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I dip my chin, not wanting to admit it. It feels like Theo wins if I do. Like what happened is going to haunt me forever and steal a piece of my soul.
“You know… talking about it can help.”
I glance up at him. “Reliving it? Really? That’s helpful?”
He winces. “Burying trauma doesn’t always work.” Scraping his hands through his short hair, he squeezes the back of his neck, and I wonder if there’s some bigger meaning behind his words.
Has he experienced trauma before?
Has he had to do some kind of counseling or?—
“I’m not saying you need to see a therapist or anything… Unless, of course you want to, which is totally valid and probably really helpful. I just mean that sharing the burden can lighten it for you.” He cringes, rubbing his forehead. “I feel like I’m saying this all wrong. I want to respect your privacy, I really do. But not to your detriment.” He huffs, his hand landing on the table with a soft thud. “And my imagination has been torturing me.” His expression buckles even further, as if he’s in physical pain. “Wild scenarios that involve you being… more than… hit and kicked, which is hideous, but…” His gaze is agonized as he leans a little closer and whispers, “He didn’t… he didn’t force himself on you, did he?”
My eyes bulge. “No.” I swallow, remembering my relief when Theo was too tired and drunk to demand I get into bed with him. I close my eyes. “Thank God.”
“So, what happened, then?”
He’s asking so softly. Part of me wants to tell him.
But when I open my mouth, I can’t find the words.
I try a couple times but end up sagging my shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m not trying to force you if you’re not ready. This isn’t about me.” He rubs his forehead again, looking tortured but resigned.
And something about his words touches me. The fact that he’s desperate to know yet won’t demand it. Even if it pains him, he’s going to put my needs above his own.
For some reason, it releases the block in my throat, and the words start flowing before I can stop them.
“I’d just come home from a double shift at work…”
CHAPTER 8
LIAM
It takes everything in me to control my expression while I listen to Rachel’s quaking voice as she describes the way her asshole boyfriend just sat there and watched while that motherfucker, Matt, beat the shit out of her.
He just sat there.
Sat there and watched.
Sat there and let it happen.
I would never let someone talk to my woman that way. And if he touched her like that, I’d break the guy’s foot off, then systematically snap every bone in his body.
My knee starts to bob beneath the table when she gets to the part about trying to leave and being dragged down to their bedroom, locked inside like she was his prisoner.
“And then he told me to do what’s good for me and stay put.” She sniffs, her glassy eyes finally releasing the tears she’s been fighting. They spill down her cheeks, and she quickly brushes them away as the waitress walks past our booth.
The server can obviously sense something big is going down, because she quickly diverts with her coffeepot, and I can absorb what the fuck Theo said to Rachel.
What’s good for her. I want to kill him.
“And I just kind of froze up, you know?” She pinches her bottom lip with trembling fingers. “My body was hurting, and I was so scared. I couldn’t even find the guts to climb out the window.”
I reach for her hand—the one that’s gripping the salt shaker—and gently rub it with my thumb. “But you did leave. You had the courage to walk out the door that night. You drove miles to get away from him. That’s courage, Ray. You were brave.”
“I don’t feel brave,” she mumbles, her eyes fixated on something past my shoulder. I don’t think she’s really seeing anything. She has this glazed look about her, like she’s picturing something in her mind. “I feel stupid for falling for him in the first place.”
