by Blair, E. K.
The Truths We Told
Copyright © 2020 E.K. Blair
Editor: Ashley Williams, AW Editing
Cover Designer: E.K. Blair
Interior Designer: Champagne Book Design
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,) without the prior written permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Note From The Author
Sneak Peek of Crave
Explore Other Titles from E.K. Blair
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Acknowledgements
KATE
One Year Later…
In life, we are forced to make choices without ever knowing how they will affect our future.
Nothing is guaranteed.
Nothing is fully in our power.
Life grants no promises.
All we can do is hope for the best.
When I looked through the peephole and saw Caleb standing outside of my condo, I made my choice when I backed away and refused to let him in. I tried my best to stay quiet so he wouldn’t know I was there, but it was the middle of the night and he wouldn’t stop banging on the door. Terror consumed me, and the fear that he would wake my neighbors or that someone would call the cops was a visceral thing. The moment I broke my silence and yelled at him to go away, he completely lost it. He was convinced Trent was inside with me since I had left the party with him. Threats were thrown my way as he hammered his fist into the door so hard I was sure he would bust right through. I wound up pushing my coffee table against it as a makeshift barricade.
A few seconds later, my neighbor started screaming at him and threatening to call the police if he didn’t leave. That was all it took.
He was gone.
But I remained.
Sitting on the floor with my back pressed to the wall, my body trembled as I sobbed. It was only a handful of minutes before another knock came, sparking another rush of panic. But this time, it was Trent’s voice on the other side of the door. Knowing he was with me, but not with me, helped in a way because I knew I was safe—because he was safe, yet the knot in my stomach didn’t relent. I don’t know how long he stood outside of my door, repeatedly calling and texting me, but I didn’t move to let him in. I couldn’t face him or myself or the truth.
Eventually, I went to my room, closed the door, and crawled into bed.
That was the choice I made.
I didn’t know where that choice would lead me.
I was in so much denial that I was unable to think clearly.
It’s been a year since that night, since my darkest secret was exposed to everyone around me. There was nothing I could do, no lie I could tell, no opinion I could sway. They saw it with their own eyes—the bruises, the blood, the utter disgrace. There wasn’t a hole deep enough for me to crawl into that would hide me from the truth they saw.
I wish I could say that I never looked back and wondered if I’d made the right choice.
But I did.
Caleb came by my condo so many times, begging to talk to me. Countless texts and voice mails flooded my phone with his desperate apologies. And even though every text, every phone call, every knock on my door was ignored, a part of me wanted to fall back into his arms. I missed him, and I battled with so much guilt, but in the end, I knew I would never be enough to make him happy. No matter how hard I tried, I was constantly letting him down.
I was a failure to him.
I was a failure to myself.
I did everything I could to love him the way he needed me to, but I was always messing up.
His attempts to talk to me weren’t the only ones I dodged. Ady, Trent, Brody, and a few other people who were at the party and saw what happened reached out to me. But how could I possibly face the very people I lied to time and time again? The shame was too much to bear, and I was scared to meet the consequences of my betrayal, so I sank deeper and deeper into the fabrications I wove for myself.
I was a liar, and they all knew it.
Two weeks later when I went home for Christmas break, I didn’t come back. I hid away where no one could find me—I’ve been hiding for what feels like forever.
At first, my parents were extremely concerned about my moving back home. They asked questions I couldn’t answer, so I lied. They knew Caleb and I had broken up, but that was it, and when it was all I would tell them, they eventually backed off.
To pacify their worries, I started taking online classes so that I didn’t fall behind. That only served to isolate me more, and I knew it. But I couldn’t blame Caleb for that. It was my choice. It was my doing. No matter how much I loved him, resentment grew, tempers flared, and slowly, we turned into the worst versions of ourselves. I never saw it coming; he was so perfect in the beginning.
And then it all changed.
Beneath my clothes were countless bruises, and beneath the bruises was inexplicable trauma. I wanted so badly to believe I was made of courage and strength, built to castle standards, sturdy and steadfast. Truth was, I was made of chaos and scars that bled and burned. I was a battleground of love and fear, of silence and rage.
I still am.
Looking back now, I thought I would have it all figured out, but I don’t. My love for Caleb kept me devoted to him despite how dysfunctional we became. Fault lied with me, and no matter how much I tried to be better, do better, love better, I couldn’t give him what he wanted, and it killed me. I failed him in so many ways. Every push, every slap, every hit broke away pieces of my heart. I blamed myself for constantly disappointing him by not being who he needed me to be. I still blame myself.
