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Does Zayn realize how much effort it took for me to ask him to stay? To trust him to protect me from my own parents?
His eyes tell me he does.
The way he tenderly brushed his lips against mine did.
I hadn’t protested when he pushed my hair back from where I had it covering the side of my face to hide the bruising. He wanted them to see the damage.
And I trust him.
“Eve,” my mother moves towards me, and I flinch, making her freeze.
“You never came to see me,” I mumble, my eyes shifting from one to the other.
My father doesn’t say anything, still standing in the doorway as if he doesn’t quite know how welcome he is.
“I sent you pictures of Mila,” I say, my voice soft, something burning in my eyes.
I didn’t know I had reached for Zayn’s hand until I felt it wrap around mine, warm, reassuring.
His touch gives me strength.
That is when my father speaks, his voice rough. “I—we never got them. I just got three of your messages. And—” His voice breaks and my lower lip trembles on seeing the strong unyielding man before me crumble.
“No,” I warn, my voice hitching, so much damn pain inside of me. “You don’t get to cry!”
A sob tears from my throat when I see my father rub at his eyes, his hands shaking. “You left me! You threw me out! You don’t get to cry, Daddy!”
And my arms are reaching out to him and he covers the distance between us, and my face is buried in the crook of his neck, that familiar aftershave making me sob harder. “I hate you. I hate you.”
He holds me as tightly as he dares and his shoulders shake wildly, and I feel the wetness on my bare skin.
“I hate you,” I sob again, not wanting to let go and wanting to get as far away from him as possible all at the same time.
“I’m sorry, Evie. I’m so sorry.”
He keeps repeating the same words over and over again, like a broken mantra.
I feel my mother’s hand on my hair, stroking it in that way she used to and I cry harder because I know that things will never be the same now. I could never have the same relationship I used to have with them. I could never trust them the way a child should trust their parents.
I cry for the girl I was.
I cry for what I lost.
And I cry for regaining part of what I lost.
They didn’t leave, no matter how hostile Zayn was to them.
They don’t want to talk about Thomas. I sense that they are done with him.
Instead, they ask to see pictures of Mila. They ask questions about her, so many questions that by the end of it, I am half dozing on Zayn’s shoulder where he sits next to me on the bed.
As they are leaving, I say, quietly, “I can’t forgive you. At least not yet.”
My parents just look weary, and my mother says, “We don’t expect you to, Eve. Not yet.”
I bite my tongue trying not to cry. “I have questions, but I’m not ready to ask them yet. I can’t.”
My father meets my eyes, and I see the acceptance. “We’re not going anywhere this time.” He hesitates. “Can we come and see you tomorrow?”
