Why did I agree to this? I stir my sweet tea with my straw, watching the ice cubes dance around the glass.
“Britton Shelton Reeves, I’d appreciate it if you’d at least pretend to pay attention when I’m speaking to you.”
“Yes, Mother.” I sit up straighter and grab my fork, poking at the food on my plate.
“So have you given it any more thought? The city is closing government businesses for the day so everyone can come to the school, and Mayor Cheetham will be speaking. Plus, Robin Bateman, the daughter of the principal is going to speak in his honor.”
I stare at my food, unblinking, until my vision goes fuzzy.
“Britton? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mother,” I reply automatically. It doesn’t matter what I do or say—she doesn’t listen. She’ll never understand. My only saving grace in all of this is that immediately after “the incident.” my parents had the foresight to keep my name out of the press to protect my privacy. Yet now she wants me to stand up on stage and tell everyone who I am.
“Are you hearing a word I say?”
What a joke. If anyone isn’t hearing what someone is saying, it’s my mother. My eyes roll of their own accord, earning me another verbal slap down.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Britton. It’s disrespectful.”
That’s it. My blood pressure soars. I feel my skin prickle with heat. The dreams, the memories, the seizure, Keller, the anniversary, her nagging… it’s too much.
“If anyone is disrespectful, it’s you, Mother!” My mom’s mouth falls open in shock. “For ten years I have told you I’m not going to play the victim. I refuse to be the face of this… this tragedy, to live it over and over in front of crowds of strangers when I can’t even remember what fucking happened that day!”
“Don’t use such foul language,” she hisses, glancing around the fancy restaurant to see if anyone is listening.
“Then don’t ask me again! No. The answer is no! I’m not going. Until you can respect my wishes, I think it’s better if we don’t speak for a while.”
I stand up and grab my purse.
“Britton, stop making a scene.”
“Ha!” I laugh humorlessly. “You worry more about appearances than you do about me. When you get a clue, call me. Until then, don’t bother.”
I spin on my heel and storm out of the upscale restaurant, not caring who stares or who whispers about me “making a scene.” I broke down and drove today. Turning the engine and driving off, I make it all the way down the block before the tears start to flow. I’m not one to pity myself. Hell, I’m not Britton Shelton Reeves, victim, survivor, or whatever label people want to slap on me. I’m Britt Reeves, a young woman trying to live her life without being crushed by constant fear and anxiety.
My mother will never understand the fact that even though I don’t remember that day, I carry the burden of it on my shoulders just as undeniably as the concealed scar on my head. Pity makes it worse. Standing in front of crowds, all of them feeling sorry for me… No. I can’t. I won’t.
Thankfully, my apartment isn’t too far. The ten minutes it takes to drive home leave me emotionally exhausted. The crying leaves me hollow and drained. I stagger up the flight of stairs to my unit, too tired to even feel my usual anxiety.
I stop in the hall to dig out my keys when I hear my name.
“Britt? You drive? I didn’t think you had a car.”
My head jerks up in time to see Keller climbing to his feet, glancing between me and my shiny red BMW, a gift from my parents when I finished school.
Keller was sitting outside my door?
Speechless and overemotional, I feel the keys slip from my hand and clatter to the floor. Keller begins to approach, but hesitates, his eyes showing rare uncertainty. “Keller,” I choke, running into his arms.
When his strength envelops me, every wrong becomes right, every anxiety melts away, every doubt disappears. I feel calm, safe, whole. The spark of life that’s been missing inside burns bright, lighting me up like a solar flare, sizzling white-hot through my veins. Keller brings me out of the darkness and into the light.
Keller spins, slamming my back against the wall, caging my head between his thick biceps. He thrusts his hips forward, pressing his hard length into me.
“Keller.” I slide a hand under his shirt, letting it rest over his heart. Its rhythm is strong and vital, offering its strength to me.
“God, Britt. Why can’t I stop this?” He brings his mouth down on mine, lightly at first, skimming his tongue over the seam of my lips. I open up, giving him full access. Keller groans, his hips bucking forward again as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth, sensual and deep.
His hungry mouth devours the small whimpers I make. Keller grabs the sides of my face, angling my head so he can plunge even further inside. I slide my other hand into his shirt and drag both down his muscled back, digging my nails in, marking him as mine.