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The pit in my stomach swells as I sink down on the edge of the bed. My hands play with the soft seam of the comforter while I focus on my breathing. I tell myself I don’t need to go there. I don’t have to think about that night any more than I already have. I’ve been doing so well putting myself out there. Making friends. Dating—well, sort of. I don’t need to go back to that dark place and open that box. I don’t need the reminder.
But as much as I’d like to think I can ignore the press of memories, I can’t. The pull to the closet where the little wooden box hides is too strong to resist. So, I slide off the edge of the bed and cross the room, unzipping the front of my suitcase and sliding out the wooden jewelry box.
With trembling hands, I trace the edges of the smooth wood and the intricate pattern carved into its lid as I close my eyes.
I know what’s inside, just like I know I don’t need to open it to remember how strong I am. But I want to prove my resilience. I want the reminder that I can survive hard things and come out the other side. I’ve moved on. And the contents of this box and the memories that accompany them no longer rule my life.
With a deep breath I flip open the latch and lift the lid.
Inside, is the small crumpled note. I recall how excited I’d been at the prospect of a secret admirer. Moreover, I remember the thrill of a big reveal after several weeks of notes. Looking back, I see how naive I’d been. But I’d only just turned fifteen. I was practically a kid. A romantic.
Reaching into the box, I bypass the note and take the masculine leather cuff in my hand. My fingers trace the inscription etched onto the metal plate that says, “Bub.” I remember how I laid awake at night for weeks, trying to figureout who it could belong to. I’d never seen it before, and I knew no one with that name or anything similar.
I should’ve asked around to see if I could determine out who it belonged to. I should’ve turned it into the authorities, but I was too afraid. Too ashamed and embarrassed. I was worried what people might think of me. I worried they’d say it was my fault. That I deserved it. I worried about whohemight be, and if he’d come back for me when I least expected it and try to finish the job.
From that day forward, I lived my life in fear, knowing what he got away with, but also what hewantedto do before I escaped. Would he try again? Was it only a matter of time before he cornered me?
Part of me didn’t want to know his identity. What if it was a friend or a teacher? Someone I trusted, looked up to, and respected?
So I stayed silent, at least until Teagan started asking questions. He wanted to know why I was so withdrawn. He couldn’t understand why I suddenly stopped hanging out with everyone. Why I no longer wanted to spend time with our circle of friends, and instead, avoided them like the plague. I could no longer stand the sight of the football field because it was the first thing I laid eyes on after I emerged from the locker rooms that night.
My silence hurt my brother, but missing his games, at least all the home ones, hurt him more. His pain is the reason I told him.
I blurted out my story through a tumult of tears, thoroughly convinced the moment I spilled my guts the walls would cave in and the sky would fall.
But they didn’t.
If anything, a weight lifted, and I could breathe again.
There was something wholly therapeutic about sharing the load of that horrible night with someone I could trust.
Teagan listened to my wishes and never told another soul about what happened, but I noticed a shift in him. He became super overprotective, cautious where I was concerned. A worrier. While I focused on my studies and poured myself into schoolwork, he sank his frustration into football. Eventually, I started hanging out with some of the nerdier kids at school. The kind of kids who studied on the weekends rather than go out. The ones who avoided school functions like the plague. And I was fine with it, even if I missed out on a lot of experiences I wished I’d hadn’t.
That’s why I’d been so excited to start college. I have no history here. AU is a chance at a clean slate, a fresh start. One where I’m not expected to be Brynn Nichols, the slightly cynical, antisocial twin.
But I hadn’t planned on Jace attending AU alongside me and representing all the things I left behind in Riverside, including the person I’d once been before my world turned upside down. He’s a reminder of the darkness that lurks in the shadows, the memories I’ve worked so hard to forget. It took years to go anywhere alone without looking over my shoulder. I only recently stopped believinghewould find me.
I know Chris’s questions about how the rift started between me and Jace are innocuous and meant in jest, but they’re also a reminder I can’t outrun my past, at least not fully. It’s a part of me. It made me who I am, for better or worse.
Jace saw me that night. And he made an assumption based on my frazzled appearance and where I’d been about what I’d been doing.
He thought I’d had a quickie in the locker room, and though he had no way of knowing what really happened and that I’d been attacked, I put a wall up. From that day on, I turned my shame and fear into anger. Even a single glimpse of him reminded me of my walk of shame, stumbling from the locker rooms into themoonlight. It brought back the fear and loathing. The stupidity I felt at falling forhistricks. Making Jace my enemy had been easy.
I swallow over the lump forming in the back of my throat, set the leather cuff back inside the box, and snap the lid closed.
What happened made me stronger. I’m a fighter. I fought my way out of danger that evening, and then fought my way through the darkness that followed. I’ve moved on. It doesn’t define me.
Jace’s assumptions shouldn’t define him, either. He had no idea what really happened, and somehow, over these past few weeks, the walls I resurrected between us have begun to crumble. My feelings for him have changed on their own accord, and maybe I’ll get hurt. Maybe what I’m feeling isn’t even real.
But maybe it’s time to clear the rubble.
JACE
I drag a hand down my face as I stare at the bedroom door, debating whether I should knock. I have no idea what the hell just happened, but I saw the shift in Brynn the minute Chris started running his mouth about why she hated me.
I don’t know what it means. Hell, maybe I don’t want to know. But I can’t go back to being enemies, so I raise my fist and rap it against the door. If the past is an indicator of what to expect, I brace for silence but it’s surprise that hits me when her voice calls out, “Come in.”
My eyes lift to the heavens, and I exhale before I turn the knob and step inside.