No matter how many times I thought about leaving him, I could never bring myself to turn my back. He needed me, and I refused to let him down the way his parents had. It wasn’t his fault that he grew up at the mercy of his father’s unrealistic expectations and bitter fury that resulted in years of violent abuse. How could I possibly blame him? Caleb wasn’t the monster; he was merely the product of a monster.
I wish I could say we broke up because I fell out of love with him. That scenario would’ve lessened the pain that still lingers. Truth is, the split was inevitable. Even if I went back to him and forgave him, there was no way I was going to move to Chicago and t
here was no way he was ever going to stay in Miami.
We were doomed no matter what.
“Is this the last box?” my dad asks when he comes into my bedroom.
“Yeah.”
“Are you about ready?”
I nod, and when he picks up the box, I tell him, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay, sweetheart.”
It isn’t the last box though—that was another lie.
As I look at the photo in my hands, my throat thickens and another memory softens my heart. I miss Caleb. The fibers of the photo paper weave together a precious moment in time. It was the Fourth of July, and we were at the beach. He was standing behind me with his arms wrapped around my shoulders and his cheek pressed to the side of mine. We both look so happy with our beaming smiles and the fireworks exploding in the sky above. I can remember being so hopeful that we could survive the obstacles that were in front of us.
A few days later, he fell back on another promise. The fight happened right before I was supposed to go home for my birthday, and he had bruised my ribs from kicking me so hard. I lied to my dad, told him I was sick and asked if we could postpone my birthday dinner until another time. It was a plausible excuse, one he didn’t even question.
Despite all the horror, I was heartbroken when I made the tough decision to leave him. I thought moving back home would help, but it didn’t. And when my sister moved out last semester to start college in Alabama, the loneliness was even more excruciating.
With my parents’ growing concern about how I have been handling the breakup, I decided it would be best if I went back to Miami. They don’t know the details of our dysfunction, but the shift in my mood was enough for them to figure out that things between Caleb and I weren’t as stable as we tried to make them appear.
When I told them over the holidays that I was going to move back, they were supportive but leery, which is exactly why I know this is what’s best for me. I can’t fathom their reaction if they ever found out that I allowed Caleb to hurt me. I could never do that to them, but I can’t do that to myself either. It’s bad enough that all of my old friends know.
Taking the photo, I walk into my closet and pull down the box filled with so many wonderful memories of our love and drop the picture into it. I have no idea how it’s going to feel being back in Miami. It’s as if I’m starting over, only worse this time. At least I had Piper with me when I first moved there, but now I have no one.
That very thought punctures wounds that have yet to heal, and I take the picture back out, slip it into my rear pocket, and then shove the box onto the top shelf of my closet before walking from my room. I can’t let go just yet, but I also want so badly to believe that I can pick up the shattered pieces of my heart and move forward.
I want to be hopeful, but hope is tangled in the wind, and half those broken pieces are no longer with me—I left them with Caleb.
“Are you off?” my mother questions as she gathers a stack of files in the living room.
“Yeah. Where’s Dad?”
“Loading the last of your things in his truck.”
She gives me a smile laced in sadness, and I walk over to give her a hug.
“Are you sure you’re ready to go back?”
“Yes, Mom. I’m fine,” I say, trying to ease her concern. “You worry too much.”
Drawing back, she tilts her head. “You’re my daughter; it’s my job to worry. I just . . . I wish you would talk to me more.” She then takes my hand, and I have to fight against the tears that ache behind my eyelids. “You’ve been locked away for months.”
“I’ve been doing classwork. Online courses aren’t as easy as ones on campus,” I defend, but we both know that isn’t the reason I was hiding away. “I promise, everything is fine.”
“Okay then,” she responds reluctantly.
“Everything’s ready to go,” my father announces when he comes inside, and I couldn’t be more thankful for his interruption.
With another hug, I tell her goodbye and follow my dad outside. “You have the address?”
He walks over to his truck and opens the door, saying, “Yeah, I have it plugged into the GPS.”
I slip into my car and back out of the driveway. With him following behind me, we make our way south to Miami and toward my new condo, which happens to be in the same building I was living in before.
When we arrive, we unload all the boxes before heading over to the storage unit I had rented and meeting the movers my dad hired. I watch while they load the furniture I left behind. It’s a long day, but eventually, all my furniture is in my condo, the movers are gone, and it’s just me and my dad in my new place.
