Never Let You Go (Never #2)

by Monica Murphy

  The look she sends me is accusatory. “It’s always been about you. Can’t you see it? You disappeared that day and they forgot all about me. All they could focus on was you. You were gone and I may as well have disappeared along with you, not that they would’ve noticed.”

  Never in the eight years since it happened has my sister ever expressed any resentment. We became closer. I thought we still were close. She’d always been my rock when I needed her.

  But now . . . I don’t know. Has she carried this resentment and anger all this time? Was it growing and festering deep inside her until she couldn’t contain it anymore?

  Confusion makes my head throb and I lean forward, my elbows propped on my thighs, my head in my hands. It’s mind-boggling, how one small choice causes a ripple effect throughout the rest of your life. I had to go to the bathroom that sunny afternoon at the park. That one seemingly inconsequential decision forever changed everything.

  It killed my father’s spirit and most likely sent him to an early grave.

  It turned my mother into a sad, lonely woman.

  It made my sister angry. Resentful. Bitter.

  It made me afraid of my own shadow.

  It also brought Will Monroe into your life.

  I’m not so sure that’s a good thing anymore.

  “I may be the older one, but I will forever remain in your shadow because of what happened to you,” she spits out as she rises to her feet. “So if you can’t tell that asshole to back off, then I will. We don’t need the Monroes doing anything else to destroy our family. I refuse to let you see him again.”

  Dropping my hands, I stand and look her right in the eye, my gaze calm. Unflinching. “I won’t allow you to tell me what to do, Brenna.”

  She returns my stare, equally calm. Unflinching. “And I’m not going to stand by and watch you go back to him, Katherine. If you do, that’s your choice. Just know that I won’t be a part of your life as long as you’re with him.”

  My heart stalls and I exhale raggedly. “Are you actually going to make me choose?”

  Brenna shrugs. “It should be easy. It’s either your family or the son of the man who raped you repeatedly when you were a child.” She pauses. “I know what my choice would be.”

  If only it were that easy.

  After Brenna left, the house felt too quiet. Cold. I thought about calling my mom, but I was afraid she’d only take Brenna’s side and I didn’t want to deal with it.

  So I remain alone. Missing Ethan despite my anger toward him. All of the conflicted emotions come rushing back. It’s hard to hold on to anger. It eats at you, chips away at your happiness, making you miserable. And I miss him. And when I’m alone with my thoughts, I miss him even more.

  And right now? I feel horribly alone.

  Lonely.

  Giving in to the unease that’s wrapped itself around me, I creep around the rooms of my tiny house, checking all the locks on my windows, tugging the curtains closed, sealing the blinds shut. All the doors are locked, the garage is shut, and my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, is sitting on her front porch watching the world pass her by as the sun fades into the horizon. Yet I still can’t let the feeling go.

  The feeling of being watched.

  I go to my kitchen, which faces the backyard. The tiny window above the sink has no curtain or blinds on it. It’s small, sits very high, and I like that it lets in so much natural light. I stare out the window now, at the darkening forest just beyond the fence, and wonder if someone is out there, watching me. Waiting.

  Shaking my head, I tell myself it’s my overactive imagination. The memories of what happened to me messing with my head. There’s no one out there. The bad guy is in jail. He can’t touch me.

  No one can.

  I remember feeling very, very small after it happened. Insignificant. The media frenzy scared me. The attention was terrifying. Daddy didn’t want me talking to anyone and he wouldn’t talk, either. He eventually quit his job and found a new one.

  He was ashamed.

  Of what happened to me.

  Of me.

  Mom cried so much I was afraid to approach her.

  So I didn’t.

  Brenna stayed away from the house. She went and lived with a friend for a while, to keep out of the fray. Daddy didn’t want her victimized, too.

  I heard him say that to Mom one night, while I crouched on the other side of my bedroom door, my ear pressed close to the wood as I eavesdropped on them talking about me.

  Their favorite—and not so favorite—subject.

