Page 98 of Broken Lines

“I…”

“I know what you’re feeling, for what it’s worth.”

She whirls on me, her face angry and broken, tears welling in her eyes as she hugs the blanket tight around herself.

“You can’tpossiblyknow—”

“No?”

“No, Jackson!” She snaps. “Fucking a million random groupies does not equate to surviving sexual assault!”

She blurts it like a dare. Like she’s goading me into saying something, or being an asshole about it, or looking disgusted.

That bait won’t work on me. None of that shit is going to happen.

“And you think losing yourself in a decade of meaningless, anonymous sex is a symptom of ahealthysexual development?” I throw back at her.

She closes her eyes, turning to look away at the fire.

I exhale slowly. Iggy’s the only one who ever knew about my past. Not even Will or Asher. Just me, Iggy…andher.

The fucking cunt that preyed on me like a monster.

And yet, for some reason I literally cannot wrap my head around—because it’s not even like I’m wasted or coked up in that way where you just can’t stop shit from spilling out of your mouth. But whatever it is, for some reason, Iwantto tell her.

Maybe it’s because I can see how broken she is. Or because I see myself in her. Because I was just like this, once. Only I dealt with it in wildly self-destructive ways.

“She was my stepmother.”

My words break the hanging silence, and Melody stiffens.

“I was twelve.”

I want a drink. Motherfuck, I wantallthe drinks, to numb this even as it spills from my mouth. But I stay where I am, staring straight ahead into the fire as my past sinks it’s teeth in my jugular.

“She drank a lot, and my dad was usually gone—work, getting fucked up, fucking around with other women. Anything he could do tonotbe at home. The first time it happened…”

My jaw grinds.

“It just happened. And when it was over, she just stayed there in my room—in my bed—smoking cigarettes until my dad came home.”

Melody half turns, her face crumpling as a tear slides down her cheek.

“I was used to him hitting me around. But that night, he beat the living shit out of me, until I lost consciousness. He hit her, too, and called her a whore and all that shit. But he decided it was my fault. I’d gone after what was his, to stick it to him, or whatever.”

Her hand touches mine. My fingers twist, lacing with hers; tightening.

“I thought that was the end of it. But it only made things worse. After that, he started disappearing more and more. And every time he was gone, she’d be there—drunk, slurring, telling me to be quiet. Telling me to be a big man for her…”

My eyes close. My jaw grinds painfully as I swallow back the nightmares from my youth.

It’s different with boys. When it happens to them—to us—we’re not really seen as victims. We’re given high-fives. Slaps on the back. A cold beer. A grin and a “atta boy”.

So only Iggy ever knew. Because he came from as fucked up a place as I did, with an uncle who liked to put cigarettes out on Iggy’s arm, or hit him with buckle end of a belt for basically anything.

Iggy knew that keeping that shit inside wasn’t because we were scared, or because we felt some fucked up need to protect the ones who hurt us.

It was self-preservation. Keeping it locked deep was how you kept waking up every day and kept breathing.

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