Page 68 of Love Her

“No,” I said, holding myself with my other arm. “But do it,” I said, and he did.

There were no windows in Mrs. Armstrong’s office—so it was pitch black at once. Rhaim pulled me close and danced us back to the couch, while I was hit with wave after wave of adrenaline, every fiber in my being screaming that it wasnot safe!andwhy did you hide here?andHow could you let him catch you?

I could tell myself that those feelings weren’t fair, but it didn’t make them go away, as I fell into my panic like afamiliar record’s song, pulled along by a horrible certainty that something about me was bad.

Or unworthy.

I had to be.

It was the only reason that made sense, why my mother loved drinking more than me, why I couldn’t earn my father’s trust, and why my uncle’s torment had somehow made me silent.

And just the thought of him in the dark, tipped my fragile sanity, batting it down to shatter like a cat toying with a glass.

Because you couldn’t hide in the dark, you thought you could, but there was no place that was safe when you were little and he was big and the entire house was empty and you tried behind sinks and inside closets and you crawled up into the attic once and were sure you were safe but that only made him laugh more when he found you, like he believed you really were playing again, rather than trying to escape, again, and again, and again. You learned to hate everything about the dark, the scent of his cologne, the way he would bring in your mother’s expensive face cream—that you would get in trouble! For using! When it never went on your face now, did it? And it burned you inside!—and how you memorized the squeak of every floorboard in your house, how you heard an echo of a scream inside yourself every time you heard one, and how that was how you learned to come, betrayed even by your own body, as he cruelly laughed above you the night you turned thirteen.

And you raced away, galloping down the stairs, because there were still grown-ups at the party, before spinning out and falling, barely catching yourself before you hit your head, and making enough of a mess of yourself an adult finally noticed.

“Lia?” the Rhaim of the past had asked. “Are you okay?”

He’d come up to you and picked you up at once, setting you straight on the stairs with strong hands that didn’t stray, and his entire expression was one of concern.

“She’s fine,” Uncle Freddie had said from the top of the stairs.

“I wasn’t fucking asking you,” Rhaim told him, his disgust with Freddie written over his entire body—it was the first time you realized anyone else might possibly feel the same way as you.

But then Freddie stared you down, where Rhaim couldn’t see, and the same tongue that’d just betrayed you with a moan as he shoved you against your bedroom’s carpeting couldn’t make a sound.

“Are you okay?” Rhaim asked again, and you nodded slowly. The longer this interaction went on, the safer you’d be—maybe Freddie would get so bored with things, he’d just wander off.

But you knew he wouldn’t. Ever. He was like that tick you’d gotten running across a field in second grade, fat, bloody, and burrowed in deep.

“You scraped yourself up pretty good,” Rhaim murmured, spotting the carpet burns on both your knees, assuming you’d acquired them in your fall. “Let me wrap those up for you. Stay here,” he said, then walked away, leaving you alone with Freddie Sr, and he squinted at you.

You were attuned to his moods like a bird was the weather. He was mad. You were going to get punished. And you might even like it in that horrible way that made you want to throw up.

You had thrown up around him before though. When he’d gagged you too deep. And that hadn’t stopped him.

But for some unknown reason, and for the first time…he chose to walk away.

Just as Rhaim returned.

Tears sprung to your eyes—which clearly panickedthisman, instead of urging him forward.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt anywhere?” he asked, setting down a small first aid kit. “Did you get a sprain? Or a break? I saw you fall—you were running pretty hard.”

Thenhishands touched you and it was all over.

They didn’t roam, they just stretched your leg out, moved your ankles, one by one, and tried to rattle your kneecaps back and forth.

“I know you’re not a horse, but most things should be pretty much the same,” he said, and you realized he was making a joke with you about things.

Like you were normal.

“It’s just the skin,” you said, pointing at the wide scuffs of red that friction had left, and he grunted, pulling out a small can of antiseptic spray.

“Hopefully this won’t hurt,” he said, giving a squirt of it to both your kneecaps, and it didn’t, it felt soothing and good, like everything about the moment.

Like not being frightened, for the first time in years.

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