  I couldn’t count on them. I tried, but I couldn’t open up. They looked at me like I was an open bloody wound they couldn’t stare at for too long, always looking away with the tiniest shiver.

  Always, always I noticed that little shiver. It’s what hurt the most.

  There was only one person who was there for me those long, lonely months after everything that happened. When I tried to get back to my everyday life, when I tried to move on and pretend that I was a normal teenager with normal wants and dreams and wishes and ambitions, there was Will.

  Will.

  I was fourteen the first time he called me. My parents had finally relented and let me get a phone. Will and I were still writing letters to each other and when I mentioned my new cellphone, he sent me his number and told me to call him.

  I sent him my cell number back, too afraid to be the first one to call.

  So we set up a specific time and he called me. Hearing his voice for the first time after so long . . .

  I clutched the phone tight to my ear, so tight the phone left an imprint on my cheek. Hearing his deep, much more manly voice gave me hope.

  He gave me light, when all I’d ever felt was darkness.

  We talked about nothing. About everything. The calls were always short, no more than fifteen minutes long, and that was never enough. I was afraid my parents would figure out I was talking to him and I didn’t want to take any risks. I didn’t want to get cut off from him.

  Until one day, he cut me off. I called him one last time, from another phone. My sister’s, though she never knew. He answered, told me it wasn’t a good idea that we talked anymore, and that was it.

  The end.

  Will and Katie were finished.

  He was the only one who could call me that. Katie. I was Katherine to everyone else. Will was the only one who made me feel like it was okay to be Katie. Katie was strong. Katie survived. Katie saved herself.

  Thanks to Will.

  The morning dawns crisp and cold. I know this because I’m sitting out on my back porch when it happens, a mug of steaming hot coffee in my hands, wearing my thickest fleece jacket and sweats, thick socks and boots on my feet, a hat on my head. I bet I look fucking ridiculous, but I don’t care.

  I couldn’t sleep; I tossed and turned in my bed until the sheets were practically torn off the mattress. Giving up around four, I went and made a giant pot of coffee, sucking down two cups while I focused on a work project, losing myself in the mindless tasks for a while.

  Until I saw the grayish-pink dawn stretch its beams across my floor, gently filling the dark room with light. I refilled my cup and went outside, watching the sun slowly rise. The ratty grass in my backyard was covered with frozen dew, and it gleamed like little sparkling diamonds when the sun finally shone upon the ground.

  It’s deep into fall. The trees have started to turn and the nights and mornings are cold. The breeze brings with it chilly air plus a hint of salt from the ocean and I breathe deep, taking with it the scent of my coffee, too.

  This is a morning for sharing contentment. When a man wakes up with his woman, brews them a pot of strong coffee, and they sit together in the hushed morning light, smiling secret smiles at each other while their loyal dog lies at their feet.

  Frowning, I glance down at the empty spot by my feet. I think I need a dog. Something to keep me company. The loneliness in me that Katie filled so perfectly stretches wide and black, a void deep
within my soul. A dog would make me feel better. A dog would give me companionship.

  I’ve turned into a pitiful mess.

  I take another sip of my coffee, going over yet again what Katie’s sister said to me yesterday. She hurled the same accusations at me that I’ve thought of many times. Brenna tapped straight into my own deepest insecurities and unrelenting worries, things I’ve tried to avoid.

  Things I can’t avoid any longer.

  Katie expressed some of those same concerns when I last saw her. Knowing that if anyone found out about our relationship, they would think it twisted—and it is. One man links us together forever—my father, who raped her and tried to kill her. I can’t deny that he’s my father. I can’t deny that he’s the one who kidnapped her, either.

  I shouldn’t have these feelings for Katie. They’re wrong. I know they’re wrong but I can’t stop them. Just like I couldn’t stop looking for her. I couldn’t stop following her. And once we made contact, spent time with each other . . .

  I couldn’t stop that, either. I’ve tasted her. I’ve seen her naked. I’ve been inside her body. And I want that again.

