My lip trembles betraying me, and I bite down on it hard, the coppery tang of blood a familiar distraction. “You won’t like me anymore.”
Niall’s brows knit together, and his face softens instantly, all confusion and fear just turning way to concern. He reaches for me again, his hands warm as he cups my cheeks in his palms, forcing my gaze to stay on him. “Molly. There is nothing— nothing—you could tell me that would make me stop liking you. Nothing.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper, the words barely audible, a pathetic little puff of air.
“Yes. I do.”
I shake my head again, fresh tears spilling over, hot and shameful as they track paths down my cheeks. “You don’t.”
Niall exhales sharply, his thumbs brushing away my tears, his touch infinitely gentle. “Then tell me, Molly. Tell me what happened, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
I bite my lip, hesitating. My stomach twists into painful knots, a tangled mess of both fear and longing. I want to tell him. God, how I want to tell him. I want to unload this burden, to share the weight of it, to let someone else carry it for a while.
I’m so tired of being strong, so tired of pretending.
But I’m scared.
Not just of Ross, or of the shadow he casts over my future. I’m scared of Niall’s reaction. What if he looks at me differently? What if he can’t touch me the same way again? What if he thinks I’m weak? What if he—
“Hey.” Niall’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge. “Breathe. Just like before. In... and out.”
I inhale shakily, the air catching in my throat, and nod. I can do this. I can breathe.
“Whatever it is,” he murmurs, leaning even closer, forehead nearly touching mine. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight with unshed tears, and squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the world, blocking out everything but the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on my face.
“Just say it,” he whispers. “Just tell me.”
45
Prove You Wrong
Niall
December, 2007
IFEEL SICKto my stomach, and the urge to throw up grows with each thing that comes out of Molly’s mouth.
I don’t say anything about my feelings outloud, just keep telling her it's okay, that I’m listening. Because ifIfeel like this hearing it... then I can’t imagine how she must have felt. How she must still feel.
The strength it must have taken to even hint at it, to survive it... it’s beyond comprehension. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t even know it.
Raped.
The world itself is a violation, a brutal ugly thing that deserves no place in the world.
She won’t tell me his name, but I’m sure it was that guy from the picture. The man with the dark hair and the easy smile, the one who had his arm around her like he was proud of her, like he was her biggest fan. I can’t quite picture his face in my mind; I barely got a glimpse of it before she snatched the photo away. It didn’t seem important in the moment. But if I had known that bastard had...
I would have memorized every detail, every line on his face, every hint of cruelty hiding behind his eyes. I would have burned the image into my brain so I’d never forget it.
“And you still went back the next summer?” I ask. I don’t mean it as an accusation, not really. It’s just... incomprehensible. How could you go back to the place where your worst nightmare happened?
She nods shakily, her gaze fixed on a point on the wall just over my shoulder. It had happened at a summer camp—a place she’d told me she used to love, the past tense making my heart clench. He stole that from her, too.
“I went every year. I... I didn’t know what else to do but act normal,” she says, her voice flat and empty of all emotion. It’s a defense mechanism, I realise. She’s detaching, retreating into herself to survive the telling of it.
“He was still your coach?”
