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“The next day,” he says, dismissing my compassion. But I know just because he’s carried this well all these years doesn’t mean it hasn’t been heavy.
“The Westons had the mattress removed. We didn’t speak of her again until a few months later when I came home from school, and Lindsey handed me some boxes. She told me she was donating Miranda’s stuff and told me to box it all up.”
“That’s awful. She should’ve done it.”
He shrugs. “At the time, Lindsey was drinking heavily. I think to kill the pain. So I boxed up Miranda’s stuff. While I was doing it, I found her diary.”
I sit up straight on the mattress. “Did you read it?”
“I couldn’t. Not at the time. It didn’t feel right. I put it under my mattress.” He blinks, staring at his hands. “I lay on it every night. Afraid to read it. Fearful of the truth. She killed herself after I ended things with her. I thought—”
“Oh no. Don’t think that.” I grab his hand. “People who commit suicide are usually battling depression or mental illness. Sometimes they’re crying for help on the inside, but no one can hear them.”
“Yeah.” He glances up at me uneasily. “I discovered she was crying for help like you said on the inside.” He looks down at our entwined hands. “A few weeks before my graduation, I decided to read her diary and finally learned the truth.” His thumb rubs over my hand. “The Westons were wealthy people and appeared perfect on the outside. My foster father had a high-paying job that kept him out of town most of the time, and Lindsey was a closet drinker. They got Miranda a few years before they got me. She was ten. My foster father was molesting her.”
“No!” I squeeze his hand tight.
“When Miranda turned fifteen, she aged out for the bastard, and it scared her. She didn’t know any better. She felt like there was something wrong with her and blamed herself. She thought the fucker didn’t love her anymore. So to distract herself from it, or maybe to make herself feel loved, she had sex with me. I was sick to my stomach reading her diary. She wrote that the Westons were talking about adopting or fostering another young girl. I also found out that Brett’s foster father had reached out to the Westons many times, trying to get us together. But my foster parents refused to let me see him. I was pissed. I wanted to kill him for what he did to Miranda and for what he not only stole from her but from me as well.”
“What did you do?”
“I gave my foster mother Miranda’s diary and had a little talk with my foster father that resulted in this scar.” He points at his left eye. “And left him with a permanent limp.” He smiles, baring his teeth and anger. “I called the police, reported them, and then left. I found Brett and never looked back.”
“You know what happened to Miranda, what she did to you, none of it was your fault?”
He gently rubs my hand as if to soothe me. “She used me, but I understood why. For ten years, I forgot what it felt like to be loved. My mom was taken from me, my brothers, and anyone I ran into between losing my family and finding Brett. They didn’t care about me. I know it’s messed up, but in some sick and perverse way, Miranda felt loved. She wanted to feel it again or distract her from the feeling, I don’t know which. But she used me to achieve it. I’m not mad at her. I don’t hate her. Fuck. If anything, I wish I could’ve done more for her. But it’s too late.”
“Oh my God. Your life.” I shake my head, fighting back my tears. “That poor little boy who had to deal with his father’s abuse and monsters for foster parents. I’m so sorry you had to endure all of it.”
“I’m not that little boy anymore. While it might have something to do with me, it’s not who I am.”
“I know.” I touch the side of his face. “I know.”
And knowing the truth, understanding everything about him, how he’s become the man he is today, my heart opens up for him.
Chapter 29
I open my eyes to Harper curled beside me in the bed. She’s still fast asleep. The sunlight hits her hair, revealing different shades of brown. I reach out and run my fingers down a few strands.
She has so many shades. There’s tough Harper. Strong Harper. Kind Harper. Stubborn Harper. Beautiful Harper. Then the Harper that gets me to tell my deepest and darkest secrets.
I’ve never told anyone about Miranda. Not even Brett or Lix. Like Lix, I know how to keep a secret too.
Miranda was my secret. One I’m not proud of. I contributed to her pain and played a part in her false perception of love. I was responsible for her death. Even if I never meant it, I was a contributor. She needed help. Maybe that’s why she came to my room all those nights. A silent cry for help as Harper said it. I was just too young to understand it.
And Miranda didn’t know how to express herself any other way than through sex. That’s what the bastard did to her. I wanted to kill my foster father the day I read her diary.
I came damn near close.
Watching Harper sleep is like a calming, sedating, and addictive drug. I’ve been doing it for a few weeks now, and waking up to her each morning has been eye-opening. I’ve secretly imagined a life with her. One that doesn’t involve stalkers, abusers, or victims.
An everyday life filled with happiness and laughter like the kind I’d see at my friend Ricky’s house when I’d go over for dinner after school.
I wished my home was like theirs.
I get a sense that Harper’s life was like that when her father was alive, but a part of her went with him the day he died. And she just hasn’t been able to get it back.
I’m sure Willa gave her a good upbringing and loved her the best she knew, but it’s not the same as a parent. Their love is unconditional. Well, my mom’s is but my father, monsters don’t know how to love. My sperm donor proved that every day of his life in our home. I just don’t understand what you get from inflicting pain on someone solely to hurt them.
