“She’d said I was making it all up to get attention,” I sob. “Why would I do that?”
When your daughter is coming up to you and telling you that your boyfriend—or whatever he was—is making comments about her body, you listen to your daughter. Youbelieveyour daughter.
“Baby.” He brings me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist.
I inhale a sharp breath. “Then he started touching me inappropriately, playing it off as accidentally brushing past me.”
I could feel Greyson tense beside me as his fingers clenched on my hips.
Clive’s grubby hands on my body made me feel sick. It made my skin itch, and it got to the point where I started to feel uncomfortable in my own house—even if it never truly felt like a house to me.
“I felt like it was my fault, Iwasthe reason he kept trying to touch me inappropriately becauseIwas the one who’d been walking around the house without a bra on…” I could barely get the words out where I was choking up.
He’d find every excuse to touch me when he was around, but only if Elizabeth wasn’t around. If she was, he’d act like he tripped over his own foot and cup a feel of my boobs, and in return I’d get Elizabeth glaring at me, like it wasmyfault he was a pervert.
“I decided enough was enough, I didn’t feel comfortable being there when he was around, so whenever he came over, I’d go to the movie theatre.”
I didn’t care what film was on, anything to get away from him was worth it.
“I’d get a large popcorn and a blue raspberry slushy every time,” I laugh, sniffling. “The workers there probably thought I had no friends because I was there so often.”
I remember this one time a worker made a joke about me being there more than him, and he’s the one who worked there. I brushed it over with a laugh, telling him I just loved movies and there’s no better place to watch a movie than at the theatre.
When the truth was, I wasn’t comfortable being in my own house, so being there was an escape for me.
“Fuck.” Greyson hisses, wiping more tears from my eyes.
I can’t help it, they just keep coming and coming.
Grabbing the popcorn bowl from my lap, he places it on the bedside table before grabbing hold of my hips and dragging me onto his lap. Reaching out, he tucks my hair behind my ears. I squeeze at my hands that rest between us, carving half-moons into my palms as I continue telling him everything.
“So, popcorn makes you feel safe?” He questions, his fingers soothing patterns into my hip.
“Yes.” I nod.
Safe, comfortable, at peace.
“Hey, look at me.” His hand grips my chin, lifting it up.
I blink away the tears, trying to get a better vision of him.
His thumb traces over my cheek, wiping the tears away. “You’re beautiful, you know that Lil-Bug? And what happened wasnotyour fault, okay?” His eyes trace every contour of my face like he’s memorizing it. “It. Was. Not. Your. Fault.”
“But—”
“No!” His voice rises slightly as he grips my cheeks tighter. “Say it with me, baby. It. Was. Not. My. Fault.”
“It was not my fault.”
“Say it again.” He urges.
“It was not my fault.”
“Again,louder.”
“It was not my fault!” A hoarse cry escapes my lips as more tears unleash from my eyes.
It wasn’t my fault.
