That would be terrible. I lock my lips with an imaginary key.
But as she starts to lead the way, I yank her hand—turning her around, making her crash against me. Because there’s something I have to tell her.
“Chelsea . . . I didn’t mean what I said. I am on your side.”
She searches my face, smiling gently. Her hand runs through my dark hair. “I know you are.”
We make it to Chelsea’s room undetected. She closes the door while I sit on the bed, yanking at my tie. Chelsea comes to my rescue and lifts it over my head. Then she goes to work on my shirt, my pants—stripping me down to boxers and my T-shirt.
I watch her through hooded eyes, relishing the admonishing smile dancing on her face, the way she moves with effortless grace.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, because I can’t keep the words in a second longer.
She looks up at me from the floor, throwing my socks over her shoulder. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She cocks her chin toward the middle of the bed. “Go on. Scoot over.”
I do as I’m told and she climbs onto the bed behind me. I lie back against the pillow, one arm bent behind my head. Chelsea nestles up close, her cheek resting above my heart.
“What’s going on with you, Jake?”
Somewhere deep inside lies the truth. It’s curled up into a tight, black ball, under heavy blankets of disappointment. Fear. And shame. But it wants to show itself the way a wounded animal exposes its tender underbelly when it knows it’s beaten. Just to hasten whatever comes next.
“I’m not a good man.”
The whispered confession echoes in the still room. Chelsea lifts her head and I feel the point of her chin against my ribs. “You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known. In every way possible.” There’s disbelief in her voice—playfulness—like she thinks I’m teasing her.
I don’t bother arguing. She’ll know soon enough. The truth will set you free. What a fucking joke. When the truth is ugly, it holds you prisoner, and when it’s revealed, it tears the whole world down around you.
“Did I ever tell you about my father?”
“You said he left when you were eight.”
I snort. “Yeah, he left all right.” I shake my head as I dive back into that dark lake of memories best forgotten. “He was a mean bastard, even on a good day. But when he drank . . . he was truly dangerous. My mother . . . she used to sit so still, I’d watch her chest, just to make sure she was still breathing. It was like she was trying to blend into the wallpaper, so he wouldn’t have a reason . . .”
But guys like my old man don’t need a reason.
They make their own.
My voice goes flat and faraway. “The last time . . . it was because she sneezed.” I see it in my mind. The way he upended the tray, the way his dinner splattered across the TV and clung to the walls, leaving a greasy mashed-potato trail as it slid down. The way he grabbed her. “Can you believe it? She fucking sneezed.”
For the first time since I began, I look at Chelsea. She gazes at me with sympathy, sadness. Her brows are weighted, the corners of her mouth heavy with compassion that doesn’t feel at all like pity.
“And she was so little, Chelsea. Even as a kid, I could see she was so much smaller than him.” I moisten my lips, so the rest of the words can pass. “He threw her down the stairs and I remember thinking he wasn’t going to stop this time. He’d told her he’d do it one day. That when it happened, he’d bury her where no one could find her. He’d said no one would miss her . . .” My eyes sting with the memory and my throat squeezes. “No one but me.”
I blink away moisture and clear my throat. “So I went to the box under the bed—the dumb fuck stored the thing loaded. And I walked back to the living room and pointed it at him. It wasn’t heavy; my hands didn’t shake at all. But when I cocked it, the sound it made—it seemed so loud. He stopped, right away—froze. He knew exactly what that sound was. He turned around, slowly, and I kept it aimed right at his chest. I told him to go, to get away from us . . . or I would kill him. And I really fucking would have.”
At some point, Chelsea’s hand started rubbing soothing circles on my chest, my stomach, but I didn’t feel her touch until just now. It gives me the motivation I need to finish.
“I guess it’s true what they say about cowards. They only prey on easy targets, the ones who don’t fight back. Because he left and didn’t come back.”
For a moment, the only noise in the room is the sound of our breaths moving in time. Then Chelsea says with admiration, “That’s why you do what you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a defender. You defend people. Like you defended your mother . . . and Rory. You gave them a chance, to have a new start.”
My eyes squeeze shut. “Most people don’t see it that way, Chelsea.”