Page 103 of Heavy

I swear I haven’t breathed. I’ve cried, noheavedthrough his story.

“It was then I learned that the only person that was ever going to take care of me, was me.”

I hate that it’s not me that’s comforting him, but instead, him holding me like I’ve just told him the most fucked up story. One that justcouldn’tbe real, because how could someone—anyone—not have believed him, seen the pain he was in, or even cared enough to try?!

“Three years toughened me up, then I was thrown back out into the world with thirty bucks to my name and no one to go to.”

“Where was your mom? Your brother? Fuck Eamon.” I'm a blubbering mess. It feels good to cry, even though it comes from so much pain. I've begged, pleaded with some god for the release of tears, but I wish it hadn't come because of this.

He chuckles, but I swear I just make myself smaller. We moved into the cabin halfway through his story. For someone that’s inept to relationship cues, he was capable of seeing I needed to be inside.

I felt too exposed, like someone was watching me breaking down and him showing off all his scars. Even if I know we are the only two out here for a solid mile in any direction, I just felt the trees were listening.

After he wrapped me in a blanket, he put me back in his lap, and that’s where we’ve been since.

“My mom wrote me letters but then they stopped coming after a year. When I was released at twenty, I found out that she had been diagnosed with SLE. She was sick,reallysick.” He sighs, and I can feel the pain in his voice. “There are times I was my own executioner. I could have seen her, but I feared the added stress of me would make her diagnosis worse. It ended up taking her life anyway, three years after I got out. The day they buried her was the day I killed someone, and my life continued to spiral.”

“My god, Ronan… I’m so, so sorry.”

Throughout his story, it was always his mom who tried. She was the one who stayed, even when she was forced out, she fought. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have felt like for her. “As for Eamon, I had a hard time finding him at first, but when I did, his life seemed too perfect to poison. Plus, I called him and after the first two rings, I hung up. After that, I never tried again.”

“Fucking asshole.”

He nods. “Agreed.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“Dead.” No further explanation. Good riddance.

“I hate to ask this, but… what happened to your uncle?”

That has him taking in a long, heavy breath. “Dead as well, and I wish I could say I was the one that did it.” A fresh set of tears runs from my eyes at the pain and anger in his eyes. “I have self-loathing for my silence for so long, but after telling the court what he did, and them ignoring it, I forgave myself.

“He ended up raping a neighbor's kid, and the father took a shotgun shell to his head.” I struggle to swallow. “Oh, the feeling of anger and jealousy I had for the weeks that followed.”

I lean slightly back, just enough to get my hand free from between us and wipe away my tears. However, Ronan grabs my wrist to stop me. He leans forward and kisses the corner of my eye before running his tongue along my temple.

“Not as good as your cum and drool,” he muses. “You’re beautiful when you cry.”

I know he’s lying. There is no way that my face isn’t red as fuck, and puffy like that of an inflated unopened bag of chips.

He must see the incredulous look I’m giving him, because he chuckles. “I may do a lot of bad things, but lying isn’t one of them, Cal.”

“You’ve commented before about me crying… Why?”

“Ever since nearly killing that boy, I’ve aimed to make people cry. It’s a form of art, and yes that’s fucked up, but to me it’s the same as… when you do your makeup, or hair. You don’tneedto do it, but you like to. We all do it for different reasons. For me, it’s seeing someone vulnerable. Knowing I can elicit such a strong feeling makes me feel in control. Watching people cry for their lives is euphoric.” The laugh he produces is more of amusement. “Maybe I’m as twisted as my uncle…”

My heart thrusts against my chest. “You are nothing like that sick bastard.”

He nods. “I’m not. Doesn’t mean I’m free of problems.”

“We all have problems, Ronan.”

I stare at him, then look down at his hand resting on his stomach. His other is draped over the couch.

“Like you,” he whispers, causing me to glance up through my lashes at him. “Your problem is lying, baby girl.”

I’m more of a manipulator, but being a liar can also define me.

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