“Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you start growing feathers and laying eggs.”
Pulling free from my hold, she turns on her heel. Something catches her eye, and she whirls back around. “Pills too?”
“Calm down, sweetheart. Same shit. Pill form. Not a big deal. I told you the doc has me all hopped up on herbal shit.” I down the rest of the foul-tasting sludge and grimace. Yuck. “Tell you right now, I’ll sprout a garden out of my ass before I grow feathers.”
I watch as her eyes read line after line on the pill bottle. “Blake, there’s a lot of shit in here.”
“Is it herbal?”
“I think, but I don’t—”
“Then I don’t give a shit.” I rinse out my cup. “I have a fight in three weeks. I won’t go into it less than 100 percent.”
Turning back to the griddle in defeat, she shovels pancakes on a plate, chewing the inside of her lip.
I step up behind her and pull her in tight. “Mouse, you’re freaking out for nothing. I’ll toss all this shit the day of. I promise.”
Leaning back, she drops her head to the side. “I’m sure you’re right, and it’s all herbal or whatever. Ignore me. I’ve probably seen one too many freaky medical shows.”
I’m digging that she cares about what I put in my body. Shit, if the roles were reversed, I’d be drain dumping the stuff behind her back to keep her safe. But my pain is gone and my body is in top fighting condition, so I’m sticking with what works.
And for now, it’s Doc Z.
Twenty-two
Layla
Stuck in rush hour traffic on a Monday morning is not where I wanted to have this conversation. But after an hour-long session with the therapist turned into two, we’ve been unable to look each other in the eye. My stomach pitches. I had no idea how much she knew. I thought I’d hidden the worst of it. I was wrong.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Her gaze remains steady out the passenger side window. She doesn’t respond.
“That must have been…” Difficult? Agonizing? Mortifying? My grip on the steering wheel tightens, my knuckles paling with anger. He promised me she couldn’t hear. Now I know that she was angry that I didn’t leave years ago, to protect her from having to experience that. And all this time I thought I was doing what was best for her, when really I did the most damage by staying.
The truck inches along the clogged freeway. I check the clock. “You’re going to be about forty-five minutes late. Do I need to sign you in?”
“No.” She looks out the front window.
I take a deep breath. There’s so much to say, so much to confess, but where to start? “I’m sorry I let that go on as long as it did.”
That gets me her eyes for a few seconds before she goes back to staring out the window.
“If I’d have known that you… you… heard, um, that—”
“Dad raping you.”
I suck in a painful gasp at the lifeless way she mutters those disgusting words.
“I wouldn’t call it that, I mean… that’s something that happens between strangers and—”
“Oh my gosh, Mom.” She glares at me. “Just say it. He raped you.”
I swallow hard and shake my head.
She thrusts her hands into her hair. “This is what I’m talking about. How can we get through something you can’t even admit?”
“I’m sick about what happened. If I’d have known then—”
“It’s over. All that is over. But you’re never going to be able to work it out if you can’t even admit it happened.”
“I hate that we did this to you.”
“I hate him. I always have, far back as I can remember. All those times you asked me if I was upset about leaving, I wanted to scream that I’ve never been so glad to be gone. I hated our life in Seattle.”
“So that whole time I thought you were pissed that we left, when really…”
She sets her crystal-blue eyes on mine. “I was pissed we never talked about why we left. It was like we left living one lie to go live another.”
I take a moment to let that sink in. She’s right. Accepting what was really happening was one thing, but talking to her about it seemed wrong on so many levels. That was before I found out that she already knew.
I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “You’re very wise. From here on out, no more secrets, okay? We talk about anything and everything. No judgment.”
She squeezes my hand back. “That sounds good to me.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
With a secure bridge built between us, the knot in my chest eases up. She’s almost seventeen, and with her life experiences, she’s a lot older than that. I’ve always tried to protect her like I would a child. But it’s clear she’s blossomed into a woman.
“What did you need to talk to me about?” she says, still holding my hand.
I retrace our morning and the afternoon before. We’d spent Sunday afternoon cleaning the apartment, grocery shopping, and doing laundry for the week. I’d mentioned that I had to talk to her about something. More like someone.