Page 210 of Did They Break You

Then there was Van. And I clung to him. Our bond felt deeper, since we’re not quite cousins. He deserves to hear my explanations.

“I couldn’t say what I wanted,” I tell him, my voice low. “What I didn’t want.”

“You let it happen?” Van counters.

I snap my head up. “I didn’t have much choice?—”

“That’s called rape, Remi.”

I think about the tears that fell down my face. Cortland running his thumb over one. “I have to go.” I turn to do just that, but Van circles my arm.

I yank out of his grip and stumble back a step, facing him.

“Remi, I just don’t want you to get hurt. He could be doing this to soften his own guilt.” He scrubs his hand over his shaved head. “I’m sorry, I’m handling this all wrong, I just don’t understand. It’s so messy.”

“Yeah,” I agree, stepping back still, wanting Cortland. He’s the only one who understands. The only one who was there and gets it, exactly. “It is messy. But Van,” I try one more time. “He’s a nice guy, he’s not?—”

“Nice boys do bad things, Remi.”

I know they do. Fuck, I know.

“Are you going to him?” Van asks me, stepping even closer. “Don’t do that, Remi. Let’s talk about this.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I have to go.” Another step back.

Van reaches for me, grabbing my wrist, and once again, I try to pull back, but he doesn’t let go. He isn’t hurting me, his eyes aren’t angry, but there’s grief there. “No,” he says, pulling me toward him. My Chucks slide in the grass of the cemetery, bringing me forward against my will. “No, Remi. You’re all messed up because of what happened, but he doesn’t care about you. If he did, he would have admitted guilt, he wouldn’t have put you through the idea of a trial that could’ve takenyearsto work out?—”

“Let me go.” I’m whispering the words, turning my head from Van’s grief, feeling that pressure building behind my eyes. “Let me go, now.”

“Come on, Remi. Talk to me. Have you told Sloane? Are you still seeing your therapist? This is fucked, you get that? This is fuckingfucked.”

I yank away from him again, stumbling back, wiping my fist over my eyes. “I have to go,” I tell him, turning away. “I’ll see you later.”

“Remi, don’t do this. He’s fucking with your head!”

I turn and jog off, Van still calling my name at my back, the truths in his words ringing in my head.

This is fucked.

I callCortland when I get to my Corolla, the car running, my phone pressed to my ear. He doesn’t answer.

I glance at the time.

It’s only nine, and he knew I was meeting Van, then I’d be letting him know how it went.

Fucking terribly.

I call him again, feeling annoyed.

No answer.

I send him a text and tip my head back against the seat, waiting.

Nothing.

I toss my phone in the passenger seat and decide to drive back to his house.

A few minutes later, I pull into his driveway and see his and Storm’s cars are both there. Relief courses through me. I want to run to them. They get it. They understand.

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