He grabs one of the many boxes and opens it.
“Dad, you don’t have to stay. I can unpack.”
“You trying to kick your old man out?”
He looks at me from over his shoulder, and I smile and shake my head before he starts pulling the dishes out of the box. The two of us busy ourselves, and after a couple of hours, we manage to have most everything in its place.
As we flop down on the couch and dive into the pizza that was just delivered, my father asks, “Are you going to be okay when I leave?”
“Is that why you’re sticking around? Because you’re worried?”
He shrugs and takes a bite.
“Like I told Mom, I’m fine.”
“I know you better than your mom does,” he says, which is the truth. Our bond is our own. “I get that you don’t want to talk—”
“Dad—”
“Just hear me out, okay?” I nod, and he continues. “Look, I don’t need to know the details of why you and Caleb broke up, but I heard you crying—I’ve been hearing it for a year now. So, you can sit there and tell me that everything is fine and that I have no reason to worry about you, but you know as well as I do that’s a lie.”
I hadn’t known he had been able to hear me crying, and I shrink in on myself.
“I love you, and I want to do everything to protect you, but I also know that you aren’t a kid anymore. You’re twenty-one, and that puts me in a tough spot. I want to shield you from all the shit in this world, but I know I can’t.” He takes his napkin and wipes his mouth. “It isn’t easy for me to sit back and watch you grow up. It’s even harder to have to watch you get your heart broken.”
I want to pretend that I’m a warrior on my own. That I don’t need someone else to help me survive, but the truth is, I’m glad my dad is still here. In a way, I wish he’d stay forever because I’m not sure I’m ready to be on my own after everything that has happened. Two and a half years ago, I came here as a freshman and felt invincible, capable of making good choices, but now, I feel worthless.
He picks up his slice of pizza. “I’m proud of you for moving back, but I’m going to miss having you around. Now that your sister is in Alabama, I’m not sure what your mother and I are going to do in that big, empty house.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me now,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
“You just wait until you become a parent.”
I laugh and take a bite of a breadstick. “I’ll be back home for spring break.”
After we devour the entire pizza, there isn’t any reason for him to stick around any longer. As I walk him out, he lectures me about keeping the doors locked at all times and carrying my pepper spray when I’m walking through the parking garage. I do my best to hold back my laughter, but he sees right through me.
“There are sickos all over the place,” he asserts.
“Yes, Dad, I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” I stress, secretly appreciating how protective he still is.
“If you need me, just call.”
“I will, promise.”
He gathers me into his arms, and I wrap mine around his waist. Not ready to be alone just yet, emotions bubble from deep within. I’m able to keep myself together by holding on to his dependable strength—I cling to it
because I know that, once he walks out the door, I’m going to need it.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell him again, more for my sake than his.
With a kiss to my head, he says goodbye, and the moment he’s gone and the door is locked, I walk over to the kitchen. Picking up my phone from the bar, I click on Caleb’s name and consider sending him a text. It’s something I find myself doing from time to time; I’m not sure why. I know I need to move on and leave him in the past, but I’m struggling. The tears I’ve been holding back finally flood and spill over when I decide against reaching out to the other half of my heart.
Leaving the phone in the kitchen, I pull out the photo of the two of us before grabbing my pen from my purse and heading into the bedroom. With a heart too heavy, I crawl into bed and get high. The pot dulls my emotions, and I stare down at love lost as heartstrings slacken. These are the moments where I struggle the most. After the sun sets and the world stills, leaving me with nothing but space to reflect.
I miss Caleb far more than I should at this point, and the nights remind me that I’m weak and fucked in the head. I question my own sanity for wanting him still, despite all the brutality I endured at his hands.
I should hate him.
I should regret him.
I want to blame him solely, but I can’t.
I’m to blame too because I was the cause, and I allowed it to happen.
I was so convinced that every hit, every strike of his fist, every blow I took was a touch of love. I often cry when I look at my naked body and find that no more bruises remain. It’s a reminder that he’s gone and that I’m no longer loved.
KATE
They say that a new year holds new promises. It’s a notion I’ve been questioning lately, a notion I’m not sure will ever find its way to fruition.
January is supposed to be a month of resolutions that bring hope for a brighter tomorrow, yet all my tomorrows are still shrouded in dankness. I carry on, though, because that’s all I can do. One foot in front of the other, but will they lead me toward the path of sanctitude?
