I clear my throat and try to relax. If his need to comfort me triggered him before, my panic might do the same and I can’t risk losing Lucas now that he’s finally letting me in.
“What about the punishments?” I fight a swell of nausea, fearing his answer.
He rubs the back of his neck. “My mom.”
I allow the silence to settle between us, not wanting to scare him from telling me more by blabbing the four thousand questions I have swirling through my head.
What if I trigger the violent side of Lucas just for being female? A spike of adrenaline speeds my pulse, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of my surroundings.
My instinct tells me to run, but deep down inside I believe Lucas wouldn’t hurt me. He’s had me alone, had the opportunity, but the only thing he hurt was my feelings. And even his more aggressive personality protected me from Dustin. That has to mean something.
“Sometimes I’d come to, curled up on the floor, aching all over. Others I’d wake up to her standing over me. She’d scream. I’d go from black to her face twisted in anger and the words . . .” He is staring at nothing but seems to be seeing everything.
My heart lodges in my throat at how he must’ve suffered. I scoot closer, place my hand on his back, and rub up and down in long firm strokes. His muscles flex beneath my touch but after a few dozen seconds he seems to calm.
“Did your parents ever take you to a doctor?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Guess a woman who punishes her son so extremely that he would black out wouldn’t seek medical attention. Too easy to get caught.
“My little brother Michael used to tell me about Gage. He’d say, ‘I got scared but then Gage came’ and ‘If Mom gets mad, it’ll be okay because Gage will take care of us.’ I thought he was an imaginary friend, their version of a guardian angel.”
The broken sound of his voice makes my eyes and sinuses burn.
“It wasn’t until later that my little sister was looking at my class picture. She kept pointing at me saying, ‘Who is that? Lucas or Gage?’ After that, when he’d show up, he’d leave me notes.”
“Notes, like on paper?”
“Yes, and also here.” He flips his hands over, palms up.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Anything this time?”
He opens his mouth, then quickly closes it and shakes his head. “No.”
I fold my arms around my stomach, feeling a sudden chill in the breeze. His mother was abusive; that much is true. I can see why he’s avoided my questions about her. Did she abandon him rather than die like I originally thought?
To think her abuse was so severe Lucas became a completely different person to protect himself is tragic beyond comprehension.
“What happened that night, Shyann?” He sounds so broken, as if he already knows the answer and he’s apologizing for it.
“You were at a bar.”
His wide eyes turn to me. “I was at a bar?” He drops his head into his hands and groans.
“Gage was. He punched a guy I grew up with.” No need to go into details; something tells me the less information for Lucas to process the better.
His right hand flexes.
“I didn’t know what was going on when you didn’t show up for work this morning. I told my dad you were sick to keep him from coming to check on you. Hope that’s okay.”
“Why would you do that?” he whispers, then turns toward me. “Why would you protect me?”
“Lucas? Have you ever heard the words dissociative identity disorder?”
“I think so.”
“It’s an identity disorder. Some call it multiple personality disorder.”
His ears get red. He tucks his chin and locks his hands behind his head. “If you’re telling me I’m crazy, don’t bother. I already know.”
“You never got help—”
“I tried. He’d never let me.” He studies the tops of the trees. “Don’t you see? I can never be trusted because he’ll always be part of me.”
I blink, memories of Gage, his hate-filled stare, his threats, and that punch he delivered that hardly seemed to faze him.
“Do you want to hurt people?”
“Of course not.”
“Maybe you have more control than you think.” I shrug, as if it’s as simple as that, hoping he feels encouraged even though I haven’t the slightest idea if it’s true. But I have to believe his goodness would win out.
I run my sweaty palms against my thighs, embarrassed to admit that maybe he’s not all that different from me. When I lost my mom, a part of me died with her and I became someone else to avoid feeling the pain—career focused, selfish, hell-bent on leaving the memories behind no matter the cost.
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
I lean over and place my hand on his arm, begging him to look at me. He doesn’t. “Then explain it.”
“Why did I smell like perfume?” There’s a hardness in his voice I’ve never heard before and I don’t need to ask to know he’s talking about Gage.