  Yet she doesn’t want me.

  Being with Katie makes me feel complete. Whole. Comfortable in my own skin, when I’ve moved through my life uncomfortable as hell with just about everything I’ve ever done.

  There’s something to be said for forbidden fruit, wanting what you can’t have. Is that why I want to be with her? Because I shouldn’t be? If that’s the case, then that’s sort of fucked up.

  Really fucked up.

  If we were to try and make this work, our past, our connection, would have to be kept a secret. And if the truth were discovered, no one would understand. The public would think we’re sick. If Lisa Swanson caught wind of us being together, she’d blast the story everywhere.

  Talk about a scandal.

  Sighing, I scrub a hand across my face, along my jaw. My skin is like ice, prickly with stubble since I finally attacked it with a razor a few days ago. At least my near-beard would have kept my face warm.

  My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket and I reach for it, surprised that anyone would text me this early on a Saturday morning. I freeze when I see the name flashing on the screen. Even wonder for a moment if I’m dreaming.

  Katie.

  I miss you.

  I close my eyes briefly. This . . . is the last thing I need. I’m trying to do the right thing. But she texts me out of the blue on an early Saturday morning and I want to cave in. Text her back. Unload how I feel all over her.

  I shouldn’t but I do.

  The second text comes in on top of the first and I can almost hear her say the words in her soft, sweet voice. Christ, I miss hearing her talk, seeing her smile. The strands of wild blond hair that always seem to wisp about her face. I’d tuck them behind her ears, my fingers grazing her soft skin . . .

  My phone buzzes again.

  You’re probably asleep, which is good. If you were awake I might be tempted to invite you to breakfast.

  I sit up straight, nearly dropping the coffee mug on the ground. With a shaky hand, I set the mug on the wide armrest of my chair and furiously type out my reply.

  I’m awake. Couldn’t sleep.

  Nerves eat at my gut as I wait for her answer. It’s damn cold outside yet my palms are sweating.

  Me either.

  Her simple response leaves me confused. How should I respond? What do I say? Do I wait for her or is it my turn to play true confessions? I wish she were here, looking right at me. Sitting in the empty chair to my right. I could stare into her eyes, feel her calming presence and know that I’m safe. I could say anything to her.

  And she could say anything to me.

  I miss you too. And I shouldn’t either. I’m not good enough for you. I never will be. You deserve better.

  I hit send before I can second-guess my reply.

  Do you want to meet for breakfast?

  She ignored what I said and I’m—glad. My heart is racing. Feels like it could leap out of my chest. She’s giving me another chance. I don’t deserve it, but something must have happened for her to feel this way, to make this gesture. She’s reaching out to me, when the last time we met face-to-face she pushed me away. Seemed almost angry.

  Not that I could blame her. What I did, the enormity of my lie . . .

  She shouldn’t give me another chance.

  Where? I ask.

  Rising to my feet, I grab my mug and walk into the house, locking the door behind me. I’m already dressed. Only need to grab my keys and wallet and then I’m gone. Wherever she wants to meet, I’ll be there.

  My house? You can pick up doughnuts and coffee.

  I frown at the screen. She . . . she can’t be serious. She wants me in her house? How can that be? I broke her trust, the most important thing to Katie in the world. She trusts hardly anyone and after what I’ve done? She should trust no one.

  Especially me.

  Are you sure?

  I stuff my wallet in the pocket of my sweats and grab my keys. Heading out the door toward my car when I get her next message.

  I’m positive. I just—I’d like to see you. Talk to you.

  Her honesty is cracking my heart wide open. Another text buzzes through.

  Chocolate with sprinkles is my favorite doughnut, by the way.

  The smile I’m wearing can’t be contained. There’s a bounce in my step that I haven’t experienced since . . .

  Ever.

  How many?

  A dozen.

  I’m climbing into my car when I receive the next text.

  Oh, and get whatever you want too. ☺

  I wander around my little house, feeling anxious. A little lost. Excited. Nervous.

