Page 40 of Did They Break You

I’m not sure anyone has ever told my stepdad no before in his entire life.

I slam my head one more time against the stall door, then I hear a feminine voice ask, “Are you okay in there?” and my face flushes red.

Fuck. Me.

I take a breath, snatch open the metal lock on the stall and walk out in my black flip-flops, only to make eye contact with a half-naked girl standing in front of the mirror doing her makeup, her onyx hair in a bun on her head.

“Great,” I mutter, walking to one of the sinks adjacent hers, turning on the rickety faucet and absentmindedly washing my hands after I shove my phone in the pocket of my hoodie.

“I’m Lyza,” the girl says, making small talk before the sun rises.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and see her smiling at me. Her eyes are deep brown, and she’s in black booty shorts, a low-cut black lace bra, the swell of her tits making me cross my arms over my own small ones.

She’s pretty and warm, and in another lifetime, where I could talk to strangers without wanting to disappear into the floor, we might be friends.

Now, though, I swallow down my nerves, feel that familiar flush of heat that comes when I try to connect with anyone at all. I have no idea how I was a cheerleader. How I forced the pep and the bullshit and wore that mask for so long.

I realize Lyza is staring at me, waiting for me to respond. I notice she has a streak of dark purple in her hair, and her eyes are taking in my own orange locks.

“Remi,” I murmur to the girl, snatching paper hand towels from the metal container, drying my hands and balling the napkin up, tossing it in the trash in the center of the sink. “Nice to meet you,” I lie, then turn and head out the door while Lyza scoffs at my back.

Yeah, I don’t think we’re going to be friends, and I don’t blame her.

I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth and realize after my mini-vomit session I didn’t even bother to brush my teeth.

“Can’t you ever do anything right, Remi? Just one goddamn thing?”

No, Silas. Guess not.

I squat low,weight in my heels, dumbbells by my sides as I check my posture in the mirror of the gym. I’m in a hoodie, with tight, black leggings on, and my white Chucks. I straighten,setting the weights on the rack and tossing one of my long French braids behind my shoulder. Sloane taught me how to braid, and now since I’ve got plenty of time when I get up before the crack of dawn, I do it as often as I can.

I take a deep breath, meeting my golden gaze in the mirror in front of me.

Sloane drops her own weights, dusting off her hands. “Nice ass,” she says with a laugh.

I smile at her, thankful I was able to puke this morning before she woke up.

My first class of the day is in two hours at eight, and I’m not sure how I’m going to stay up for it or manage to meet Van for lunch because I’ve been upall night.

Sloane asked me how I slept.

Great, just dreamt about my rapist.

But heisn’ta rapist.

Legally, Cortland Adler has never done anything wrong in his life.

But we both know what the law turned a blind eye to.

That night starts to play in my head again.

I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth, darting a glance to the raven-haired attendant at my back, looking down at her phone.

I’m always paranoid someone will see those memories playing in my head. They’ll see me for what I really am.Nothing.

But she’s not paying attention and Sloane is on to her next set. I take another deep breath, then flex my fingers, grabbing the dumbbells again, using my anger as fuel. Working out, getting sweaty, it’s the only time it feels like my mind is clear. Like I can breathe; escaping all the damage, even if just for a moment.

I squat low, getting in one more rep as my legs shake.

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