet’s, and I haven’t buzzed anyone into the building.

“Peach, you in there?”

Uncle Mack’s smoky voice wafts into the room and confuses me further. I’m out of bed in a heartbeat and throwing open the door. He frowns down at me, his features tight and troubled. His silvery eyes are turned downward despite the smile he’s forcing, and they shimmer with a sadness I wish I could relieve him of.

“A kid downstairs let me up. Can I come in?”

I nod mutely, moving to the side and motioning him into the room with a small wave of my hand.

He steps through the threshold cautiously but with a kind of assuredness that can only come with age and life experience. I hurriedly clear some clothes off the vanity chair that Isla and I share and move it toward him in a silent offering. He takes it, sitting with his legs parted and his strong hands clasped tightly between them.

I sit on the bed opposite and wait with clammy palms for him to speak.

“You promised not to break his heart.”

He says it so simply, so easily, as if the statement doesn’t cause my own heart to sink like a steel anchor. It hurts me, Holden’s pain. But I refuse to feel guilty for it or accept responsibility because whatever hurt he’s feeling right now is a consequence of his own choices.

“He broke it himself.”

I say it softly and without confrontation, cautious not to offend him, knowing how much Holden means to him, but also not willing to concede. It was Holden himself who helped me grow a backbone, and it’s kind of sadly ironic that he’s now on the receiving end of it.

Mack looks at me with understanding, but there’s a slight hint of disappointment simmering just below the surface. He nods as he thinks his next words over.

“Kid screwed up, peach, there ain’t no denying that.”

I scoff. Screwed up is an understatement.

His gaze drifts to the window before he heaves out a sigh. “Look, I know he lied to you and best believe I’m as mad about it as you. I raised that kid to tell the truth and I ain’t happy, but I also know my boy. And I know that he wouldn’t have done it without a good reason.”

I shake my head. “There wasn’t a good reason.”

Mack raises a brow. “Wasn’t there?”

“He said he was scared I wouldn’t give him a shot if I knew.”

“Any truth in that?”

---