Page 76 of Steel Beauty

“You were a kid, Charleston. And they didn’t protect you.”

There’s something about the way he says it—so firm, so sure—that makes my chest tighten. It’s not pity, and it’s not judgment. It’s genuine concern, and that does something to me. Knowing he cares, that he’s angry on my behalf, feels strangely comforting. I’m not used to someone worrying about my well-being like this, and I can’t deny how much I like it.

“True. But at least I had Leonard and Janet looking out for me. They installed a padlock on my bedroom door—from the inside—and taught me how and when to use it. I learned how to protect myself at a very early age from the creeps Robin and Charlene brought into our home.”

Thank God for Leonard and Janet and their foresight. That padlock saved me more than once. I lost count of the times I heard the jiggle of my bedroom doorknob in the middle of the night, a not-so-subtle reminder of the dangers outside my door when Robin or Charlene let some lowlife stay over.

His expression hardens, his gaze dropping to the drink he’s holding. “You shouldn’t have been exposed to that kind of danger.”

“Well, unfortunately, I was. That was my life growing up. There’s nothing to be done about it now except take the lessons I learned and do better. Because when you know better, you do better.”

He watches me, admiration softening the edge in his eyes. “You’re such a wise and forgiving person. I want to be like you when I grow up.”

It hasn’t always been this way. It’s taken years—years of heartache, of learning, of forcing myself to let go of things I couldn’t change. I’ve had to unlearn the resentment, rewrite the story I told myself about what I deserved. Forgiveness didn’t come easy, but I realized something along the way: holding on to anger only gives it more power. And I refuse to let the past define me.

“Look, I could spend the rest of my life angry about my childhood, but that would only make me a bitter, miserable person. And that’s not who I want to be.”

I look up at him, feeling strength in the words I’m about to say. “I choose to be the heroine in my story, not the victim.”

He goes quiet, his gaze fixed on me as he processes what I’ve said. And in the pause that follows, I see something shift in his eyes—something that tells me he’s taking that to heart.

He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes drifting away. When he finally speaks again, there’s a heaviness in his words, a tension that wasn’t there before.

“Something happened to me a couple of years ago at my former job. A colleague did something—intentionally—that caused me a serious injury. That injury meant I couldn’t keep working in that profession.”

He pauses, his jaw tightening as his gaze fixes on the horizon. “Nothing ever came of it. He wasn’t reprimanded, and I never confronted him. Even now, two years later, I’m still so angry that if I did confront him, I’m afraid I’d lose control. Afraid I’d choke the bloody hell out of him.”

Frustration seeps from his words. “How do you move on from something like that? How do I adopt the attitude you have?”

His words hit me squarely, their meaning impossible to ignore. I draw in a steady breath, choosing my response with care. “What Robin and Charlene did wasn’t intentional. Neglectful and dangerous? Yes. But it wasn’t meant to hurt me. They’re stuck in their own toxic cycle, doing what they were taught by someone else who was just as broken. It’s a survival mechanism they don’t even realize they’re repeating.”

He shifts slightly, his gaze turning back to me. There’s a look in his eyes, something raw and unresolved, as if he’s trying to understand.

“It takes a special kind of… I don’t know,darkness, to make the choice to hurt someone deliberately. What you went through is entirely different from what I experienced.”

He nods slowly, processing my words. “So how am I supposed to move on from it?”

I watch him, sensing the depth of his pain. “Can you tell me more about what happened? That is, if you’re comfortable sharing it with me.”

He hesitates, eyes distant, before finally speaking. “A ruptured Achilles. It happened in a split second.” He pauses, jaw tight, like he’s holding back part of the memory. “I’ve seen the footage. He came in from behind, hit low, deliberately aimed at my ankle. It felt like a snap, like something tore right through my leg.”

I watch him, hearing the tension, the frustration barely hidden beneath the words. “The tendon was shredded, and the force of the impact damaged the nerves. After surgery, months of rehab, and every physical therapy exercise they could throw at me… I still wasn’t able to get the stability back.” His hand tightens into a fist. “Some days, I don’t know if my ankle will hold steady or give out. It’s like it has a mind of its own now.”

He looks down, his expression hardening, the bitterness impossible to miss. “And the worst part? Nothing happened to him. He walked away—no apology, no consequences—while I was left figuring out how to rebuild my life.” He pauses, a shadow darkening his face. “And it wasn’t the first time he’d tried something like this. Just the first time he was successful.”

I take a breath, letting his words settle, then reach for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know you’re a good person, someone who’d never hurt anyone intentionally. But I get it, and I understand the need for closure. Anger like that can eat at you. Do you think some form of retaliation would give you the peace you need to move on?”

He falls silent, his gaze distant, fixed on something I can’t see. “Sometimes, I think it would help. Other times, I’m not so sure. But I can’t leave it as it is. It’s been festering for too long, eating at me piece by piece. This feeling that I’ve failed somehow—that I haven’t handled it as a real man should—is tearing me apart.”

My chest tightens because I hate seeing him like this—lost in a battle he shouldn’t have to fight alone. He doesn’t deserve this kind of heaviness or pain. He deserves laughter, lightness, and a reason to smile that reaches his eyes and stays there.

“If you ever need someone to take care of it, you just say the word. I can go from a classy Charleston lady to full-on Mississippi redneck in 1.3 seconds if that’s what you need.” I give him a wink.

The laughter that escapes him is genuine, lighting up his face, if only for a moment.

“I’m not entirely joking, you know. I’d gladly make this guy pay for what he did to you if I were ever in a position to do so. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

“You’re a whole lot of trouble wrapped in a sweet, Southern-talking little package, aren’t you?”

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