Page 163 of Top Shelf

Reaching over to his nightstand, Silas passes me my glasses, along with a note.

Ready to talk about it?

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling and blow out a breath.

All I wanted to do when Ronan brought me back to the guys’ house last night was sleep. Forget about it all. However, in the light of day, I know I can’t keep running from it.

“I ran into Isaac last night, and it triggered me.”

As if sensing I have more to say, Silas waits, patient as ever.

“I hate that he got to me. It’s not that he did anything overt.” My face scrunches as I recall the events of last night. “It was the alcohol on his breath,” I admit. “It…took me back to the street party that night.”

Understanding settles immediately across his face.

“It was years ago.” Frustration leaks into my voice. I hate that that’s all it took to send me spiraling back toward memories I’ve spent the past few years trying to bury. “I should be able to handle it better than that.”

That’s not how trauma works.

I blow out a breath. “Yeah, well, it would be super nice if it was.”

He chuckles softly before writing,Tell me about it.

Shifting to face him again, I tuck my hands under my pillow and stare up at him. He looks like an angel with the golden glow of sunshine behind him. A fallen angel, perhaps.

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

Silas has never opened up about his past, although clearly something happened. Something bad enough that hechoosesnot to speak to other people. Not even his best friends.

I don’t want to push him now, but I equally want him to know that if he wants to, I’m here to lend an ear.

He doesn’t look at me, his attention remaining fixed on the book in front of him. However, his eyes don’t move across the page, so I know he’s not reading.

My throat feels strangely tight the longer I watch him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He immediately shakes his head, his fingers playing with the corner of his book as he seemingly thinks.

I reach over and lightly touch his wrist.

His eyes lift briefly to mine.

For several moments, only the scratching of his pen fillsthe room.

Then he turns the notebook toward me.

I moved around a lot growing up.

At first, my parents fobbed me off on other relatives. When they got sick of looking after a kid who wasn’t theirs, I was put into the system.

I gasp aloud, snapping my head up to gape at him. “Your parents gave you up?”

With a sad twist of his lips, he nods.

“Let me guess,” I say wryly, knowing I’m going to hate the rest of this story. “You weren’t adopted by a loving family and given a good home.”

He gives a quick snort.

Pretty sure that only happens in the movies.