Page 72 of The Breakaway

Rob drew a breath. “You did type in 9-1-1.”

I pursed my lips. “Yeah.” My mom’s words came back to me.You’re being dramatic.“I'm sorry if I messed up your plans. I know you were leaving today.”

“No. It's fine. You didn't mess up anything.”

I still couldn't look at him. I kept my eyes trained out the windshield, gritting my teeth to keep another round of emotion from washing over me. Standing in the gas station, I hadn't planned on telling Rob the details about why I was going back to the house and not to my parents. But sitting there, it felt like if I didn't get the story out of my body, it would keep looping torturously in my head.

My memories of those nights were like this. Sometimes crystal clear, and sometimes like I was inspecting them at the bottom of a pool. Colours. Shapes. That was when I had to repeat the facts in detail. Otherwise, the whole scene started to slip away from me.

My heart sped. I needed someone else to tell me that I wasn't crazy, that it was reasonable for me to get out of the car and page my boyfriend's best friend in a gas station.

“When I was thirteen, I spent a few weeks of the summer at my grandma's house. My parents were there. It was kind of a summer getaway. I didn't know it at the time, but my grandma was really struggling. My dad went to help her fix some things up at the house so she wouldn't have to hire somebody, and my mom used it as an excuse to take a vacation.”

I drew a breath, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “We spent time at the lake, picked wild raspberries, learned how to canoe. It was idyllic. Until the end of the first week when I woke up in the middle of the night. To someone's hands on my body.”

I couldn't look at Rob. Couldn't move. I was frozen in the seat. But I heard the twist of his hands on the wheel. The abrupt rev of the engine as we turned onto Center St.

He was pissed. And knowing that gave me the courage to continue.This was wrong, and now there was one other person who knew it.My friends knew. Logan knew. But not like this.

“I knew it was my cousin Eric because I opened my eyes when he was finished. I saw his shirt. His buzz cut.” My gut clenched, the image of his silhouette against the light from the hall burned on my retina. That was what I saw in my dreams. Light and dark. But the sounds were so much worse.

I blew out a shaky breath. “He pretended nothing had happened. The next day I was sick. Throwing up. He offered to bring me soup. He sat with me while we watched a movie—to this day, I can’t watch Hook.”

Rob made a sound in his throat. I turned my head to the side and pressed my forehead against the cold glass as shame washed over me. Why had I pretended? Why hadn’t I said something then?

And then I told Rob something I’d never said to another person. “I let him be my friend.” The last word died on a sob. “He was doing all these nice things for me, and I let him. I watchedmovies with him, I baked cookies—” My hands clenched into fists.

Six nights he came into my room at night, touched me while he touched himself. And for six days I pretended I was fine with it. I acted like I was friends with him. No wonder my parents didn’t believe me.

I hated my cousin, but I hated myself more.

Rob pulled the truck up to the curb in front of our townhouse, the engine rumbling softly before it shut off, leaving us in silence. I stared out the windshield, my face streaked with tears, my throat raw. I didn't know what I'd been expecting, but now that I'd said it all, I felt like I'd been ripped open, bleeding out in his passenger seat.

Rob unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the truck. I shivered as cold air seeped in, then he was there, opening my door. He reached across my lap and unbuckled my seatbelt, his body brushing against mine.

He didn’t leave. Rob wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to the sidewalk, enveloping me in his arms. I burrowed into his chest, his hand cradling the back of my head as I somehow found new tears to cry.

His shirt was soft and smelled like fresh laundry, and I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of his body seep into me.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Rob murmured, his lips brushing the crown of my head.

Rob didn't say anything for a long time. He just held me there, in the cold, with his thumb stroking my back. My tears slowed, and my breaths became more even.

“He’s there. At my house for Christmas. I couldn’t go back.” I became hyper-aware of his body against mine. The way his chest rose and fell. The way his fingers gripped my hip. The way his thumb brushed against the skin on my neck.

"I knew there was something," Rob said, his voice low. "That night when I was using the washroom."

I exhaled against his now-damp shirt. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. If I would’ve known?—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. You shouldn’t have to be afraid at night.” He inhaled, my head rising with his chest. “You shouldn’t ever have to be afraid again.”

I blew out a breath. “I don’t think that’s how life works.”

“Well it should. For you.”

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