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I wake up soaked with sweat and crying hard, my adult hands gripping my blanket like they did when I was a kid, the crippling truth eating through me like acid:this is never going to go away.
I fling a juddering hand up to my mouth to keep from sobbing too loudly. Then I remember his rough hand being there and I rip mine away again, grab desperately for my pillow and press it to my face so I can scream hoarsely into it.
The pain stabs up through me now just as it did then, because this is never going to stop.
The terrifying helplessness presses down on me now just as it did then, because this is never going to stop.
It started that day and it kept happening—it happened for what seemed like forever but was really just a month—the month between my ninth birthday and Valentine’s Day, when Thad was shot and killed in a burglary. Now it’s been fifteen years, and on nights like this, I feel like it’s still happening.
Fifteen yearshave passed and I haven’t forgotten a goddamn thing about it.
Not only how it felt, but other things, too—things I never noticed until the world was pinned in place, like me, in those few minutes.
The exact hue of the golden sunlight coming in through the gap above my pink sheet of a window curtain.
Every detail of his face, from his crooked-to-the-right nose to the ugly brown of his saggy eyes to the nine deep scars on his cheeks, which looked like he’d been scratched by something lots of times.
Just how small my voice was as I tried to scream for my mom, who had made twelve-year-old Kelle drive her to the store because she couldn’t walk straight.
The prickly fabric of my comforter.
And more.
Andeverything.
Feeling nauseated, I kickthisblanket away from me. Then I feel exposed even though I have on pajama pants and a t-shirt, so I scramble to cover back up, all the wayup. Curling into a ball, I cry just like I did after he was done, and my stomach churns and vomit rises up my throat—I choke it back, bury my face in my pillow again, scream again, hating every serrated moment of this.
In my head, I can hear him ordering me to go take a bath.
In the darkness of my room, I hear nothing but the air conditioner and me.
I need to hear something else.
Someoneelse.
Landon.
I need to hear Landon Wintermute’s voice.
Choking on a sob this time, I realize I need something else, too: to tell him about this. Right now. I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I feel like I’m rotting. Thad’s face looks like the devil’s in my mind and it’s torturing me, pinning down and damaging all of me all over again. And Landon is light. He’s safety. I want to hear him tell me that what I went through was wrong, that it wasn’t something my mom should have ignored.
I uncurl from the fetal position and grope for my phone. When I find it, I turn it on and see it’s 10:09 PM on Friday—God, yes, I need to see Landon because I haven’t seen him since yesterday at dinner. Rae and I wanted to see him earlier today, but he had to help cover an employee’s call-in. What time did he say he was getting off, 10:30?
I call him, trying to stop crying long enough to be able to talk.
He picks up after two rings and says, “Liv? Hey!” in his perfect voice. Over the unmistakable noises of the bar, I can tell he’s pleasantly surprised to hear from me this late.
Until, in fact, a sob gets the best of me and keeps me from replying.
“Liv-Andria?” He’s alarmed now. “Rae? Hey! Why are you crying?”
I barely manage, “It’s m-m-me.”
“Liv! Hold on, okay? Hold—shit, sorry, Tommy—” After a couple seconds, the background noise goes quiet. “Liv, what’s wrong?”
“I—I n-n-n—I n-n—”
Damn it, calm down a little. Just a little bit.
