“Fire. You can say it,” she growls, crossing her arms, the coffee mug dangling from her fingertips. “Donovan, one of the things I like about you is that you’re blunt and don’t sugar-coat things for me. Please, don’t start now. I’m the same girl I was before you learned about all of my crap.”
Ah fuck. That’s the last time I try to be sensitive.Looking down at her, I have to remind myself that she may look small, but she’s survived hell and is still standing.
She releases a sharp, harsh breath, then meets my gaze with steely determination. “I need you to treat me the same as before. Don’t treat me like I’m broken…” her voice hitches for a moment, “even if I am.”
Her face is hard, with clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Clouds roll across the sky, which I’m not exactly sure isn’t her doing, cutting her features into harsh shadows.
“I get that,” I murmur, feeling like a jackass. “I’d be fucking pissed if people started treating me different because they found out about my past shit.”
Which she didn’t when I told her about my family. Fuck. I should know better.
Placing a hand on Callie’s shoulder, the bones underneath my palm feel fragile, and I feel sick wondering how many times they’ve been broken. I lean down so our gazes lock, because I need her to believe what I’m telling her. “For the record, I think you’re the exact opposite of broken. Surviving leaves scars, and whether you can see them or not, you’ll feel them. Doesn’t make you broken.”
Some of the hardness bleeds from her eyes, and it feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut when I see what’s underneath. Hope and pain.
“Sounds like you speak from experience. Is it your family?” she whispers.
I feel like a coward, but I can’t keep looking into her eyes. Instead, I stand back up and shift so I’m looking back from where we came. She’s not ready to know everything, but maybe if I give more of my story, she’ll at least know I get what it feels like to be alone.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and glare at the burnt spot that took another family away from me.
“You know I’m an orphan,” I start, shifting my weight to my back foot, “and that my family died in a fire when I was eight. It wasn’t an accident. My parents, my older sister, and my older brother were tricked by the demons they were hunting and trapped inside an abandoned house. Fire is effective against demons but is pretty fucking deadly to nephilim too.”
I glance over at her, and her expression is neutral-- she's listening without judgement, then I look back at the scorch mark. With a sigh, I confess, “When I say orphan, I mean no extended family either. It’s literally just me; I’m the last of my line. If it weren’t for Kaleb’s family taking me in, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.”
I wait for the follow up questions.What happened? How did they all die? Why would anyone try to wipe out my entire bloodline?
Instead, with bitter sarcasm, she mutters, “Damn, fire has really screwed us all over.”
Can’t argue with that.Staring out at nothing, the familiar what if rolls around in my head.What if they’d lived.Everything I am is shaped by their death.
After a moment, she bumps me with her shoulder and says, “To being scarred but not broken.”
I look down into her eyes, and I see strength and resolve staring back at me. For the first time in my life, thewhat ifquiets, because in the end, it doesn’t matter.
With a smirk tugging at my mouth, I echo, “Scarred but not broken.”
She chews on her bottom lip, which is-- distracting. Restraint has never been a talent of mine, so pushing away thoughts of kissing that mouth is difficult-- and not helping the morning wood stuffed down my right pant leg.
“How do you do it?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.
It takes me several beats to realize she’s asking me a question, before I finally respond, “Do what?”
“Tell people,” she huffs, with an awkward wave of her hand. “With your past and everything… you just said it. No hesitation. No apology. Just… ‘Hey, here’s my fucked up past. Deal with it.’”
I swallow heavily and try to focus on what she’s saying. “Secrets can only hurt you if they’re kept a secret.” I tell her, sounding like a damn fortune cookie. “What I mean is… if everyone knows, it can’t be used against you. Also, I’ve found that if you tell people just enough of your fucked up life, they think that’s all there is and stop digging.”
She snorts, and attempts to push back some of her wild blonde hair behind her ears. She looks like she just rolled out of bed-- or in reality the floor-- swimming in her red hoodie, flannel pajama bottoms, and ugg boots.
“So what you’re telling me is, if people knew that my mother was dead and my father is in prison for attempted kidnapping, that should be enough fucked-up-ness for one person, and no one will think there’s anything more.”
“For a normal person, yeah, that should be enough fucked-up-ness,” I answer, watching the wheels turn in her eyes. Deciding what she’s willing to tell. “Callie, you don’t have to tell anyone anything. You don’t owe anyone your story. Just because I did it, doesn’t mean you have to.”
“I know,” she releases a quick breath, “but you’re right. The longer I’m the mysterious new girl, the more people will want to dig… and they can’t know the whole truth. I don’t think I could take that. I’d rather people know my mother’s dead and my father’s in prison, than know… everything else.”
I grit my teeth to swallow my own questions, because she doesn’t owe her story to me either.Fuck, I hate this.
“You don’t have to advertise it,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets to keep from touching her again. “If someone asks, which they will, tell them as bluntly as possible. Make it clear that you don’t give a shit that anyone knows. It’ll still get around. Rumors will pop up. You’ll get dumb fucking questions about it, but no one will think there’s anything else. You’ll just be another girl with fucked up parents.”
