“I said get out!” His shout echoes off the tiled walls.
He jumps up, and I take the few seconds to check his naked body for other wounds. His chest is scratched up along with his inner thighs, but it seems as if his arms and neck got the worst. He snags a towel off the rack and wraps it around his body. The white immediately turns pink in places from his blood, but he doesn’t seem concerned.
He stares me down and I scramble on the wet floor to stand. “I promise I’ll leave if you give me five minutes to explain.”
He stalks toward me, arms flexed, fists balled tight. “I don’t want to hear a thing you have to say. Ever.”
He leaves the bathroom, and I follow him into the part of his condo with a bed. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pair of pajama pants, sliding them on.
Ignoring me, he manages to completely avoid my existence.
I swallow and stand tall, a little cold and very confused. What happened in the shower? He let me hold him and sing to him, but now he wants me to leave?
I can’t. I’m too weak to live without him, not strong enough to let him go.
And even though he says he doesn’t care what I have to say, he’s going to fucking hear it before I get my ass dragged out of here in handcuffs.
“Five minutes. Can you give me that?”
His eyes work back and forth between mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
“My parents were hideous people. You think I’m just as bad as them, but I didn’t know what they were doing until after you left.” I take a step closer and he spears me with a glare. “The box. Our secret. Do you remember?”
Recognition flashes through his turbulent aqua stare.
“I found the box. Once I realized the”—I shake my head, even now unable to speak the words—“abuse, I confronted my parents, Rex. I buried the box in my backyard so they couldn’t destroy it, and then I threatened to go to the cops with what I knew.” A shiver of terror races up my spine, remembering my parents’ idea of punishment. To this day I have no idea how long I was locked in that closet with nothing but a bucket and a box of cereal. “They spooked, locked me up in a closet and ran. Mexico or Canada, I have no idea. They just . . . left.”
His eyebrows drop low, and I can’t tell if it’s concern or distrust he’s feeling.
Either way, he’s quiet and listening. “It was dark and silent for so long, and then one day I heard noises like my house was being ransacked. Men, a few of them, were yelling back and forth, tossing furniture, looking for something. And then they found it. They found me.”
“Who?” His voice shakes with apprehension or emotion; it’s impossible to read.
“The man responsible for your abuse. The man my parents worked for.” I swallow hard, so scared to finally offload the secret I’ve been lugging around since that summer day that changed my life. My eyes burn and fill with tears, and my chest cramps to hold back the punishing blow. But we’ve come this far, and I have nothing else to lose.
“Rex, it was your father.”
Nineteen
No one believes me.
They feed me pills to numb my head,
But they can’t erase the truth.
I won’t be locked up forever.
And when I get out, I’ll make sure he pays for what he did.
--Georgia Maxwell, Age 15
Rex
Impossible. She’s lying. She has to be. Everything about her is a lie: her black hair, fake eyes, and made-up stories about finding peace.
She’s not my Gia.
She’s a con artist.
I want her the hell out of my life. “Fuck you.”
She winces. “Rex, listen to what I’m saying.” Her eyes are wide, perfecting her dramatic performance. “Your biological father—”
“Get out of my house.” My teeth grind until they ache, eyes burn with barely concealed rage.
She shakes her head and drops her chin. “You don’t believe me.”
“Why would I? You’ve lied about everything since the day we met.” I move toward her, ready to shake her or throw her ass out.
She jumps but doesn’t waver from her firm stance before me. “I know things have been hard for—”
“You think you know what I’ve been through? Because you read a few fucking scraps of paper?”
“No, if you’d let me—”
“You’ve done enough.” The fingers of the past slide up my back and circle my neck. My lungs constrict, stomach lurches. I rip my hands through my hair. “I can feel them.” Hands everywhere. Groping. “I can smell them . . . on my skin . . . in the air. I’ll never be free of this.” I can’t breathe. Get them off. Leave me alone.
I throw my fist. Glass shatters. The burn of torn flesh bites into my knuckles. I’m panting, fighting for breath past the flooding memories. The mirror above my dresser lies in a shimmering pile.
I brace my weight against my dresser and drop my head. Dried blood on my arms, fresh blood on my fists. I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not.
“Rex.” She sniffles through her whispered call.