Page 63 of The Refusal

“Yeah.” I trace a line down the center of his chest buying myself time. “Then one day it got really out of hand.” I prop myself up on my elbow. “They cut off all my hair.”

When I look at him his eyes are closed, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and my stomach roils.

“There was five of them, and they set on me on my way to school. When they got the scissors out, I didn’t know what they were going to do, so I started fighting back, my hands got quite badly cut.” I look down my hand again, and Janus’s eyes pop open and flick down as he picks it up, thumb smoothing over the small scars.

He shifts against the headboard, hand tightening into a fist around mine.

“I struggled away and ran into school. A teacher saw my hair and the blood on my hands and took me to the nurse’s office. In the meantime, the bullies had followed me in and gone straight to the Principal. They said I’d attackedthemwith a pair of scissors. I was called in to give my side of the story, but I could tell that she wasn’t going to do anything, despite the fact half my hair was missing. It was my word against theirs.”

“Fucking hell, Jo.” Color is sitting high on his cheeks, brown eyes almost black.

“When I got home, my dad took one look at my hair and went berserk; questioned me until the whole story came out. He called the Principal at home, went around to her house. There was a big fight between him and the father of the girl.” I swallow, her name stuck in my throat. “Darcy, the ringleader. When the school refused to take sides, my dad went to the local newspaper. I’d never seen him so mad. I was on the front cover; pictures of me with my hair chopped off and the injuries on my hands. You can imagine how the paper loved a juicy story like that.”

Janus pulls my hand up to his mouth and kisses my palm, stormy eyes locked on mine.

“Darcy’s father went berserk and wanted revenge. He was a local councilor, so, of course, the paper also printed his side of the story, saying his daughter wasn’t a bully. I mean the slightly unfortunate thing was that they had no injuries: I’d defended myself against scissors and I’d lost all my hair. But the local paper didn’t care about any of that; it started to take their side—I guess he was too important locally not to. We became pariahs. People started whispering behind their hands, saying I did it for the media attention. That I’d cut my own hair.”

“Jesus Christ! I—” I squeeze his hand with mine.“I can’tbelieveyou …” he starts again, and I shake my head at him. I need to get the whole sorry story out.

“I don’t know what happened to my dad. He flipped. He took them to court.”

Janus’s eyes widen. “Tocourt? Fucking hell. What happened?” He cups his face in his hands and presses a long finger into the corner of his eye. “Please tell me that those assholes got nailed,” he mumbles.

If only. I shake my head again.

“Nothing so satisfying. It dragged on and on; they kept trying to put things in the way, raise questions. No one wanted to testify. A lawyer friend of my dad’s took it on, but she was under a lot of pressure, and we had no money. Eventually, we had to give it up. I’d gone back to school by this time, and it was like I was invisible. No one talked to me. The small number of friends I’d had before drifted away. The bullies ignored me, too; I think they had been warned by their parents to stay away. But I sort of lost trust in people, in friends, in adults, in how the whole system works. I started doing things for attention. I made trouble. In the end, I had to homeschool. My grades weren’t great, so I didn’t get into college on merit. But I had an interview, and because of what my dad had taught me, they let me in.”

I raise my eyes to his, feeling full of fire and regret. “I never feel like I’m good enough.”

“What?” His voice comes out in a sharp crack as he sits forward on a jerk. “That’s insane—you’re amazing at what you do.”

I shake my head, putting my hand on his shoulder to push him back down, and he blows out a long breath, running his hands through his hair before turning to look at me. “Can we go after those assholes now? I’d love to …”

Warmth seeps through my chest. “It’s a long time ago now.”

He lies back, and I watch his face as he winds his fingers through mine, closes his eyes and lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing shaky lips against my skin.

“I’d like to meet your dad. He sounds amazing.” I look at his dark lashes, swallowing.

“He is. Amazing that is. But he’s quiet, too.”

“Some of the best people are. Quiet, that is.”

He looks down at our hands now entwined together on his chest and rubs his thumb over a small mark.

“So that’s where the troublemaking comes from, then?”

This makes me laugh, and I sag into him. I’m glad he’s asking questions, making it light. We need to share our histories, no matter how awful.

“I suppose so. I wanted to tell you because I find trusting certain people—I guess I’m always skeptical, always looking over my shoulder.” I feel soft and hollow inside, like I’m never going to be good enough to make it, to step out from under my own shadow.

“And that’s why you worry about the press?” he mutters.

I nod.

He squeezes my hand and then pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Jo,” he mumbles into my hair. “Thanks for trusting me.”

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