Page 53 of Restitution
Still not giving me his eyes, he flexes his fingers and tilts his head, so he’s looking at the wall. “She’s not there. Don’t talk to her. She’s not there. You aren’t crazy. We aren’t crazy. Because she’s not there.”
I chew the inside of my cheek.
“The first time we met, we shared a cigarette. I told you my name, and you just stared at me. I was looking for you and gave up when I reached the pool house. Jason dropped Luciella off at the studio when I first got there, and you were in the truck.”
I smile at myself, remember how I aimlessly wandered the manor during Luciella’s birthday party, hunting for her twin brother.
“Lu talked about you in class a lot. It was good to hear what it was supposed to be like having a brother – it made me like you before I even knew you, knowing you were good to your sister. I wanted to meet you.” I glance at him. “And then I did.”
I may have gone home that night, locked myself in the bathroom, and giggled as if he’d flirted with me and called me pretty. Maybe the fact he was rude had made me like him more.
“And when we got dared to kiss, I got butterflies. I fancied you, and I really didn’t want to embarrass myself during my first kiss.” I sit on the edge of the bed again, our feet close to touching. “But I was your first kiss too, so I was comfortable. You made those times I was in hell feel like heaven. I wanted to die so many times, wanted it all to end, but I had you, so it was worth it. Living was worth it. I trusted you with all my firsts, just like you trusted me.”
I swallow a lump and look to the side, hiding my tears.
I’m trying to erase the way our last night together panned out. The footage he was sent on his phone; neglecting to tell him about Chris our entire relationship and how abused I was in that house.
If I’d told him, we might not be in this position.
If I’d told him, we might have our daughter with us.
Ultimately, this is my fault.
But I was scared. Chris had instilled absolute terror into me and made me feel like I was alone, even though I had Kade. He made me feel like I was small, useless and his.
I once tried to tell my dad, but it ruined my relationship with him. He chose Chris – I was a liar.
That night, he shared my bed for the first time, and I cried until the morning while Chris wrapped himself around me, his disgusting cock hard against me. But I couldn’t tell Dad. He wouldn’t believe me. I couldn’t tell anyone if the one person who was supposed to protect me said I was a liar.
Trauma made me a shell, but I’ve slowly cracked free from it, and Chris can no longer touch me or even look at me.
But I lost Kade in the process.
I fight the wave of sadness and twist my fingers together nervously. “Despite our ending, we always had great trust. I’m sorry you got a distorted view of what happened that night, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner about Chris. I was scared that he’d do something to you, or whisk me far, far away. I didn’t want to lose you, so I kept the abuse to myself.”
I glance at him, and the breath leaving my lips stutters when I see he’s looking up at me through his messy, wavy hair, his blue eyes burning into me. As if he’s trying to merge my fractured soulwith his own.
“You feel alone,” I say, my voice breaking. “So do I.” When he doesn’t look away, I press further, sliding off the bed and onto the floor. “You feel broken.” A beat, and I add, “So do I.”
I drag myself closer and settle against the wall beside him, making sure we don’t touch. He smells like copper and death and all things Kade, but I focus on the powerful presence of being near him.
“I wish we could go back to the day we found out I was pregnant. Sometimes, I picture what she would look like. Blue eyes like yours, hair like mine, and an attitude and personality like your dad.” I snort at myself. “She’d have definitely been a heathen. A three-year-old heathen that we loved infinitely.”
Slowly, shakily, he drops his hand between us, fingers spasming, his skin pale beneath the blood, tattoos and scars, most of his nails bruised. There is no way to describe how I feel right now. I stare at that hand like it’s the present I wanted for Christmas at age six.
I lower my own hand, sitting it close to his on the carpet between us, our pinkies slightly grazing. I’m thrown back to a time four years ago, a blanket over our laps while we watched a movie with his family, our touch electric. But now it’s like a trillion bolts of lightning straight to my heart.
“Can I hold your hand?” I ask him just as his pinkie spasms next to mine. His body is still curled away from me, his arms still hugging his knees, his head down and angling away. “If you want to, you can take my hand.”
The door opens, and my eyes lift to see Tobias. He glances at his son then at me and slips back away again. Hopefully he tells everyone else to stay away. Kade needs space – he’d hate it ifeveryone saw him this vulnerable. I shouldn’t even be here. But I don’t want him to be alone either.
For minutes – ten, I think – we stay silent, the shower still running, steam billowing from the bathroom, water droplets sliding down the window.
Kade’s entire body tenses with a spasm, and he grabs my hand in an iron grip, squeezing until my fingertips are tight and tingling, his own turning white with how hard he’s holding me.
I gasp, biting my lip and ignoring the pain of his grip.
Trembling once more, Kade tries to slap the side of his head, but I stop it by covering the targeted area with my free hand. He hits my hand instead, but when he realises, he freezes, and his head snaps up. He’s still gripping my other hand.