  Sleep eluded me completely last night. I tossed and turned, my thoughts full of my sister. My past. Looking for clues that she was unhappy, feeling neglected, full of resentment. Wracking my brain, I couldn’t find a one. Not that I’d paid much attention to her. I was too focused internally. Consumed with my own pain, my suffering, to worry about anyone else’s. And throughout that turbulent time, Brenna had done nothing but give me support.

  Yes, our relationship before the kidnapping had been a wreck. She was fifteen and an irritable, moody teenager. I was her pain-in-the-butt little sister who wanted nothing but acceptance. I didn’t get it—Brenna wanted nothing to do with me. She treated me horribly. I was the one oozing resentment before everything happened. The day at the amusement park I was so mad at her, and I know she was mad at me.

  Well, not necessarily mad. We were just . . . annoyed with each other. It was a constant state in our house. Drove our parents crazy.

  The one thing that kept me awake long into the night was the realization that maybe I was the selfish one. I never gave anyone a second thought. It was always about me.

  Me, me, me.

  I never considered what Brenna had to go through, or my parents, or even Will. I was too overwhelmed with my own pain to notice anyone else’s. And I feel terrible for that.

  I feel . . .

  Ashamed.

  That Brenna barged into my house and essentially told me I couldn’t see Ethan any longer riled me up. Who is she to tell me what to do? I’m an adult, allowed to make as many mistakes as I want. I refuse to let her boss me around. If I want Ethan in my life, he’ll be there. She can’t stop me.

  Feeling defiant, I’d texted him. Just to see if he’d respond. Deep down inside, I knew he would. And he didn’t disappoint me. That I was brazen enough to invite him to my home says I’m not thinking clearly. But I don’t think Brenna’s been thinking real clearly lately, either.

  So. Is Ethan turning into a case of wanting what I can’t have?

  Quite possibly.

  We don’t live in the same town, yet he’s willing to drop everything to come see me. Am I testing him? Seeing just how far he’ll go to see me, help me, spend time with me?

  I take a quick shower and painstaking
ly do my makeup, though I don’t want it to look too obvious. I blow-dry my hair straight, making a face at my reflection when I’m done. I am totally trying too hard.

  I’m halfway dressed when there’s a knock on my door. Glancing around my bedroom, I grab my leggings and tug them on, yelling, “Just a minute!” when Ethan knocks again.

  By the time I make it to the door I’m a flustered, breathless mess. I undo the locks and pull the door open to find Ethan standing on my doorstep, a pink box in one hand and a tray of . . . four coffees balanced in the other. He smiles when he sees me, a slow, sensuous curve of his perfect mouth, and my stomach flutters with anticipation.

  “Your breakfast,” he says, his voice deadly serious, the complete opposite of the twinkle in his gaze.

  I hold the door open wider for him. “Come in.”

  He hesitates before crossing the threshold. “Are you sure, Katie?” His voice is low, his expression solemn. That he’s double-checking touches something deep within me and I nod, my cheeks flushing when he murmurs, “Thank you,” as he walks past me.

  I shut the door and turn to watch him as he heads for my kitchen. I follow him, my gaze eating him up. Last time we saw each other, I’d still been angry. Panicked because Lisa Swanson was nearby. So unfocused I couldn’t appreciate having him close. Heck, I wasn’t appreciating his closeness. I was too mad at him.

  Now, I let my gaze linger on his perfect dark gray sweatpant-covered butt. He has on a thick black fleece zip-up jacket and a beanie that covers almost all of his hair. Only a few wild strands peek out from the bottom. He turns to face me as he sets the food and drink on the kitchen table and I take in his familiar, handsome face.

  All at once, it hits me. That this man, who’s so completely invaded my life, is also attached to my past. That this is Will. My Will. The boy who saved me has grown into an attractive, thoughtful man. He may have tricked me to get back into my life, but I’m starting to realize that maybe it wasn’t because he wanted to play a cruel game.